THE HELICOPTER LEAVES THE CROWD IN SILENCE. Did they really all shut up when we pulled away just now? Nobody wants to look out the windows down below. There's no crowding this time for a look at what we'd wrought. Maybe it'll go away. What had we wrought?
There's a high-pitched whine besides the thucka thucka thucka folks usually associate with helicopters. It shuts you up. I hear it does the same thing to dogs at the same pitch.
I can barely hear Stu above the din. He's saying the Angel's will clean up, that there's nothing to worry about. It was a good show.
Clean up! What does he know. Where do we go now. "Geneva," Stu says to me, eager to get my mind off something. That's not what I meant. I want to hear the Muscle Shoals tapes again. "We'll put them on back at the hotel." The hotel. Hell. The hotel.
"Trainleftdestationtrainleftedestation." Mmmm. Feel good. Better. Some mantra work better than others. "Beebeeceebeebeecee." Fuck. Three hundred thousand. Free. I sleep on one of these things once or twice a year. And it's usually because I'm fucked up.