From: seaverw@columbia.dsu.edu (W. A. Seaver)
Subject: Jim
Organization: Dakota State University
Date: Fri, 28 Aug 1992 17:38:57 GMT

This is for the folks at MITRE...


                                Jim

     It had been hell, but somehow Joel had managed to carry the 
thing from the trunk of his old, weather-beaten Volvo up the two 
flights of stairs to his apartment. Now, in the main room, with the 
lights out, he snapped the curtains together, separating his 
apartment from the pinpoints of light peering out of the Paris 
darkness. Didn't want anyone to see. Joel had come over from America 
only a couple months before, but he knew well enough already that 
the people of France--Paris, especially--were watchers. They closely 
watched anyone they felt needed it, and being American was in itself 
reason enough. Still, they weren't going to see this. It was for his 
eyes, and his eyes alone. In fact, he had wrapped it in the oil- 
stained towel from his trunk, the one he used to check his oil every 
Friday afternoon--like clockwork. It sat atop the bookcase now, 
still wrapped like an oversized turban.
     Okay, ready for the lights. Oh, waitwait, the door. Joel ran 
down the hallway and threw the deadbolt. He slid the chain into its 
groove as well, just in case. Now? Um, undo the thing first. He 
crossed the room again, weaving his way around stacks of books, 
papers and notebooks with unconscious skill. Then, careful as a 
plastic surgeon removing bandages from a patient, Joel slowly 
unwound the black-splotched white towel. That done, he scurried 
across the room once more. Now. He pressed the brass switchplate's 
top button.
     The room filled with light. It hurt Joel's eyes for a second, 
but they adjusted quickly, and he smiled at what they saw. The bust 
was a perfect likeness. A bit touched by spray paint in spots, but 
otherwise the perfect likeness of Jim Morrison. The slight pout of 
his lips, his deep-piercing gaze, his Alexander the Great hair 
snaking in thick curls to his shoulders. Oh yes, this was Jim. It 
was him. Jim was him, heh-heh. Yesyesyes. Yes, indeed. And all here, 
and all Joel's. For him and him alone. Forever and ever.
     The top of the handmade wooden bookcase sagged beneath the 
bust's weight, Joel noticed, but seemed in no danger of collapse. 
Jim's pose was wrong, though; Joel didn't like it at all. The cheap 
concrete bust was flush against the wall, with Jim's head turned 
slightly to the right, so that he seemed to stare out the window at 
the city. That wouldn't do at all. Joel grabbed the base and turned 
it until Jim looked out into the room.
     _There_, he thought. _You don't belong to Paris anymore. You 
belong to me. Look at me, now, not Paris._
     Jim didn't reply.
     _Gods, I'm hungry. No wonder--haven't eaten in over twelve 
hours._
     Joel went into the small, dirty kitchen with the checkered 
floor to fix himself a sandwich. While he was slicing ragged chunks 
of meat with a rust-
bloomed knife that been sitting in a half-pan of water in the sink, 
he worried about unintentional damage he might have done to Jim 
during his removal. This was not the first bust to be stolen from 
Morrison's Pere La Chaise gravesite--nearly half a dozen in the past 
ten years--and as a result, no great pains had gone into bothering 
with a lot of effort to replace it. The bust had been simply secured 
to its base with cement for glue, which had made it ridiculously 
easy for Joel to break the bond, using only a hammer and chisel. He 
worried now that a few chunks may have broken off the bottom while 
he chisled away at it. He had been too scared to notice. Not that he 
actually had anything to worry about: security was so laid back and 
lax that the tall iron gate hadn't even been locked. Joel found this 
so out of place--so _unParisian_--that he approached the fact with 
the attitude that the gate had been left open on purpose. That they 
had somehow discovered his plans and were crouched behind tombstones 
and monuments, patiently waiting to leap out and nab him with the 
evidence of his crime. He had worked hastily, perhaps sloppily, 
wanting only to complete the job and be GONE. The task of lugging 
the big bust to his car had been herculean--he wasn't sure how he'd 
managed it, because the thing must've weighed between 50 and 75 
pounds. Sheer panic adrenaline, he guessed. Seconds from his car, he 
had stumbled, and almost sent Jim crashing through the windshield. 
