I’m about 8 miles high somewhere over Kansas. It’s pitch black out the window. I’m flying out to LA to finish the final mix and the color correction of When You’re Strange. The entire film has to be completed and shipped to Sundance by Dec. 29.

A couple of clarifications: this is not the official site of the film. That is being set up by Rhino Entertainment and will include all the details about the film they feel legally obligated to reveal. As soon as it is up and running I’ll post the address.

The artwork that exists on this site is not official either. It’s just me, messing around. I’m slightly more than 100% confident that the final artwork will look totally different.

The photo in the banner above is a freeze frame from the film. Its original source is a 35mm short feature that Jim Morrison wrote, starred in and financed called HWY. He had a tiny crew of friends from his days at UCLA film school. The team consisted of soundman Babe Hill, editor Frank Lisciandro and cinematographer Paul Ferrara. Most of the amazing footage that comprises When You’re Strange was also shot by Ferrara.

I did not know HWY was a separate entity when I began this film. Before the job was officially offered to me I was sent boxes of dvd’s with no labels except ones like “The Doors—Lab Roll 0045″. Outtakes of HWY appeared at random throughout the dvd’s, mixed in with many hours of footage of the band shot between 1966 and 1971. Most of the footage had no sound. Some had been recorded but apparently Babe Hill had offered equal time to his duties as drinking buddy and his tape recorder never quite rolled at the same time the camera did.

As a result, the first wave of film was utterly silent.  Watching it was like entering another world; like falling sideways into a crystal sharp mirror of America; only one that was tilted backwards at a 40 year angle. The footage was stunning. There was nothing musty or nostalgic about it; it all seemed like it was shot three days ago. But the shots of Morrison wandering through the desert were mesmerizing.

From the beginning I was under tremendous pressure to come up with a Concept.

What’s the Concept, man?! What’s the Concept!!

After 3 weeks of sleepless nights an idea poked into my brain about how to use this footage of Morrison to connect the whole film. I won’t reveal it here because its surprise is crucial to experiencing the film. Out of respect for Morrison’s HWY only outtakes are used; no edited sequences. The shots are so personal and intense they give When You’re Strange the feel of a dramatic feature. In fact, a few people who’ve seen the film can’t believe it is Jim. At one screening some helpful genius asked, “So, who’d you get to double for Morrison?” This prompted several members of the team to panic and contemplate tacking on a disclaimer explaining the film used no actors or re-enactments. I’m happy to report that idea was quickly vetoed.

But I’ll say it here one more time just so there ain’t no confusion: every frame of the film is of Jim Morrison, Ray Manzarek, Robby Krieger and John Densmore. Absolutely nothing is re-enacted.

The power of all this original  footage sparked another idea; to keep the film entirely in its own time-frame. And here I reveal something that may thrill some fans and infuriate others: there are no contemporary interviews or talking heads in the film. The film tells the story of the band using only the real footage of The Doors.

For this offense I accept full responsibility. I felt there was more benefit in letting the images speak for themselves. It keeps that wild, 6-year moment completely fresh and alive so audiences can fall into the story and experience The Doors as if it were all just happening now.

But, don’t get me wrong; the film is still a highly detailed historical document of The Doors. I had long, private conversations with each member of the band. One afternoon at Robby’s house he told me his two sole addictions are the 2 G’s; Golf and his Guitar. He played me a cut from his new solo album with a guitar line so incredible I asked for a copy right there. He politely refused. But he blew my mind when he called the next day saying he liked my suggestion to add some urban grit to a drum track.

I spoke to Jim’s sister Anne and several members of her family. Anne invited Peter Jankowski and me to her home for dinner one night. After homemade strawberry shortcake she floored me by placing in my hands a rare copy of Jim’s first self-published books of poems.

I met with Penny Courson, the impassioned mother of Jim’s girlfriend Pam. Ownership of the Morrison estate passed into her hands upon her daughter’s death and is now shared jointly with the Morrisons.

Jeff Jampol, The Doors manager, co-ordinated all of these meetings. Some of this water runs deep with tricky currents; it clearly revealed Jampol’s extreme skill in navigation. He also provided some real insight into the band that helped form the film.

I read the entire transcript of the Miami trial where Jim was charged with felony for “exposing” himself. The testimony reads like a scene out of Kafka written by the Marx Bros.

Prosecutor Terrence McWilliams: “How far would you say your organ was behind Morrison?”

