I wake up in Doug’s bed with Tony and Jimmy. Doug complains that the Rent-a-Wreck is depressing home values in his neighborhood. I am relieved to know my ride at least made it back with no further problems, police or accident-wise. My head is hammered from a post-coke and pot hangover. Jimmy says Jack has been calling, expecting me to be in Boston already. Jimmy claimed ignorance of my whereabouts. I’m not ready for any drama. It surprises me that Jack is unable to reach me through my heart. I feel like a hardcore drug addict. Jace tells me that the pre-game rock show went off with Minehan’s Neighborhoods rocking the Mower courtyard. The Game Weekend 
is proceeding in Cambridge with Jack barely able to keep up his end of the cheer leading routines, blindly believing I may still show up. I listlessly stumble to the kitchen to make coffee. Sitting down I summon Jack into my heart. He’s in shock that I’m so wasted.
“It’s heroin, isn’t?” is his conclusion.
“Get over yourself. It’s just Hollywood.” I try to explain how I’m ‘working’ day and night, but Jack won’t listen. He starts crying.
My head can’t take it and he fades out. I leave him ‘hanging on the telephone.’
Coffee helps. I worry that Belushi has been left to his own devices with the auditions finished. I remember how Doug assigned Tony to babysit Elton John when he was performing at the Troubadour. What the hell. I take on that role for my boss, Landis. I drive to the Chateau, 
and find Belushi passed out with the remainder of his coke stash spread out on a coffee table in the bungalow.
“Wake up, coke-head. I’m taking you to the Valley,” I shake him and roll him out of the bed. I was just as out of it before I had coffee. He stumbles after me to the Rent-a-Wreck. With the top down, we roar up Laurel Canyon Blvd over the mountains separating Hollywood from the San Fernando Valley, where the morning overcast has already burned off. Fresh air and sunshine revive him.
“Why the Valley?” he asks.
“Pancakes at Du-Pars can’t be beat.”
I worry he is about to barf, but he soldiers on. Coffee does the trick. Soon we are both eating double stacks. A pair of young women come up to us, asking why Belushi is in LA when he is supposed to be ‘live on Saturday Night’ in New York that night.
“They fired my ass,” is his canned response. Instead of eliciting sympathy, they walk away, now that he no longer is a TV star – typical LA attitude. Fame and its attendant worship are only as good as it lasts.
“See what it’s like being washed up,” I laugh and tell him how I always played second fiddle to a dog.
“So, what’s happening today?” he asks.
I have no plan but since we are in the Valley, I want to see Tom Petty. I call Jimmy at Larrabee Studios and get his address. Belushi drives us to a rundown motel off Ventura Blvd.
“You drive like a pussy,” he claims.
We bang on the door for five minutes before Petty finally answers, cracking the door and peeking out.
“Afraid we was the cops?” I kid him. “Takin’ y’alls time hidin’ yer dope?”
“Hey, it’s the Cracker from Alaska. Ya got that right, ‘cept all the dope got used up last night.”
He gives Belushi a suspicious look until he recognizes him.
“Jesus, Tim. Ya always the star fucker?”
“Yeah. He claims to be a Chicago bluesman. I want to show him some real southern blues.”
Tom lets us in. The two double beds for the whole band bring back memories. The drug paraphernalia on the one table gets Belushi’s attention. He takes out his baggie of coke and plops it down.
All the other Heartbreakers instantly get out of bed. Coke is their wake-up call. No need for coffee.
“Y’all’s in the movie bizness now?”
“Yup. We’s auditionin’ bands for a frat boy movie.”
“What happened ta Hahvahd?”
“It’s my class for this Fall. I’m doin’ work-study.”
“If’n that coke’s from Hahvahd, it must be primo.”
“Naw. Their’s is real expensive and makes ya a smart ass.” 
“You know he don’t talk like this with me,” Belushi notes.
