I barely made it home, figuring I’d throw myself into bed. Instead, I took a long hot shower. Refreshed and feeling steadier on my feet, I figured why not go out to Oki Dog. It was still Saturday night. I hoped to catch Jimmy and resupply my stash of joints. I drove by the Whiskey and Roxie (just up Sunset), but they were dark and closed. Everyone was home digesting the last of their turkey dinner leftovers. Parking at Oki Dog’s lot, there were only a couple of discouraged tricks sitting at the tables out front. Even the johns were home that night. I went to the window and sparked up a conversation with the boss, Oki Yoki.
“Where cute boy who pay?” he asked for Jack.
“Home with parents.”
“Same-o same-o. No business tonight.”
“Maybe you save. Not give away food.”
He laughed, ‘Plenty customer when boys pick up and make client buy them Oki Dog.”
“Sound business plan.”
“Oki Dog number one on Santa Monica.”
“I like to sit at Astro Burger,” I nodded to the competition across the street, “and watch the action here.”
“See. Oki Dog number one attraction in Hollywood. You want Oki Dog?”
“Why not?” I hadn’t had dessert with my fancy steak.
He wouldn’t take my money. “You good for business. Sit out front.”
Life couldn’t be better, pimping myself out. Oki Yoki was right. Although my post-coital vibrations had stopped, I must be putting out a strong sexual vibe. I soon had prospective business cruising by, slowing down, and motioning for me to come over to their cars in the bus loading zone. I had several second-stringers to pinch-hit for me. Everyone was satisfied. The few exceptions that insisted they wanted only me had me singing like Mick, ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’
Saturday night of a long holiday weekend was slow with everyone out-of-town. A little entertainment helped drum up business. I drew in the street walkers from up and down Santa Monica. The johns who had had their every needs satisfied brought their tricks back and bought Oki Dogs. If they persisted in pestering me, I handed out Jimmy’s phone number. As it got late and traffic slowed down, I had five or six underemployed tricks backing me up as we sang Mott the Hoople’s ‘All the Young Dudes’
‘All the young dudes
Carry the news
Carry the news
Now Jimmy looking sweet though he dresses like a queen
He can kick like a mule It’s a real mean team
We can love Oh we can love
All the young dudes
Carry the news
Carry the news’
Songwriters: DAVID BOWIE
© EMI Music Publishing, Peermusic Publishing, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC, TINTORETTO MUSIC
We all ended singing to the empty street, our arms around each other. We owned Santa Monica. We closed the joint. Oki Yoki passed out what little product wasn’t sold. He promised I could bring my guitar and amp next night, as Sunday was going to be even slower. I’d drum up business by promoting myself to Sunday afternoon locals-only at the Whiskey-a-Go-Go.
Home at the Canterbury I fell asleep dreaming about my first solo Hollywood gig al fresco on Santa Monica Blvd. Maybe Nicky would play drums on a table top. All I needed was a few of Jimmy’s joints and the followers would show up.
Sunday morning – time for Mom’s blueberry pancakes for the gang at Doug’s. I felt guilty for ignoring my first Hollywood friends, especially after Doug put together Otis Day and the Knights. I stopped by the Fairfax Farmer’s Market and somehow found fresh blueberries. Maybe they came from Hawaii. I let myself into the house. Everyone was still asleep. Was I weird for keeping my Iowa farm boy up-at-the-crack wake-up hours? I made coffee, which got Tony’s interest as he wandered in nude.
“Jock Fulla?” Tony was in on my inside jokes.
“Just add cream and a touch of sugar,” as I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
That woke him up. “Jesus, Tim, I thought you no longer cared.” His limp dick gave a twitch. There was life Down Under.
“How was your Thanksgiving?”
“Fuck South Bay. I stayed here. Doug said he was with you Friday, but you were too busy being a rock star to come over.”
“Yer a trip, Tim.” We laughed.
We brought coffee into Doug’s bedroom for him and Jimmy. Doug had his face planted into his pillow. I could guess how that happened.
“Up and at ‘em, boys. Time to eat and get to Church.” Everyone moaned.