Ray Manzarek: “Oh, a comfortable distance.”

I listened to every Doors album as if I’d never heard them before. I was 14 when their 1st record came out. I was on my way to a junior high school dance with a plastic shampoo bottle that I’d emptied and filled with scotch. I was sipping it when the original, long version of “Light My Fire” first snaked itself into my brain. Even now that song evokes the taste of warm scotch laced with soap.

I read every book and magazine article written about The Doors and found only in the rarest circumstances did any two people agree about anything. Finally, I watched almost the first 3 minutes of the Oliver Stone film.

The most daunting challenge was trying to arrive at something personal and hopefully, truthful out of all this information. The last thing I wanted do was simply paraphrase everything that has been written or said about this hugely respected, hugely influential and hugely controversial band.

I began writing a narration to help connect the scenes. The first sentence was the hardest I’ve ever written. After a few days the words began to come a little easier. My editors Micky Blythe and Kevin Krasny were great, creative collaborators in finding and building the images into fluid sequences. But the process of discovering the film was a completely new experience.

Usually, when I write a screenplay, I’ll sit alone for a few months pounding out a 1st draft. I’ll show it to one or two people then start the 2nd draft; again working entirely alone. All the trial and error takes place between me and my keyboard. With When You’re Strange all the trial and error took place in public. At least 5 people witnessed each attempt at fitting narration to image. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t there was no place to hide. With Micky’s and Kevin’s encouragement I basically discovered the film by thinking out loud for almost a year.

And the more I learned about the band, the more the film kept evolving. When You’re Strange is not just the story of Jim Morrison. It is the story of The Doors–all four of them. Ray Manzarek once said The Doors in concert were like 4 sides of a diamond with Jim at the forward point, Ray and Robby on either side and John forming the point in the rear. Each side was equal to and supporting the other.

I absolutely believe this is true.

And, oh yeah; did I mention that nothing in the film is a fokkin’ re-enactment?

Jimmy and I have not spoken for several days. His Superman flick is really picking up steam. Penelope Cruz has signed on with the only condition being she and Starlett Johannson perform a pseudo-quasi-hardcore sex scene to be choreographed by their lawyers. Every time Jimmy walks by me in the apartment I feel like kicking him in the balls. Really, really hard.

Perhaps I am jealous. Yes, the thought has entered my mind. Hey, I’m happy for him. I once considered him my best friend. But, the question here–and I don’t think I’m out of line–is why the fuck should all this great stuff be happening to him?

But, mainly, I think it’s his attitude. He’s got this this look on his face now like he’s smarter than everyone else even though everyone else knows his brain is made of mouse turds and stale marshmallows.  Actually, he’s starting to look and smell like a Republican.

This morning he was sitting in my chair drinking out of my coffee cup when he finally broke the silence. “The limo’s downstairs. I’m leaving in 10 minutes.”

“Oh,” I said, not looking up. “That’s too bad.”

“I see you’re going to be a jerk all the way up to the last second.”

When I said nothing Jimmy drained my coffee cup and set it down. “Fine,” he stated. “Since I’m clearly a bigger man than you I’m going to swallow my pride, ignore your jealousy and turn you on to something before I split.” He flicked the newspaper at me.

“Read that,” he said, jabbing his finger at an article in the NY Times. It was one of 239 pieces that appeared this week lamenting the Sad and Sorry State of Independent Film.

“I read it already, ” I snapped.

“Yeah?” Jimmy returned, pushing the paper in my face. “Did you read this paragraph?”

“I said I read it!” I said and shoved the paper back at him.

Jimmy’s laugh again struck me as eerily McCainish–dry and scaly like an old, blind cockroach running up a wall. “I don’t know why I bother,” he said. “But I guess deep down inside I still care.”

He leaned closer, tapping the paragraph with slow, steady importance. “Everyone wants to know what’s happened to Independent Film. Well, here it is spelled out in black and white; tattoos, bangs and a vintage dress.”

That made me sit up. “Wait a second. Real ones?”

Jimmy nodded. “Yeah, dude. Real tats.”

“No, I meant the bangs.”

“What about them?”

“They were real too?”

“Of course they were! See what I’m saying?! She wore bangs to the Oscars!”

Jimmy gazed back at the article, his smile broadening in clear admiration. ”It’s hip and Hollywood at the same time. That’s the secret. She’s got both games goin’. That’s how you win. You morph; you adapt.”