“Yeah. Ol’ Tim’s our favorite rebel wannabee. He had me playin’ Dixie at the Florida State Swim Championships last year.”
“You played with his band?”
“We all opened fer Skynyrd. His drummer and I incited a riot. The police shot Tim’s dog. The crowd panicked. Skynyrd came out and we all jammed to a packed stadium. His band had the quickest burnout in rock history. They’s Southern legends.”
“He and I jammed at the Troubadour yesterday.”
“No shit.”
“I’m gonna be a singing star in the movies now. The director don’t know it yet.”
They continue to dissect and disrespect me. I think maybe the Heartbreakers should be the movie’s band. I worry they may be insulted to play cover songs. Their own material is great for a certain audience but not universal. There is no reason to not give them a shot.
“We gonna jam?” I demand, sick of being their object of derision.
“Yeah. Let’s do it. Our equipment’s in a storage unit nearby. We jam there as long as it’s daytime.”
“What ‘bout the coke?” the bassist Ron Blair demands. Bass players have their priorities.
Belushi dumps a pile of coke on the table and the adults in the room (everyone but me) go at it until it is gone. We are ready to fly.
“Perfect,” Tom pronounces when he sees my convertible Rent-a-Wreck. Their van has been on its last legs for years. I take the keys from Belushi and chauffeur five crazed musicians and a TV comedian to the local storage facility. It’s the Heartbreakers’ practice studio, barely sound-proofed with egg cartons. An extension cord provides power from the facility’s outlet.
No one knows where to start, so I grab a guitar and play Tom’s Rebels song.
Blair finds a stars & bars battle flag, hanging it in front of his speakers. 
Tom and I share the singing and rhythm guitar. The memories are bitter-sweet. I love that the good ol’ boy
“I can’t sing that song,” Belushi exclaims. “The brothers will lynch me.”
“That is ironic,” Tom laughs.
“Wot kin y’all sing?”
Tom is not particular. “Here’s our Indiana song, ‘Mary Jane’s Last Dance’
They have been in LA long enough to lose their redneck ways. Belushi pulls out a harmonica and blows some Chicago blues.
At the finish, we all laugh.
“Too slow fer a frat party, tho,” I reject it.
Next we do covers for which Belushi knows the lyrics, including ‘Louie Louie.” After doing ‘Runaround Sue,’ Tom wants to play their runaway song ‘Runnin’ Down a Dream’
It is more up-tempo but has long solos which I nix.
“Here’s a song fer y’all, Tim, another Hollywood hustler, ‘Yer so Bad’.” He is so right.
We are both singing and playing rhythm guitar. When we get to the chorus Tom and I turn and sing to each other 
‘But not me baby, I’ve got you to save me
Oh yer so bad, best thing I ever had
In a world gone mad, yer so bad’
Songwriters: TOM PETTY, JEFF LYNNE
© Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.
He winks at me, causing me to rip a long leading riff.
Campbell Tench bursts out laughing, “Tom’s got hisself a boyfriend.”
We just keep smiling at each other.
When the chorus comes up the second time, Belushi sings with us, stepping on my leads with his harmonica. Everyone breaks up.
“Okay, well, try out this song.” I rip into ‘I Won’t back down’
‘Well I won’t back down, no I won’t back down
You can stand me up at the gates of Hell
But I won’t back down’
Songwriters: JEFF LYNNE, TOM PETTY
© Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.
Once we’re done, everyone laughs.
“If you only knew,” I confess.
“Where’s yer old partner in crime?” Tom asks.
“Ya mean our drummer, Robby?”
“Not that piss ant. Yer boyfriend.”
“We broke up this mornin’. He thinks I’m a drug addict.”
“Welcome to Hollywood, son.”
Belushi laughs. “You fucked my three lovelies last night. Maybe you ain’t no fag.”
“Here’s a song fer y’all, ‘A Face in the Crowd,’ Tom starts singing.