How would he explain to the police that the hole in his car 
perfectly matched the size of a valuable bust stolen from Pere La 
Chaise the night before? _But that won't happen now, will it, Joel?" 
on of the many voices in his head assured. _Because all the 
evidence--everything--is locked right in here with you._
     "Yes," Joel answered. "It's all safe here with me."
     But how safe? Joel ceased his quick, jerking swipes of the 
knife. Because he had heard something. A noise at the window. 
Someone breaking in! He dashed into the living room, again 
sidestepping all the books littering the floor, ragged bits of roast 
beef still clinging to the knife clutched in his hand. He ran past 
Jim's field of view and swept the window curtains aside. A lone 
pigeon huddled on the cold concrete ledge was startled into flight. 
Otherwise, there was nothing.
     "Scared 'em away that time. They'll be back, though. Mark my 
words, Jim; they'll be back. They want you, Jim. The whole world 
wants you. But I'm the only one who's got you, now. And I'm gonna 
make sure it stays that way."
     Joel started with the windows. After nailing them shut, he took 
a long, hard look down the dark hallway leading to the door. 
Cheerfully singing "Gonna make sure, gonna make sure," he laid foot- 
long rat-traps along the length of the corridor. Good thing Paris 
had so many rats, or he'd never have bought enough traps to do the 
job. When he was done, the hall resembled an exposed mine field. No 
one was gonna get through there very easily. Even so, he mustn't 
leave Jim presence, because doing so would open too many 
opportunities for them to come and take him away while Joel's back 
was turned. He must watch Jim at every moment.
     Joel settled himself down crosslegged among the paperbacks, 
magazines and clippings on the floor. He looked up at Jim, and Jim 
looked down at him. Joel smiled to him.
     "You and me--we're in for the duration."
----
     The hours went by without notice. Perhaps it was days. The 
passage of time didn't matter to Joel, only the here and now. Only 
the fact that they were outside, somewhere, waiting to get in. 
Waiting for him to drop his guard and open the window of opportunity 
they so desperately needed to get in. That would not happen--no, 
sir.
     And still Jim looked down.
     Eventually, it became apparent that Jim's gaze had shifted from 
the heart of the cosmos, to the heart of Joel's soul. The once- 
gentle eyes now seemed fiery. They beat into Joel's consciousness 
like sledgehammers. They seemed to cry out "Thief! Thief!" while 
Joel cowered below them.
     "Aw, c'mon, Jim. I was only doin' yeh a favor."
     The bust had no reply.
----
     The kitchen light had burned out before memory, and, somewhere, 
in one of the curtain-drawn nights, Jim's expression of serenity 
changed to an angry scowl. Joel had no idea when this had happened, 
whether the transformation had been sudden or gradual. Joel blamed 
himself for not paying attention, and insisted his body remain more 
alert. He knew exactly how he would discipline himself to do this: 
every time he caught himself not paying attention, he would jab his 
left wrist with the knife. Enough to wake himself, but not--with 
luck--draw too much blood.
     Over time, the sickening truth dawned on him. His job at the 
cemetery hadn't occured unnoticed at all. In fact, THEY had known 
about it long before. Before even he had, probably. Because, looking 
back on the scene in his mind's eye, hadn't the graffiti said so? 
Hadn't the graffiti, which normally read things like "Jim," "Have 
Mercy on Junkies," and "The Lizard King," been replaced with 
"SACRILEGE," "DEFILER," and "THIEF"? Had the chalk-drawn arrows 
pointed not to the grave, but to Joel? Dammit! Why hadn't he 
noticed! He could have turned and walked off right then, and not had 
to endure this torture of waiting for them to break in and take Jim 
away. Why, why, why?
----
     On the third day, to Joel's horror, Jim stepped in to say hi.
----
     A flick of the knife brought blood welling from a pinhead 
wound, surrounded by a dozen identical marks. Joel snapped to 
attention and locked his eyes on Jim. He no longer smiled to it. 