“Wow,” I murmured. ”You’re talking about something like Hollydent, or Indiewood?”

“Now you’re gettin’ it,” Jimmy grinned. “See that? It’s the attraction of opposites; the yin and yang. And look; she wore a vintage dress too.”

If I was getting it, it was only for a moment. “That’s where I’m a little confused,” I said. “It doesn’t say ‘vintage’ dress. It says ‘vintage-looking’ dress.”

Jimmy’s eyes quickly hardened. “What’s your point.”

“Well, some vintage-looking dresses cost a lot of money. Would that still qualify Ms. Diabldoll as hip and indie?”

Jimmy’s lip lifted in a tight sneer. “That’s your problem right there, man.”

“What?”

“Your sarcasm.”

“Hey, I’m serious. I saw a cool shirt in a vintage store in LA but it cost 450 bucks. I’d have to direct three Iron Mans to afford that kind of life style.”

Jimmy got up. “Yeah, but you never would, would you? You’re just just too damn stupid to play the game.”

I stood too. “That’s kind of a mean thing to say.”

“Stupid,” Jimmy repeated.

Things got a little crazy just then. Jimmy sort of accidentally knocked over my guitar and I sort of intentionally hit him in the teeth with my coffee cup. He fell to the floor. I helped him over to the couch, taking care to make sure his head was tilted so the blood dripped on his shirt instead of the cushions.

I sat down next to him. “You keep mentioning the word ‘game’, Jimmy. But,  where’s the joy in playing it? And what do you win?”

Jimmy didn’t answer. I guess it wasn’t fair to ask him questions since he wasn’t quite conscious yet. So I just kept talking.

“See, independent film used to be just that–independent. Outside the system. That’s where the joy was; making a film against all odds. Making a film that said ‘fuck you’ to all the restrictions of Hollywood. Making a film for no money because then you could make the film exactly the way you wanted.  That’s where the kick was. You were free. You weren’t governed by anything except your lunatic obsession to make a film.”

I peered closer at him. “Do you know what I mean, Jimmy?” I thought I saw his lip twitch which encouraged me to continue.

“That’s why Hollywood and Independent don’t go together. They don’t morph. If it’s really Hollywood, and it’s really Independent they cancel each other out. In fact they poison each other. It’s like Church and State; Britney and KFed–both are better off when they’re legally separated. Otherwise everything gets very confused and reviews start appearing about the “indie edginess” of action figure flicks that gross 200 million dollars. Independent once meant free from the money; free from the System. Now, it means fighting like meth-freaks to get into the System. It means doing whatever it takes to win the approval of the Suits, to make them happy, to make them Money. The real joy was in breaking all the rules, not playing by them.”

I smiled at Jimmy as memories came flooding back. “Remember when we first started? Remember that guy down in Alphabet City who sold raw film stock for nothing? It was damaged shit that studio films were throwing out but we bought it and every inch of film that ran through our camera was a fuckin’ victory for us.”

I nudged Jimmy’s leg, catching him when he started to fall over. “Hey, remember that girl who projected her first feature on the wall in that bar down on St. Marks Place? It was all shot on super 8 but it was a feature and we were in awe. Remember that, Jimmy?”

Jimmy stared at me, a flicker of some emotion struggling in his eyes. Just then the intercom buzzed. We both stood.

“That’s my driver,” Jimmy said finally. “I’m lettin’ him in. He used to work for Vin Diesel. He’s gonna come in here and kick your ass.”

I looked at Jimmy for a long moment and felt an immense heaviness weighing down on me. “Alright then,” I said. And I kicked Jimmy in the balls. As hard as I could. But, as he fell his finger found the intercom button.

A moment later my front door opened and Dr. Owen walked in. He stood staring at me with a strained, wary smile.

“Hello, Tom,” he said. “It’s been quite a while.”

“Yes, it has,” I said. ”It certainly has.”

I was glad to see him. It was a good opportunity to finally introduce him to Jimmy. But when I turned Jimmy was no longer lying on the floor behind me. All that remained was the faint shadow of a tattoo, some bangs and a vintage-looking dress.

My friend Jimmy is back in town. He told me he’s been out in LA for 6 months, which surprised me because he never once tried to contact me the whole time I was out there working on The Doors film.

“What were you doing in Hollywood?” I asked the first night he crashed in my apartment.

“Oh, this ‘n that,” Jimmy replied quietly. He opened up a box of pills and downed a handful like they were sunflower seeds. I took a closer look at the box.