‘Before all of this ever went down
In another place, another town
You were just a face in the crowd
You were just a face in the crowd
Out in the street walking around
A face in the crowd’
Songwriters: JEFF LYNNE, TOM PETTY
© Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc
“No matter who y’alls is fuckin’, Tim, yer purdy loveable.”
There I go, turnin’ straight guys gay again.
“Don’t know ‘bout that but this is hella more fun than Saturday Night Live rehearsal in the City,” Belushi sees it his way.
We do some more covers, with Belushi singing and sometimes blowing blues on his mouth harp. We’ve been at it for three hours. Belushi is ready for Tommy’s.
“Hell no,” Petty decides. “That ghetto food? Y’all gots ta go ta In n Out. It’s worth the drive.” 
It takes about 45 minutes on the freeway to West Covina. My driving skills improve by the minute as the six passengers stand up and make a scene every time we pass any young lovelies. Going 80 mph is a steep learning curve. Tom suggests I stay within the lines after I pass two cars by straddling the lane marker. 
I stand up and holler, which scares everyone, especially the other nearby drivers. No Highway Patrol to lecture me. The Wreck responds to its second life. I suggest we take the drive-thru. Belushi is on pussy patrol. We go inside, singing the ‘In n Out, Out n In’ commercial over and over.
The staff has heard that song before. It fails to elicit a positive reaction by any of the suburban high school eaters until a group of college girls recognize Belushi. They are not ready or willing to double-team the seven of us. They belong to a sorority and promise additional partners if we follow them to Pomona College.
“This is research for the movie,” Belushi declares. At the sorority, Belushi gets all the attention. Five unknown rockers and a teenager are not as popular, until some less lovelies decide we deserve second place in their hearts. Afternoon delight after lunch lives up to In and Out’s promoted slogan. Three hours of fucking is enough for Belushi. He lures three girls back with us to the Chateau to watch SNL that night. It’s the first show after he is supposedly ‘fired’. Tom promises additional drugs through his Hollywood connection to fuel our evening of anger at NBC for disrespecting our new best ex-TV star friend.
Once back in Hollywood, Tom and I go for ‘take-out pizza,’ with the actual mission to score additional drugs. I maintain my drug resistance, as the designated driver. Everyone is mentoring me on giving up my gay ways. I have some crazy thought that I should abstain in order to get back with Jack. Mixed messages. Tom directs me to a small converted hotel on Cherokee, the Ojai. There is even parking for the Wreck on a short cul-de-sac in front of the building above Franklin Ave in the Hollywood Hills. Cherokee and Franklin is a well-known transvestite pick-up site. Many of the trannies live in the Ojai, using their SROs for business. I am down the rabbit hole again. Tom uses the Alice in Wonderland imagery in several Heartbreaker videos. As an Ojai regular, he knows the manager, Barbara, an ex-priest transsexual with big tits and a bigger heart, 
especially for the pros living in her building. The dealer, name withheld at his request, lives on the sixth floor. When he finds out I am abstaining from heroin, he throws in a joint with our purchase. Tom and I go up on the roof and smoke out.
“Y’all rilly broke up with ol’ Jack taday?” he asks.
“Not his fault. I ain’t neva gonna be no student at Hahvahd.”
“He’s a purdy gud singer. Ain’tcha neva gonna git the band backs tagether agin.”
“Y’all gonna eva git Mudcrutch back tagether?”
“That time’s gone fer good.”
“Ya neva knows.”
“Best ta move on. Life don’t stand still fer the past.”
“Time fer that when ya’s old.”
“Ya got that right.”
We finish the joint, staring at the lights on Hollywood Blvd below us. Two good ol’ boys, just enjoying a high together. I feel so straight while so bent by pot. Silence between guys is a solid.
“You know I ain’t gonna recommend y’all fer the movie,” I am too honest because I am high.
“Ya mean we ain’t gonna be no movie stars?” Tom joshes.
“Y’all’s too good fer this movie. It’s rilly dumb.”