“No way,” Jimmy complained. “My head’s spinning and aching at the same time.”
“Surest way to cure a hangover – Church on Sunday morning.”
Doug had yet to move.
“Did you fuck our patron to death last night?”
He rolled over and stretched out his arms. Tony and I jumped into the bed and hugged him simultaneously.
“Ah, the only way to wake up,” he smiled. No hangover from our newly christened bottom. “Give me a cup of that coffee.”
“You really need to buy a French Press,” I suggested.
“If it isn’t the Harvard snob and his East Coast needs.”
I went back to the kitchen and started the blueberry pancakes.
I just smiled, remembering how I couldn’t stop vibrating from the fucking Jake gave me. It bothered me at the time but was a pleasant memory the next day. I reminded myself to take a long bath at Doug’s. The Canterbury only had a shower. As they devoured the flapjacks, I retired to the bath.
Half an hour later, I reemerged in my Sunday best. They were surprised I really was going to church.
“Com’n. I can’t go by meself,” I urged. Tony and Jimmy convinced Doug he would not be struck dead for entering a Catholic church. Doug found suits that fit the two boys. Well-scrubbed and dressed, we walked into the noon Mass at St Victor’s on Holloway close to West Hollywood. We were so overdressed that we created a stir among the mostly young and seemingly gay parishioners. The service was short and the priest personally welcomed us as we left. Doug admitted he had never been to a Catholic Church before.
“All the better, Mr. Weston,” the priest already knew who he was. “You won’t be put off by old-fashioned ways and dogma. Join our Dignity group on Wednesday nights. You’ll enjoy the singing as well. If you have been to Baptist services, you’ll feel right at home.”
“Maybe you need to recruit Tim, here. He’s the one who convinced us to come today and he’s a singer in a band.”
The priest looked startled. “Tim? From Jace’s Place at St Patrick’s?”
“Jace was my boyfriend,” I admitted, feeling slightly uncomfortable to admit it at the steps of the Church.
“You’re Teen Jesus,” He announced. I had to hold him from kneeling to me. He was pretty young.
“Please come to our group on Wednesday. The whole church is in a tizzy about Teen Jesus being gay.”
“I’ll be glad to. I’m sure Jace will come as well.”
“I thought he died?”
“He did, but his spirit will be there.”
“Bless you, son.”
We beat a hasty retreat. Even I felt too welcomed. I drove everyone to Du-Par’s at the Farmer’s Market. Time for more pancakes. Comfort food for the soul. No one wanted to change their sinful ways.
“They treat you like a saint, Tim,” Doug noted.
“It takes sixty years of sinless behavior to be a saint. Jace is dead, so it’s easier for him. The Church would put me in a seminary and lock me away just to add me to the rolls of the sin-free.”
Tony and Jimmy thought it was hilarious. They were not sure they were ready to become regular church goers.
“Now you see the Miami side to my life,” I added it to the Boston, Ames and LA sides.
Doug was silent, contemplating how to market my complicated life.
“So, who is Jace? I thought he was just the inspiration for creating homeless shelters for teens.”
I worried that Doug was too locked into his own ways to be open to Jace’s spiritual presence. So, Jace tried touching him with no result. The typical glow was surrounding Tony and Jimmy, but I knew not to bring them into our circle of trust when Doug would be excluded. I felt it was a stereotype to exclude Doug due to age alone, but that was what I felt. We all have our prejudices.
“Yes,” I joked.
Doug gave me a nasty look.
“We just want Catholics to recognize that rock n roll can be spiritual music, as gospel music is for Baptists. We’re fighting two thousand years of suppression.”
“I think I’ll pass on the Dignity group, sounds beneath my dignity to be praying and exalting some myth.”
“Faith is built on rituals. Don’t force yourself. But there’s a multitude of gay Catholics that need to express themselves freely. It’s a real show when they let go of their repressions. You could make the Troubadour a church of the unrepressed every Sunday morning with services and old-time gospel music.”
“That’s not happening.”