“Prescription?” I asked.

“Prescribed,” Jimmy replied. “Try a couple.”

“What do they do?”

“Oh, this ‘n that,” Jimmy said.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Jimmy stared at me. “It’s comin’ up on the Anniversary, you know.”

“What Anniversary?”

“The release of your film. It’s been a year. How do you feel?”

Now I stared at him. “How do I feel? Here’s how I feel: Independent film is dead. It is not suffering a temporary setback or hanging by a thread. It is officially, undeniably Extinct.”

“Good,” Jimmy said, popping 6 more pills in his mouth.

“What do you mean ‘good’?” I blurted. “It’s fucked up. The established career trajectory for an independent director is now this: first earn your indie cred by making a quirky film for almost nothing then move on to direct the next multi-million dollar installment of the man with little pointy rubber ears.”

“Like I said,” Jimmy stated, “good. I’m sick of independent film. A bunch of sappy losers standing around with frosted goatees and backwards baseball caps. You know who watches independent films? No one. Correction: middle-aged, divorced women whose big night out is a mixed-meat pizza, a Bud Light and an ‘art’ movie showing on a screen the size of a toaster oven.”

I blinked at him. “I can’t believe these words are coming out of your mouth. You’ve been a committed independent filmmaker for 25 years.”

Jimmy crunched two more pills under his molars. “And I’d direct the next Batman in a second,” he said. ”

I shook out a single pill and swallowed it. “Well, you are right about the size of the screens,” I said. “And the film’s are getting smaller too. Now they’re bite-sized so they can fit on a website. Anything over 2 minutes is too long and no one clicks on it. That’s the new movie; a one minute film clip on MeToobe. And there’s millions and millions of them.”

“And one day some studio exec will be surfing porn on his lunch hour and he’ll click on one by accident,” Jimmy said.

“Right,” I laughed. “One about a guy who shaves his balls and superglues a frog to his nutsack.”

Jimmy smiled. “And then the exec will hire him to direct the next Superman.”

“I swear, it’s going to happen, ” I said.

“It already has happened,” Jimmy stated. He chuckled at my bewilderment. ”What do you think I was doing in LA? That was my clip.”

“You glued a frog to your balls?”

Jimmy’s head dipped in a proud nod. “Got me the Superman gig. And I’m writing the script too. Here’s the pitch that blew their minds: Superman is pregnant–he’s the first pregnant superhero. He’s carrying Batman’s baby. And when the baby’s born he’s got the powers of Batman and Superman combined.”

It took me a moment to realize he was serious. “How’d he get pregnant?” I demanded.

“Batman screwed him.”

“Men don’t get pregnant,” I informed him.

“One just did.”

“That was a woman who had a sex-change operation.”

“Exactly,” Jimmy said. “Superman is really Supergirl turned into a guy.”

I stared at him in silence.  Finally I asked, “Does that make Batman gay?”

“No,” Jimmy stated. “It makes him funky.”

I tossed down 7 of Jimmy’s pills and suddenly felt better than I had in 20 years. “That’s not bad,” I said.

“I know it,” Jimmy asserted.

“It’s pretty good actually.”

“I know it,” Jimmy said.

Somehow I made it to the Burbank airport in the morning. I stared at the DELAYED notice above my flight for about 15 minutes before I realized it meant I was going to miss my connection in Dallas which meant I was not going to get to Champain, Illinois in time for the screening of Delirious.

Unless I took a cab to LAX and caught a different flight. Which I did. Which cost me. Which got me to Champain at about 10:30 pm. I was starving. Loreen, my local liaison at the festival, took me down Main Street trying to find one of the 30 pizza joints/bars still serving pizza. Champain is a college town. The local merchants have discovered that after 10 pm college students don’t need to eat; they need to drink.

On every corner stood huge clots of kids wearing matching yellow T-shirts which declared, “Tuesday Night Bar Crawl!!!” Some of them were already crawling. Loreen finally found a place on the outskirts of town that was just shutting down but because the manager knew her he would heat up a couple slices for us. We were the only people in the place. As we plowed into our soggy Gutbusters I felt like I was in a Coen Brothers movie directed by David Lynch. And that was before Loreen informed me she believed in God because of sunshine and because she’d already seen 3 flying saucers in her life.

