By the time I talked Jim out of staying in jail, Mike and Chaney had said good night to their ladies, so we were now a group of five, with Jim feeling a new energy and desire to “go out nightclubbing.” The Moulin Rouge was our natural first choice. As we approached the car, Jim plucked the keys out of my fingers and slid behind the wheel. Okay, I thought, driving will cool him out.
        But suddenly the lights of oncoming cars were exploding in our eyes and we realized he'd switched lanes. I was sitting next to him in the front seat and Chaney was behind him. Chaney grabbed his arms and I grabbed the wheel, kicked Jim's feet off the accelerator and stomped the brake. By this time, Chaney was ready to dump Morrison on the street and drive away. If the police stopped us again, Chaney, being an African American male, could wind up getting the worst of it. I got behind the wheel while Chaney moved to the front seat with Morrison's neck tucked in his armpit.
        At the Moulin Rouge, we got a table front and center and listened to a jazz combo perform, and ordered hard liquor drinks. After all that had happened, we were ready to relax. But Jim had more surprises. Suddenly he leaped to his feet, grabbed the mic in front of the combo and let out a series of Backdoor Man howls, ready to let loose a Doors song as part of the jazz combo's performance—an improvisation they did not appreciate. They quit playing and, one by one, left the stage.
        Jim continued to hold the mic and howl improvisations until someone cut the electricity. Chaney collared him and escorted him outside into an alley. I followed them out. Chaney was upset because this was his favorite club and now look—“next time I come here, everyone will associate me with this fracas put on by some crazy white dude in leather pants.” Most of the Moulin Rouge's after-midnight clientele were pimps and “working girls,” whose main concern was being allowed by the police to ply their trade. When word got around that Jim and I were freshly released from jail, a lot of the people there that night were, like Chaney, anxious that he behave himself. Soon the alley filled with “well wishers” all clustered around us, with Chaney holding Morrison pinned against a wall, talking to him like a Dutch uncle.
        Morrison promised to behave himself and we all went back inside. But Jim's demons were not done with him. No sooner had the jazz group gotten into another number than up he pops again, grabs the mic again, and is immediately lassoed by Chaney and strong-armed outside again.
        It was time, we decided, to call it a night.
        We drove to Mike's apartment on what was then the edge of town. While Mike put on The Doors first album, Morrison found an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. That was enough for Chaney, who got me to drive him to retrieve his car and go home. By the time I got back to the apartment, Mike and Morrison were deep into a discussion about poetry, song lyrics and rock music.

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