“What’s not dumb ‘bout good ol’ boys from North Florida?”
We laugh.
“I jist wanna learn ‘bout makin’ movies. Our songs is all stories ‘bout our lives. Three minute capsules of real lives of the down ‘n out.” Tom has ambitions.
“I kin getcha a spot on the crew so as ta show y’all how the magic is done here in Hollywood.”
“Kool.”
We go to Two Guys for the pizzas 
and return to the Chateau. Our additional dope is appreciated as everyone is on edge from the coke. I remember my Viet Vet adventure with Joey. They did their speedballs in reverse order. While Belushi has a sorority slut in the bedroom, we attack the pizza, waiting for him to finish before attacking the H. The pizza totally satisfies my pot driven high.
The girls are in my camp about heroin. I volunteer to drive them back to Pomona College while the guys get fucked up. I win points for refraining from dope. When they learn I go at Harvard, they turn on the charm. With no rushing need to return to Hollywood, I spend the evening at the sorority in one of the three girls’ bedrooms. I move up onto their A list by satisfying their every need. Jace joins me, adept at keeping each girl engaged. I receive many compliments on my lovemaking. I notice that they all keep their eyes closed, unwilling to see how I was able to keep them stimulated from all sides, 
as well as top and bottom. Jace is even more adept than me
. Perhaps his life with Tommy is paying dividends in the sexual experience and expertise departments – a prime lesson plan for high school.
Back at Doug’s I park down the block and sneak into Tony’s room. I’m out cold in less than a minute. All work and all play is too much for me. In the morning, I make coffee, joining the gang in Doug’s bed. He looks disappointed with me, but the boys wink and just hug Doug more. I need to find my own place soon. At the Chateau, I gather the Heartbreakers and drive them back to the Valley. They’re all worse for wear. Belushi is on New York time and comes along after I promise pancakes at Du-Par’s.
The Southern boys perk up on coffee and hotcakes, missing grits in a faux-sentimental way. I suggest we try South Central. They are not about to go for collared greens. After finishing, I know the sure cure for drug hangovers and make everyone attend mass at St Catherine’s on Lake Balboa in Van Nuys. It’s a Spanish mass, so no one needs to understand what’s going on. Southern boys have mostly Baptist ways. I feel extra blessed at broadening their horizons. Tom swears it’s the only time he’s ever been to church since he was a kid. 
“That aint somethin’ to brag about,” I tell him.
We are all invited for a parish lunch but excuse ourselves politely. We have to work. I insist we go back to the storage unit where we continue our jam, without the coke, which is long gone.
Ben Tench tunes his synthesizer to play honky-tonk piano. We do old Jerry Lee Lewis songs that we all know, starting with ‘Great Balls o’ Fire’
Belushi takes the lead on the vocals, no time for mouth harp. With inspiration from church and pancakes, he’s all balls a’fire, jumping and running around the confined space. Tom, Mike and I are stepping all over each other’s rhythm guitar tracks. We do ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’’
and finish with ‘Breathless’
Belushi is so out of breath I worry he is having a stroke. He lays on the floor as we double over from oldies fever. Tench switches to Leon Russell’s ‘Honky Tonk Woman’
and ‘Delta Lady’
Belushi jumps up, recharged. “Fuck all this Southern boy moanin’ and a’groanin’. This here’s the Chicago Blues.”
He hits the harmonica intro to Howlin’ Wolf’s ‘How Many More years’
We are done. I drive the boys back to their motel.
“Okay, boss. Did we pass the audition?” Mike is hoping to be in the movie. But I have to be honest. They play best on their own material. Their blues roots are Southern deep but the movie is about frat boys in the 60’s.
“Y’all is always my favorites, Tom. I kin probably sell ya. I knows yer headed fer glory doing your own music. Doin’ a movie’s only a detour to real fame.”
We leave it at that.