We drove back to Doug’s. With the top down, Doug and the boys sat in the back waving at everyone who stared at them. Jace stayed with me, snuggled up riding pussy as I drove. LA is outstanding when the sun’s out. Back at the house, I swam laps in the pool, while everyone else lay in the sun. Once my workout was done, they joined me in the hot tub. It was Doug’s chance to revive his homo-dominance by fucking us all in the water.
“My,” he remarked as he entered me while I lay in his arms, “You’ve become nicely relaxed down there.”
The boys giggled at my expanded horizons.
“I guess LA does that to you. Even you, Doug.”
“After forty years of being uptight.”
We all laughed. He was still a good fit, with his long skinny pole. I missed his usual throbbing and expulsion. He was holding back on all of us, needing to be anally stimulated to cum. The three of us went at him, mouth, tit and butthole. We held him up, floating in the middle of the hot tub. He came like a fountain shooting up a foot above us. We quickly jumped out and threw in a gallon of chlorine.
Time for Sunday Afternoon at the Whiskey. Back at the Canterbury, Nicky and Alice had returned, hoping for a ride to the Sunset Strip in the Wreck. I told them about Jack’s pink VW Cabriolet.
“So, your boyfriend’s rich,” Nicky only cared about salient details.
“Totally. But he does sing good and has learned both guitar and MOOG. He even played drums when the old band jammed in Miami Thanksgiving night. He said you gave him lessons.’
“He and I did ‘Helium Bar’ and everyone freaked out. Last time we jammed, I’d told them I’d gone country and that the band’s new name was The Hillbilly Brothers.”
“They like our song?”
“It was a shock. I played some of our Harvard songs which went over better.”
“You should come jam with us tonight.”
“Hollywood and Western.”
“Is it near Larrabee Studios?”
“No, duffus. In East Hollywood.”
“Sounds cool. I promised Oki Dog I’d play on the street so I brought my guitar and practice amp.” The Wreck’s trunk was humongous.
Nicky insisted he check out my SG.
“Wow. It’s what Johnny Thunders plays. Ya just a rich bitch, huh, and can’t really play?”
“Give me a chance and come by Oki Dog tonight.”
It was all working out.
“How come the Weirdos or the Bags aren’t playing here?” I asked him when we got to the Whiskey.
Alice’s answer was simple. “They won’t book East LA bands.”
“We played here but no longer play without being paid, especially on an afternoon. We’re more of a midnight band,” Nicky replied.
“You are kinda threatening,” as I sang:
‘I’m a joker I’m a smoker I’m a mid-night toker I get my lovin’ on the run Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh’
Songwriters GRAYSON, MILES
Published by Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.
“I hate that song,” Nicky always shared his opinions. “How come yer always singing? Got a bird up yer ass?”
We all laughed. Time to go in. I left the Wreck at Tower Records’ parking lot. Nicky had to talk the door into letting me in for free. I agreed with him that since the bands didn’t get paid, why should we pay. He and Alice made a beeline upstairs to hobnob with the bands. Jimmy had already supplied me with joints, but I figured I’d look for him and Tony to hang out. The pit area in front of the stage was filled with clusters of soc’s, chatting like it was a cocktail party. I missed Michael and Grant’s posse – no one to share a spliff with. The house music was mostly English punk. I really didn’t recognize the bands but it was cool that the sound engineer was up on new music. My body had not come down from the fucking it received from Jake, as well as from Doug. The fast beat of the punk music seemed in tune with my internal vibrations. I started walking around quickly, moving through the crowd like an Indian Cobra, slithering between groups of chattering trendies. I knocked into a kid my age as I squirmed through a non-existent space.
“Sorry,” I apologized.
“Chill, dude. Are you on speed or something?” a surfer looking guy in a sports coat and plaid trousers slowed me down. “You trying to cut the lineup?”
“There’s a line?” I laughed.
“Yeah, and we’re all goin’ to hell. Why be first in line?”
“I went to church today. I get a pass on hell.”
“There’s always tomorrow,” he grinned.
“Yeah, why rush it?” I pulled out a joint.