The following morning I found myself on a panel along with film critics Richard Roeper and Lisa Rosman, the actor Rufus Sewell (Cold Comfort Farm), the director Bill Forsythe (Local Hero) and several independent producers and directors. The subject of the panel was, “The State of American Independent Film.” As I looked out over the audience I wondered if at the last minute the festival had bussed in residents from a local retirement home to fill the seats. Everyone was at least 65.

But the discussion was spirited and lively. Several people lamented the fact that independent filmmakers were having such a hard time in the current blockbuster climate. A question was directed to me about how to cope with this catastrophe. It could have been the powdery residue of my recent evening at Tregor’s that prompted my response:

“I’m not sure I understand why independent filmmakers  automatically feel they should be welcomed,  protected and nurtured like some helpless, holy babies. I have tremendous sympathy for anyone trying to make a more personal kind of film but filmmaking is an intensely competitive profession. If you want to succeed you have to fight. You have to earn the right to be a filmmaker. No one is just going to hand it to you. And no one cares if you make a movie. No one cares if you don’t make a movie. It is entirely up to you whether you do or you don’t.”

Several of the more senior members of the audience nodded their silvery heads in knowing consent. Or they could have been just nodding off. Then a woman in the audience stated, “I’m 78. I have some money. I hear your stories of needing cash. I want you to know I’m ready to invest a sizeable sum in a film.”

The rush toward her after the panel ended slowed when it was revealed her sizeable sum tapped out at $150. Still I felt a great admiration for this septuagenarian trying to help the Cause and I wondered if there was any way I could get my hands on that $150 so I could cover the cost of the taxi fare I’d spent from Burbank to LAX.

At 1 pm Delirious was to screen at the festival’s ornate Virginia Theatre. The place was packed by the time I arrived. I learned only then that Roger Ebert would not be there. His wife Chaz told me his health issues prevented him from traveling. She then asked me if I would introduce the film myself as Richard Roeper was running late.

I hadn’t planned on this. I was intending to just sit and watch the film before the Q&A afterwards. It wasn’t until I walked onto the stage and looked out at the audience that I realized what I would say.

“I made a vow to myself and to Roger that I would not discuss any of the distribution nightmares that plagued Delirious. In fact, it is entirely due to Roger that I am here. In my darkest hour I wrote him an email with 5 questions. We had never met. In the email I expressed my confusion about what had happened to my film and to my astonishment Roger wrote back and answered every one of my questions in detail. It was a huge help to me in a very troubling time. I’ve seen performances and screenings dedicated to people and I’ve thought to myself, how silly. How can you dedicate a screening to someone? Well, now I know how you can. This one is for Roger.”

It was a dream screening. The laughter was so intense and abrupt huge sections of crucial dialogue were drowned out. Afterwards I went on stage with Richard Roeper and Lisa Rosman. We all received life-sized golden statues of Roger Ebert’s upraised thumb. I weakened and broke my vow.

“I know just where to tell my distributors to stick this,” I muttered into the microphone.

The discussion with Roeper and Rosman was sharp and astute. At one point Roeper noted his admiration for Steve Buscemi’s performance. I told a story about how just before a take I’d whispered a direction to Steve, suggesting he use some of his feelings for his own father. During the next take Steve broke down.

It is one of my most cherished moments in the film. As I came to that part of the story a huge swell of emotion suddenly gripped me and I had to fight to keep from bursting into tears. It took me several moments to resume. Everyone saw it. No one said a word.

Experiencing this in front of over 1200 people is more than a little terrifying.

But this is not the first time it has happened with Delirious. I thought about it afterwards and I realized why this deep well of emotion keeps following at my elbow. There isn’t a single frame in the film that I didn’t pour my soul into. Creating something is as close to immortality that we get. It’s the creation itself that is eternal; not the fame. And it was my life up there.

When the Q&A ended I lingered outside the theatre for a long time, just kind of walking back and forth in dazed exhaustion. I sensed the presence of Roger Ebert everywhere. The same spirit is in every one of his reviews, whether written or televised. He loves movies. He loves to share his joy with others. His film criticism is never nasty, self-absorbed or mean-spirited. If he likes something he tells you why. His openness and generosity clearly affected everyone at the festival.

At that moment I said to myself, “This is probably the last time Delirious will screen in front of an audience. Nothing could have given me a more rewarding closing experience.”

Just then my cellphone rang. A strangely familiar voice snapped me out of my state of dreamy rumination.

“Yo, T. Wassup.”

“Tregor?”

