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Decompression time. I walk toward the back of the stage and hit a button with my foot. A trapdoor opens (we might use it one day for special effects like ghostly appearances onstage) and I head down a rickety ladder, closing the trap above me. Move through the mazelike tunnels beneath the theater, to my cozy little claustrophic office space. Remove the prosthetic dangler, toss it on a huge stack of magazines and CDs. Pour myself a shot of whiskey. Then collapse into my favorite chair, feet up on the desk in my favorite thinking position. Take a sip. Let the pressures of the day fall away, just for a few minutes...What do you do?
On the wall opposite, I have pinned up a sketch Jackbird once drew. I'm staring at it now. It's a picture of me and Cache on the opening day of the AMC, arms around each other's waists, dap as hell, beaming. Fuck, we looked good together. Ze was so beautiful before the breeze took away the spark in zir eyes and twisted her motions into weird angular jerks. But our connection was beyond physical. We were like one mind, back in the day. We finished each other's sentences, feeding off each other's energy in a continual loop of better and sexier ideas. We were partners in every sense. Together, we felt we could take on the hole fucking world. Those were the good old days.
That's all I want. To be back there again, with Cache at my side. Make that happen.
Finish my drink. Sit there staring at the picture for a while.