I took the first drag and passed it to him. He took a hit and started to pass it back. I shook my head and indicated to pass it to a guy who had become instantly interested. Before passing it on, my new friend took a second hit. The next guy took two, and I don’t know where it went after that. I knew it wasn’t coming back.
“You look familiar. I’m Jimmy. What’s your name?”
“I’m Tim. Everyone I meet is a Jimmy. Can I just call you Jim?”
“We’re from Huntington. Call me HB Jim.”
“You won’t get paid here.”
“We never get paid. No one in Hollywood will book us ‘cause we’re from the OC.”
“Maybe you should call yourselves the Out Crowd,” I stole my friends in Miami’s name.
“Too much like the In-Crowd.”
“I’m in with the In-Crowd,’ I sang. We giggled.
“Too trendy for me,” OC Jim admitted.
“You may want to downgrade your look,” I pointed at his mismatched outfit. “Is OC ready for plaid?”
“I’ve upgraded from polyester.”
“I was the new kid in school last year. Everyone wanted to know if I was a jock. I told ‘em I was a bowling jock. Goodwill was soon sold out of everything polyester.”
“Is bowling a high school sport?”
“We started it and we’re national champs by the end of winter.”
“You’re a total trend setter.”
“You’re not from LA?”
“I grew up all over, a military brat. I live in Hollywood now,” I exaggerated.
“I’ve always lived in HB. It’s boring.”
“HB, like Huntington Beach? You surf?”
“Everyone surfs. It’s uncool not to.”
Looking at his outfit, I assumed he was uncool.
“Having a band’s cool.”
“Not if you can’t play in Hollywood.”
“Stick around. My friend Tony books bands. He’s from South Bay.”
“We hate South Bay.”
“Too trendy for you.”
“No way. I bet he’s from Lawndale. They don’t even have a beach.”
“I thought you hate the beach?”
“We hate people from other beaches because they hate us. Everyone hates people who don’t have a beach and invade ours.”
“I went bodysurfing at Zuma on Friday.”
“Everyone hates bodysurfers. They just get in the way.”
“Anyone who you like?”
“Not really. Just the people who come to our shows.”
“I thought you couldn’t get booked?”
“We play at parties in our friends’ backyards.”
“When’s the next show?”
“Saturday afternoon in Newport. We hate Newport. They’re all snobs.”
“I’ve only seen a couple of bands – Weirdo’s and Zero’s. But it seems that the audience really gets into them. How can you have followers if you hate everyone?”
“They all hate the same people we do.”
“So, not part of the love and peace generation. Are you the new hate generation?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Are you a dealer?’
“My old drummer dealt to all the neighborhood kids. Sometimes I made deliveries at school.”
He flicked his Bic and we started laughing again.
“Wanna learn to surf for real?”
“So you can hate me?”
“Probably, once you’re all conceited about how you can walk on water.”
“I’ll stick to bodysurfing. You hate that on general principles. That I can deal with.”
Tony and Jimmy showed up, locating us in the crowd by knowing what their weed smelled like.
“I know that band. People say you play Texas two-step country music.”
Tony was added to Jim’s hate list.
“That’s ‘cause everyone hates them. It’s a sure sign that they’re better than all the other bands. They’re from the beach.”
“Oh, great, the new Dick Dale.”
Jim looked disgusted. The first band was setting up.
“I’m gonna try to jam with the Weirdos tonight. Try to come along.”
“Jamming with the Weirdos. Sounds like a horror movie,” Jimmy commented.
“You said the Weirdos hate you,” Tony observed.
“That’s not always a bad thing. Their drummer Nicky lives in my building.”
“When were you planning to tell us you had your own place,” Tony laughed.
“Oh, it’s the Canterbury. Las Palmas and Yucca.”
“Well, La dee da,” Jimmy snarked.
OC Jim was evaluating how much he hated us. When Jimmy asked if he could bring tricks over from the Pussycat Theater, it sealed the deal. He walked away.
The first band was ready to play. The singer had nothing to say, just started with ‘1,2,3,4.’