“Yeah, bro. What’s goin’ on?”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Hey, I’m in Surveillance. Gettin’ a phone number’s easier than buyin’ a cheeseburger. And what’s with all the fuckin’ questions?!”

“I’m just kind of surprised to hear from you, that’s all.”

“Well, get over it. I got some good news. You know that particular “issue” we discussed?”

“What issue?”

“You’re startin’ to bug me, T. I’m talkin’ about the “issue” we discussed on my balcony less than 36 fuckin’ hours ago.”

It all came crawling back like some sick, yellow nightmare. Tregor’s laugh crackled through the phone with a harsh spike of static. “Payback, bro. Now you remember?”

At that moment Richard Roeper and Lisa Rosman walked by, both waving in peaceful, new-found solidarity with me. My return wave was feeble and distracted.

“What did you do, Tregor?” I asked finally when they’d passed.

“I told you I had your back, T.”

I lost it. “Goddammit, Tregor! If you did any bodily harm to those guys at Gestation–!”

“Oh, shut up, T. What do you take me for; a moron? You think immona risk more carceration for you? Fuck no. There’s thousands of different ways to extract payback besides swordal mutilation.”

“What did you do?!”

“You wanna know what I did?”

“Yes!”

“I snuck into Arnold’s house and put catshit in a pair of his shoes!”

I couldn’t speak for a long moment. “Tell me you’re kidding,” I managed finally.

“No!” Tregor blurted in delight. “See, it’s like I told you, T. The Plan is we don’t do one big thing. We do a bunch of little things and just keep doin’ ‘em. On and on, for years. We never let up. I got a million different idears.”

“You put catshit in Arnold’s shoes?”

Tregor was so excited he was panting into the phone. “Fuckin’ genius, right?! Imagine him tomorrow. He gets dressed; he’s all set to put in another day as a typical Hollywood asshole. He sits down, puts on his shoes and BAM! Their fulla catshit!”

His sudden bleat of laughter was so loud I had to pull the cellphone away from my ear.

“Can you imagine that!” I heard him cackle. “Payback, bro!! Sure feels good, don’t it?! And there’s a lot more where that came from!”

“No, there isn’t, Tregor!!” I suddenly shouted. Rufus Sewell glanced up at me in startled surprise from an interview he was giving 50 feet away. “There’s no more where that came from!” I hissed into the phone.

Now Tregor was silent for a moment. “What’re you sayin’, T?” he stated quietly.

“I’m saying, that’s it, Tregor.”

“You chickenin’ out?”

“I’m telling you it’s over. You hear me? I never asked for your help. I don’t want it.”

“You goin’ solo?” he sneered. “You’ll never make it.”

“Yeah? Well, I know this much; whatever those guys at Gestation did it’s not going to change a thing by putting catshit in their shoes!”

“You’re right. Dogshit’s better.”

“No, man! Nothing!”

I heard Tregor breathing softly into the phone. “You don’t want my help, T?”

“No.” I winced, then took a deep breath and said it. “I like you, Tregor, but I don’t think there’s any need for us to speak to each other again.”

The phone was quiet for a long, long moment. Finally Tregor said, “Oh, I don’t know. I think you’ll be hearin’ from me, T.”

And then he hung up.

The Doors documentary is slowly slipping into shape. Every day though is intense. I’m trying to keep track of a hundred hours of footage in my brain, sifting through it over and over to glean the richest pieces. And the brain doesn’t shut off when I turn out the light.

Thankfully, things have been quieter over here on the weedy side of The Loftes. I’ve found that working out for an hour when I get home helps me sleep. Yes, The Loftes has a Fitnesse Centre too. Usually the place is empty when I get in there around 6:30. That’s why I was surprised to see a guy in a white track suit smashing some weights around last night when I walked in.

I was still on edge from another notice I’d received from the Management that morning:

Dear Tenants, all are invited to a special evening with Capt. Rodeo from the 24th Precinct on Sunday near the Cafe Nooke. In light of the recent “incident” Capt. Rodeo will explain proper use of your personal firearms on an individual basis. Muffins and lattes will be served.

That’s why I kept an eye on my gymmate. He was about 45, short and thick with a knotty bald head and a sharply protruding chin. He looked like he might have come from a 1-night stand between Popeye’s father and Bluto’s mother. He did a set of bicep curls with two 50lb dumbells, threw them to the floor and suddenly walked up to me, gasping for breath.

“Hey, dude. I’m Tregor.”