Belushi wants to drive the Wreck back to Hollywood. He has a flight back to the City that night. We tear up Laurel Canyon. I pretend it’s a roller coaster ride, sitting on top of the seat back with both arms in the air. My Baptist ways must have gotten God’s attention because we do not die. Belushi is wrecked while recklessly driving the wreck.
“Wanna go to the beach and check out the surfer girls?” I suggest. “We could eat at Wimpy Burgers at the Huntington Pier.”
“Enough with the tour of LA Burgerland,” he complains. “I got a Hollywood party to attend. You can be my driver to the soiree of the stars.”
“A soiree’s at night,” I note.
“Always complaining. Not enough pussy, gay boy.”
“Them sorority girls found out I’s from Harvard. I had my way with three of them. You’ve trained me well.”
“They was just missin’ me. Y’all gots sloppy seconds,” he drawls.
“Pick up a bit of a Southern twang, Chi boy?”
“Yer a bad influence but don’t turn the gay on me.”
“Jist like them boys have the Negro in them.”
I drop him at the Chateau and go on a run to Tommy’s. He comes out of the shower to a double helping of chili burgers and fries. He looks like he is gonna barf. I pull out the remainder of the joint I shared with Petty on top of the Ojai.
“Pot don’t do it no more fer me,” he complains while taking a long drag.
He stops complaining and finishes his double double Tommy’s, stopping me from sharing his fries.
“Where’s the party?” I ask.
“Nicholson always has a pool party on Sundays. He lives in the hills.”
“Any hillbillies be there?”
“Fuck you. It’ll be all surfer girls. Better than hanging out at Wimpy’s.”
I break into the Beach Boys’ ‘Barbara Ann.’ It’s cooler than ‘Little Surfer Girl.’
Belushi jumps in, even Jace attempts to harmonize the falsetto. It’s truly horrible. And I thought he had some talent.
We stare at each other. Belushi swears it was a third voice that screwed up the duet. Jace looks chagrined.
“Let’s go find surfer girls. I refuse to do falsetto ever again,” he declares as we jump into the Wreck, heading for the Hills.
At Nicholson’s, valet parking refuses to take the Wreck. Belushi stares real hard at him, until the valet recognizes him. I throw him the keys. We walk into the upper level of Jack Nicholson’s five level Hollywood Hills house. The party is on the bottom level by a large pool. Belushi puts his arm around me. We march to the bar. He is wearing Bermuda shorts, sandals with black socks and an oversized logo tee-shirt. I’m in my Miami beach drag, jeans, buttons-missing long sleeve collar shirt and no shoes. People are already gossiping. My New York Post fame means nothing at Nicholson’s. I realize I look like a Santa Monica pickup on an extended date. We dispel those rumors by plopping next to four bikini-clad lovelies, giving them the bum’s rush. At least they recognize Belushi. We stick our feet in the pool.
“You ladies need drinks,” Belushi decides, sending me off to obtain the punch of the day, at least that’s what the hand-drawn note says at the bar. We down our first cup, tossing them over our heads. Somehow I manage six cups of punch with much spillage.
“You better watch out,” the girls warn us too late. “Jack always provides a LSD spiked punch .
“Too late now,” Belushi declares. “Acid makes me horny.”
He was making out with the two girls on either side of him.
My eyes are bugging out. My lovelies, spotting a lightweight, take charge of me. Off to a convenient cabana. I freak that the Guardian is coming for me. Jace is right there, ready to take our final journey together. The acid has not hit yet. What the hell, time for final fantasy sex. Jace finds the girls receptive, making them super horny before I make a move.
I start slowly with cunnilingus on the blonde and fingering the redhead. They lay back, as Jace starts working on Red’s tits with his tongue and Blondie’s tits with his hand. Neither one closes their eyes, so I keep switching positions hoping they won’t figure out they are being double teamed. They look to have some lesbian tendencies as they stare deeply into each other’s eyes, not paying any attention to me, other than at their erogenous zones. Jace is smiling at me. We start giggling, which creates a new sensation in the girls’ cunts. They start moaning and squirming, both quickly coming to climax. Time for dick action. I roll Blondie over as Jace enters her doggy style. She arches and takes all of his dick, thrusting back at him. 
