Acid for the Children: A Memoir

by Flea

On the night of the show we took our seats. I was bursting with anticipation to see the mythic being as a real-life man. I couldn’t believe we were going to be in the same room, let alone the same earth together. I had to pee and wasn’t sure what to do, but my mother told me to hurry and go, so I jumped out of my seat like a jackrabbit and ran. In my excitement I ran the wrong way, toward the stage instead of the lobby bathrooms. Somehow I found myself backstage, people all around. Then I saw him standing there in the wings, magic trumpet in hand. Man. It was Diz, busy chatting with someone. I was stunned. Without thinking, I ran up to him and stood awkwardly, just staring. He looked at me with a sweet warm smile and I nervously said “Mr. Gillespie, I—I—I.…” I clammed up, too starstruck to talk. Dizzy put his arm around me and pulled me in tight, my head wedged into the armpit of his sharp double-breasted suit, holding me there and resuming his conversation. This went on for a couple of minutes, he held me close, and I was quaking with happiness. He then finished up his conversation, let me go, gave me another incredible smile, patted me on the head with a magic touch, walked on stage, and started playing “A Night in Tunisia.” Wow.