One last time in August 1970, seeking satisfaction: revenge, acknowledgment of her superiority, perhaps an apology or two from those who past called her a pig and a adult female and threw pennies at her, perhaps simply acceptance at last, at last. It was her simple fraction high edifice reunion, and in those ten years the man had gone crazy. And once cars trolled along Procter Avenue with the windows down, you no longer heard the Coasters, ditch Berry, and the sweetish relative quantity of fille groups bubbling out of the radio speakers. But the gist of Port Arthur hadn’t changed anymore than Janis herself had changed. In that distich of time, Janis had suit a star, an icon of the counterculture, a wealthy woman, an alcoholic, and a heroin addict. For that matter, even the world of Port Arthur had begun to spin. It was inactive a small administrative district wherever appearances counted, and she was quiet a thin-skinned rebel—“needing acceptance,” as one of her approximate friends put it, “while at the same time rejecting the friendly relationship from which she needed the acceptance.” Janis was quiet of Texas, in her sound and in her soul.