He went into convulsions or a simple spazz attack, shouting lyrics without a semblance of melody and finally falling over and writhing on the floor. Most of the crowd ignored his death throes. A few people got it and fell down in the pit, thrashing by themselves in response to the non-music. The band played on. I pushed Jimmy and Tony into the writhing pile of bodies, where they tripped and fell into the pile. I dove in and pretended it was a Baptist revival, mouthing nonsense words in ‘tongues.’ Someone grabbed my dick but let go quickly when it hardened. I didn’t take offense, chalking it up to my growing reputation. Jimmy noticed and grabbed hold. I rolled on top of him and started humping. The band instantly stopped playing. Tony pulled me away from Jimmy before it became too obvious what was happening – abnormal teen hormones. Gerber spotted me and took over from Jimmy. I herded her to the spot at the left of the stage where only those in the immediate vicinity could see us go at it. I shoved her face against the wall and rode her plump butt cheeks until I felt her orgasm go off. I left her there without looking back, joining Tony and Jimmy who high-fived me. One of Safety’s friends ran over and slapped me.
“It’s not rape when you both get off,” I defended my honor.
She just glared at me and walked over to Gerber, who just shook her head, still coming down from her own orgasm. The rape patrol declined to press charges for lack of a credible victim. I cheered the band for inspiring a public orgy. The musicians walked off, leaving the singer laying on the stage.
“We’re Saccharine Trust,” he shouted into the mic, “from San Pedro.”
“Go back to the beach,” someone yelled.
“There is no beach in San Pedro,” the singer informed us. He wandered off stage.
Everyone clapped, mostly glad he was gone.
Safety came over and thanked me for fucking Gerber, a task he claimed he was not ‘up’ to.
“We changed our band name to ‘Sophistifuck,” he bragged.
“That’s too much like old rock n roll. How about ‘Sophistifuck with the Dildos,” I suggested.
“Fuck you,” he moped. “It’s our band. We did use ‘Forming’ for our first original song.”
“That makes sense.” I laughed. He stormed off.
The next band was up. They called themselves the Screamers. They handed around a flyer. It was a cool cartoon by Gary Panter, but it didn’t say anything about a show or about the band. I figured they were art fags. They all played synthesizers.
I knew Jack would love them. The singer kept ripping off successive pieces of clothing, stopping only when he had jeans left to remove. I could tell there was nothing underneath. I appreciated how well he had choreographed his strip tease. They played non-stop for about thirty minutes, and then marched offstage, leaving their keyboards in an endless loop. The stage manager finally cut the power. Everyone cheered, begging for an encore. That didn’t happen. They were true arty farts.
I wanted to check on the Wreck, parked illegally at Tower Records. It was fine. I noticed a kid through the window, looking furtively as he tucked a 45 inside his shirt. After he walked out, I followed him up Sunset, far enough so he wouldn’t think I was an undercover security guard.
“What did you get?” I asked, laughing to show I was on his side.
He almost dropped the 45 and ran, until he realized he wasn’t busted.
“It’s an Oi! band from England.”
“Is that like punk?”
“Naw. It’s hardcore, not art and fashion,” he showed me the sleeve. It said Sham 69. I’d never heard of them. ‘If the Kids Are United.’
“It’s for kids?” I guessed.
“No shit, Sherlock,” he mocked me.
“You from OC?” I supposed.
“You hate everyone, too?” I asked.
“They all hate me.”
“Were you at the Whiskey for the last band?”
“Naw. They won’t let me in.”
“Com’n. I know the bouncers.”
They let him in. He told me his name was Mark and he worked at Goodwill. He displayed the Goodwill fashion sense, all in polyester. I wanted to ask if he bowled, but figured he’d take it as an insult.
“My favorite place to shop,” I announced, omitting that my outlet was in Iowa.
The next band was already playing. Tony told me they were from Pasadena, ‘Van Halen.’
“I want Doug to book ‘em,” Tony was a fan.
