“Annabelle?”
“Yes, Trixie?”
“Is he asleep?”
“I think so.”
“Because he’s got, like, all of his weight on my shoulders.”
“I know where you’re coming from. My boat is leaking in the same way. Lemme check.”
PERCUSSIONIST-NUDGING NOISE
“Nah, he’s out.”
“Breathing, right?”
…
“Yeah.”
“Oh, good. We could–and this is just a suggestion–flip him backwards over the railing and let him be someone else’s problem.”
“Trixie, most of the world’s ills have been caused by letting Mickey Hart be someone else’s problem.”
“Well, he’s heavier than he looks.”
“Let’s walk him around town and buy stuff with his credit card.”
“You’re suggesting we pull a Weekend at Bernie’s?”
“I am, yeah.”
“I can’t carry him. If we find a wheelchair, then I’m in.”
“Did you see Babbs?”
“Holy shit, yeah. Does Mom look that old? Because Mom’s that old, but I don’t think she looks that old.”
“Mom doesn’t look that old.”
“Are you the one farting like that?”
“What? No.”
GUITARIST’S DAUGHTER SNIFFING NOISE
“That’s clearly Mickey. You can still smell the Courvoisier.”
“He loves that shit. It’s so terrible.”
“Tastes like someone bottled a dead monkey. What is John Mayer wearing?”
“It’s called streetwear.”
“I have no idea what that means. Like, not pajamas? You can wear all clothes out into the street. It’s kinda the point of clothes.”
“He’s a hypebeast.”
“Trixie.”
“He kicks it normcore.”
“Trixie. Shit! Trixie!”
PERCUSSIONIST RELIEVING HIMSELF NOISE
“Oh, c’mon, Mickey!”
“Down.”
“Just lay him on the ground.”
He is an ethnomusicologist
Heavy Air.