When his hand came up I flinched and almost counter-punched. But it was a handshake he was offering. Nonetheless, when I took it I kept looking in his squinty little eyes to see if he knew I was the Tom who’d yelled out the window for him to shut up only one Tuesday ago.

After 5 minutes I still saw no sign of recognition. By then Tregor had decided I was his new best friend. I told him I’d been studying boxing for 3 years. He said he could tell. We talked about a couple of fights we’d seen recently and then he said,

“I used to fight; bareknuckle in Reno. See my hand? No knuckles. All wore off. I fought 2 minute rounds until one of us coont get up. An’ I’ll tell you, Tommy, many times that person was me.”

As close as we’d become I still didn’t feel totally at ease with Tregor. I kept wondering if Donny had actually told him my name. And I suppose him telling me he’d spent two thirds of his life in “carceration” might not have helped. He said he’d been one crazy motherfucker. He’d shot people, been shot, stabbed, run heroin, sold coke, sold women, lived high, lived low–all his experiences serving only to prove to him that the world was one giant shithole.

“Well, Treg,” I said. “I guess I’ve felt that way too sometimes but you know, life’s not all bad.”

He squinted at me for a long moment. “Yeah, maybe you’re right, T. See, I’ve turned my whole life around now. I’ve got a samurai sword in my apartment. Sharp as shit but I’ve never even used it.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“Yep, I got a lot of things goin’ on now. I run my own security company. Called ‘Hey You.’ Every heard of it?”

“No, I’m not really from here.”

Tregor stepped up close again. “See, my current fiancee is in the adult entertainment business. And a lot of those adult stars–chicks now I’m talkin’ about–they get hassled. A lot sick fucks out there, Tom. These dirtbags start followin’ these girls. Stalkin’ ‘em. An’ me, I’m stalkin’ them. See, a stalker never looks behind him. He’s always lookin’ ahead, focusin’ on the girl he’s stalkin’. So I just ease up on him, tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘Hey You–that’s the name of my company–and BAP I give ‘im the tazer.”

“You’re allowed to shock people?”

“You bet yer ass. 250 volts, motherfucker. Then he’s down and I’ll give him one or two bootkicks in the head. Always aim for the ear–that hurts like shit. You should hear ‘em scream. Then I’ll drag ‘em up, look ‘em in the eye and BAM BAM give ‘em a left then a straight right to the teeth  just so they remember me.”

“Wow. Sounds like a pretty intense business, Tregor.”

I was about to start some shadow boxing when he stopped me. He stepped up and peered at me closely. “What apartment are you in, T?”

“399,” I lied.

“Lookin’ over the pool?”

“No, I’m way in the back.” This was true.

He stepped closer. “You ain’t never been in a fight, have you?”

“How can you tell?”

“Your nose ain’t broke. See mine? Broke at least 35 times. I set it myself at least twice. First time I broke it I was between some girl’s legs. Doin’ some conny lingus.”

I stared at him. “And you broke your nose?”

“Yeah. I was into it. You ever done conny lingus?” Tregor asked with genuine curiosity.

I admitted I had.

“Good for you, Tommy. Girls dig that. Bein’ around the adult entertainment business you learn a few things. Check it out. Straight chicks would rather do a muff–divin’ scene with another chick than have to get it on with a dude. You know why?”

“No, I don’t,” I confessed.

“Because they don’t have to deal with a guy’s bullshit. With another chick it’s just lickety-split and then, ‘See you tomorrow, Candy’. With a dude it always gets weird and personal. He’s always askin’, ‘How was it for you, babe? Do you dig me? Was I the best you ever had?’”

Tregor walked away from me then turned back with a weary sigh of disgust. “You see, T? Men are scumbags. All of ‘em. And you know what? Women are too.”

I couldn’t stop myself. I said, “Well, Treg, that kind of leaves out any hope for humanity, doesn’t it?”

This time he stared at me for a full 10 seconds. Finally he said, “You know what, Tommy? I like you. You got a positive attitude. That’s somethin’ I been workin’ on. I’m havin’ a party on my balcony Thursday night. I want you there.”

“Oh, thanks, Tregor,” I said. “But, I’m getting up pretty early these days.”

“Fuck that,” Tregor snorted. “Come by for 10 minutes. There’ll be some ladies there from the adult entertainment business. You won’t be disappointed. Plus, I wanna show you this genuine samurai sword I got.”

Before I could reply he shook my hand and walked out.