Last Night at the Viper Room

It’s really strange now, to think that I’m not twenty-three, and he’ll always be twenty-three.”

One of their songs that night was about going to parties in the Hollywood Hills—it name-checked Michael Stipe, Sofia Coppola, and River Phoenix. River had never heard it, and never would.

“River was one of those people that had that strange magic glow around them; he could drive you crazy, or make you fall in love with him, sometimes in the same minute.”

River loved to embrace friends in massive bear hugs, sometimes surprising them by lunging at them from behind. But if somebody hugged him, he’d quickly squirm away. He wanted any embraces to be on his terms.

He had very long hair and he struck me—as he came out of an elevator—as an angel, some kind of supernatural being. An angel could be Gabriel, but an angel could be Lucifer too. He would as readily delve into the deep, dark recesses as he would fly up to the lofty, illuminated places.

Today, the marine layer has rolled in, meaning that clouds have come right up to his feet.