The following is my retelling of a friend's encounter with Jim Morrison.

     As we flipped through the pages of old photographs I started to think and to imagine what it was like living back then. Had she been into The Doors? I wondered, and was about to ask when she turned the page and there it was - her Jim Morrison look. Did she like The Doors then? I presumed she had when I saw the photo and then she told me the most amazingly vivid story.
     When she was fifteen she had seen them live in New York. I can't remember where, but that wasn't important to me. Her parents had let her go only because the other venues would have been far more dangerous, for whatever reason. She was doing some drugs, as was everyone at the time, and her parents were cool about it so long as she didn't end up in hospital getting her stomach pumped.
     The show was going on and all the girls were going crazy, jumping on stage, grabbing hold of Morrison, hugging his legs and stuff like that. He was kicking them off, singing all the while and the police took the screaming fans away. The band was partying, drinking and smoking and the stage was littered with joints. She said they'd even spilt some booze on Manzarek's keyboard. But the show went on.
     Somehow (either she knew him before or had met him there), she told Paul Rothchild she wanted to get on the stage. And so they agreed that when the band had finished "When the Music's Over" her friends would boost her up on stage. The condition was that when she got up there she would have to throw them some of the joints.
     They all waited excitedly for the end of the song. Her group must have been close to the stage, a curved stage as I had imagined it. There were no police around as the music died; Perhaps they were not expecting anything to happen between songs, and so she was free and alone, just her and The Doors with the crowd looking on. She found herself behind Morrison with no idea of her intention. The crowd was screaming like crazy. She wasn't going to hug his leg though like the others, but I remember her saying, "what the fuck was I going to do?"
     As she told me what followed I watched her relive the experience, her face twisting as the memories became words, her hands and arms waving gestures. She kept closing her eyes to recall the images and I closed mine to, trying to catch the image for myself.
     She walked up behind Morrison and placed her hands on his hips. He spun around in surprise. Still holding on she looked up at him (she was only fifteen, remember) and he stared back at her with piercing eyes. He tilted his head as he looked at her and she did the same as she told me, smiling coyly with recollection. His eyes were dark she said, almost black, and he reached his arms out and held her at the elbows.
     And there they stood connected at the arms, staring at each other for what must have seemed like an eternity. No words were exchanged - none were needed. Then she felt someone touch her and say, "OK miss, back to the audience…" or something like that.
     Morrison tightened his grip as the policeman tried to remove her and she resisted at first until finally she said, "I'm leaving that way," meaning back the way she came and not like the others who had been taken off stage. She went back to join her group, strutting defiantly across the stage, and the music continued with Morrison singing to her like she was his new love. Somehow, at the end probably, she gave him all the poems she had ever written sealed in an envelope. She dreamed that he would read them and use them for his song and maybe fall in love with her, I think. She laughed with embarrasment as she told me, realising now that her hopes were very high.
     However, this was not yet the end of the story. A few years later, just after the birth of her son she lay in her hospital bed watching the TV. On the news she heard that Jim Morrison was found dead in his hotel room. She could not believe it, she said. She lay with her right cheek into the pillow and a single tear trickled from her left eye and over her nose. She traced its path with her finger as she tilted her head in demonstration.
     Her poems by then were lost forever. The tear fell onto the sheet and was probably washed out when she left the hospital; I don't know - she never told me. She may not know herself.