Unlike Joel, Jim was tireless, and never diverted his accusing 
glare. Joel had begun to wonder why he sat here and tolerated this 
torture. He almost wished they _would_ take Jim away now. But no one 
had come yet. Just biding their time. Waiting for him to break down, 
that's what they were doing. Well, that wouldn't happen. He was 
gonna make sure of that. Gonna make sure; gonna make sure.
     He glanced up again. The corners of Jim's lips seemed to curl 
upward slightly, almost into a smile.
     "What? Whatt're you smilin' at? You've been doin' that the 
whole time, haven't you? You just can't hold it in anymore, can you? 
That's it, isn't it? Been laughin' at me all along!"
     Then Joel thought the air grew denser, tainted with the remote 
scent of alcohol and sweat. He stood. Coming from the kitchen? No. 
Radiator? No. Damn, it was everywhere!
     Joel had never been one to believe in ghosts--well, not very 
much, anyway--but now he was spooked. The hair on his arms and the 
fine bristles at the base of his neck went straight up. Something 
passed by behind him. Something cold. Every instinct told him to 
_run_. Run like hell. Down the hall, into the street, out of the 
city; _any_where but here. But he knew he'd never make it past the 
rat traps.
     The blow wouldn't have taken him more by surprise even if he 
had seen it coming. Like an iron fist, it plowed deep into the 
hollow below his rib cage. His breath blew outward, and he flew 
backward onto the smoking stand by his chair. Dirty glasses and food 
encrusted dishes launched themselves into the air and smashed 
against the wall.
     Joel lay there a moment fighting for breath in sickening gasps. 
Then unseen hands brought him to his feet by the collar and slapped 
him across the face. Again. Again. They pummelled him relentlessly. 
Anyone who perhaps had a key, and who perhaps unlocked the door and 
carefully made their way through the maze of rat traps, would have 
seen an interesting sight at this point: a lone man--clearly 
demented, they might tell friends later--standing amongst a pile of 
debris and repeatedly hitting himself about the face. They might 
call the police. They might shrug and pass him off as just another 
Paris weirdo.
     But no one but Joel's elderly landlady had a key, and she had 
gone into the hospital earlier that morning complaining of gas 
pains. So Joel became the only witness to this event. And he really 
didn't have a clue what the hell was going on. The hands abruptly 
stopped slapping him, and punched him in the jaw instead. He fell to 
the floor face-first. When his eyes cleared, Joel saw his knife 
lying not two feet away. The little bits of roast beef were now 
caked onto the blade, virtually indistinguishable from the numerous 
flowers of rust. He turned his eyes upward. Jim. Yeah, he was 
smiling now. Oh, not merely smiling--_mocking_. Under his breath, 
Joel muttered, "Mock _me_, will ya you son of a bitch."
     In one graceful movement, Joel snatched the knife, coiled his 
legs, and threw himself toward Jim. He didn't even come close. Those 
hands stopped him after only a few feet and knocked the knife from 
his hand. It skittered through the doorway and went clattering 
across the kitchen tiles.
     Joel struggled for several minutes. Then both hands snaked 
through those invisible arms and grabbed the bust around the neck. 
He was gonna throw the damn thing out the window. Throw it out the 
window and laugh when it smashed to pieces three stories below. 
Laugh _real_ hard.
     The sudden adrenaline surge let him yank the mass of concrete 
off the bookcase with almost no effort. For an instant, he was 
caught by a superhuman feeling, like when you pick up an empty pop 
can, thinking it's full. The second of surprise let the bust get the 
better of him. Its weight pushed him backward, and Joel had to take 
a step back to regain his balance. His foot landed on a pile of 
Victor Hugo paperbacks, twisted, and shoot right off them, spewing 
books across the room like a fan. He felt his back contact with 
something that held him a brief moment, then gave way. Still 
clutching the bust to his chest, he watched his third-story window 
quickly recede as he plunged toward the ground. The air was cold and 
damp, and smelled slightly of fish. Then the back of his head struck 
something that sent bright light to his eyes, and Jim's face moved 
forward to give the kiss of death.
     <C> 1991 W.A. Seaver
Xref: sparky alt.prose:1223 rec.arts.sf.misc:2801 rec.arts.sf.written:11708 alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo:569 rec.arts.startrek.misc:8817 misc.writing:2783 rec.arts.books:15508