I roll over on top of Red, letting my dick tease her labia while I French her. They lose interest in each other and soon
orgasm separately. Jace and I wink, knowing we can keep this action going for quite a while. True to her hair color, Red starts squealing and screaming, making so much noise that someone is banging on the cabana door. We are doing it in the midst of a pool party.
“Open up. I got the key,” a husky voice demands. We are not about to stop.
The room gets lighter. An older man comes in. Nicholson only sees a three-way going on.
“I don’t know or care who you are boy. You’ve got these two nymphomaniacs so worked up, it’s disturbing my guests. I’m taking over Blondie.”
Jace is shoved aside. I continue fucking Red with an aging star pumping away next to me. Not exactly the star fucking my teenage fantasies anticipated. Jace is on the bench. I feel sorry for him, so he joins me on Red. Her screams reach a higher pitch, as she achieves her fourth and fifth orgasms. Jack is doing his duty, obviously near his climax. I know my time is coming soon. We finish all together – girls – 7 orgasms, boys/seniors – only 2, ghost – 1. Nicholson leaves the three of us plus Jace, to return to the party. He gets a hand from the poolside audience. I am too embarrassed to acknowledge my applause, so Jace takes the bows, which no one sees. The girls are collapsed on top of each other, looking at me with adoring, satisfied eyes from the back of the cabana.
I get up to leave. “Now you know what teenage boys are really like.” 
They whimper.
I walk out of the cabana in just my briefs. 
I jump into the pool, doing butterfly laps, pushing off the shallow bottom, as I dolphin completely out of the water. I get a hand for being a jock, not a porn star. The girls have spread the word. Soon I have a covey of lovelies to meet my every need as I sit with Belushi at the pool’s edge.
“Well, stud, looks like you won the hetero award for best fuck of the weekend.” Belushi concedes. 
“I had a little help there, so don’t feel you were second best. I am used to being second dog.”
“Tell Landis I want to sing Louie Louie in my underwear,” he nods at my briefs. “I want it put in my contract.”
We laugh. It is time to drive him to LAX. He already checked out of the Chateau. It is a short drive to the airport. I promise to be his personal assistant when he comes back for the movie shoot. We slip into the men’s for a quick snort of his remaining coke stash.
“Got to save some for the mile high club,” he announces. “Com’n, we gotta do a farewell version of ‘Louie Louie’ in the boarding area. I need to pick out at least two lovelies to join me in flight.”
We pick a spot near the agent’s desk. By the time we finish the first verse, he has three or four contenders. We sing it all the way through.
‘CHORUS: Louie Louie, oh no Me gotta go Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said Louie Louie, oh baby Me gotta go
Fine little girl waits for me
Catch a ship across the sea
Sail that ship about, all alone
Never know if I make it home
CHORUS: Louie Louie, oh no Me gotta go Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said Louie Louie, oh baby Me gotta go
Three nights and days
I sail the sea
Think of girl, constantly
On that ship,
I dream she’s there
I smell the rose in her hair.
CHORUS: Louie Louie, oh no Me gotta go Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said Louie Louie, oh baby Me gotta go
Okay, let’s give it to ’em, right now!
GUITAR SOLO
See Jamaica, the moon above
It won’t be long, me see me love
Take her in my arms again
Tell her I’ll never leave again
CHORUS: Louie Louie, oh no Me gotta go Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said Louie Louie, oh baby Me gotta go
Let’s take it on outa here now
Let’s go!!’
Songwriters: RICHARD BERRY
© Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Time to board. The girls and anyone else young enough do a conga line out the jetway. “Bye Bye, Miss American Pie.’
Tim at Swim 