They were definitely rock n roll, a tight band with a screaming guitar and a singer with an aggressive attitude. The older fans were excited, standing in place and moving like they were into it. I even saw some Bics ready to flick at the end of the song. The kids were not too into it. They spun around, but were threatened with retaliation whenever they bumped into one of the stationary, older rockers. Hair waving seemed like the ultimate ‘into it’ gesture. They had a black bassist, who seemed out-of-place with the long-haired white boys. They definitely were R & B, not punk. At least their sound was loud and abrasive. I wondered how Tony was going to convince Doug to book a new band at the Troubadour.
We went upstairs and met the band’s manager, who wanted his charges to move into the big leagues. I started talking with George, the bassist. His afro was never going to whip back and forth no matter how much he head-banged.
“I know. It’s just I’ve known these guys since high school,” he argued for staying in the band.
“Since last year?” I joked.
“Naw we graduated in ’73. I started playing with Eddie and Alex in 4th grade.”
“You’re dinosaurs of rock.”
“Your friend can book bands. He looks younger than you.”
“He’s Doug Weston’s assistant at the Troubadour.”
“Oh, man. I’d die to play there.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“I saw you humping your other friend, and then that little girl. Are you a porn star?”
“Naw. It was like a Baptist service, rolling in the aisles and speaking in tongues. I get carried away.”
“You can carry me away, anytime you want.”
I just laughed. Later, Tony told me the band was about to drop their old buddy George for a fat white guy. Out with the funk, in with the blues.
The show was over by 8 pm, with everyone hanging out on the sidewalk in front of the Whiskey. I was talking up my performance at Oki Dog. The locals laughed, feigning disdain for hanging out on Santa Monica Blvd. The suburban kids were happy to have somewhere to go other than home to the ‘burbs. Nicky and Alice said they’d perform with me.
“I don’t have a mic,” I warned Alice.
“What are we gonna play?” Nicky asked.
“Helium Bar?” I suggested.
“Hell, John’ll shit kittens if he finds out.”
“Good. I wanna see that. We’re just promoting your band. What’s he got to complain about?”
“He just likes to complain.”
“We’ll make him happy, then.”
The Wreck pulled into Oki Dog, just a dozen or so blocks from the Whiskey. I checked with Oki Yoki who complained that it was dead on a Sunday night.
“We got about 100 kids coming down from the Strip,” I warned.
His eyes lit up. “Ever’one pay tonight,” he decided.
“Mostly suburban kids, spending daddy’s money.”
He made a sign, “Sunday Special – Oki dog/fries – two dollar.” It was double the regular price.
A stream of kids started coming in from the west. We set up on the side of the hot dog stand, where there was power for my amp. Nicky pulled a round plastic picnic table next to my amp for drums and Alice jumped up on the table. She was her killer Chola self in stiletto heels and heavy mascara. She sang the opening bars to one of her band’s songs, ‘We Don’t Need the English.’ I picked up the chords from her singing. She claimed we had to wear bags over our heads to play one of the Bags songs. Oki Yoki gave me plastic bags. I announced we were the Plastic People. I was afraid she’s asphyxiate herself trying to sing.
I opened the show with a bag on my head. I mumbled, “We’re the Bags Incognito.” Our song is ‘We don’t Need the English.’ After two muffled lines, she ripped off her bag. Nicky and I stayed incognito.
“Fuck this,” Nicky yelled, ripping his bag off. I followed suit. He recreated drum rolls to the opening of Helium Bar. I told Alice to repeat our own lyric: ‘Bob Dylan won’t bop tonight’ instead of the Weirdos’ line, so John Denny couldn’t complain. I figured punk was a throwback to 50’s bop shu bop.
The kids were already whipped up from the Whiskey show, doing the pogo in the parking lot. I escaped to the far side of the round picnic table, standing on a seat. Alice was bouncing on the table and Nicky sat across from me, banging on the hard plastic table top. We sounded horrid, exactly what the crowd wanted.
My new friend, Mark the shoplifter, was standing in the front.
“Wanna sing that song about kids you got at Tower? Com’n up.”
His eyes lit up. Without a hesitation he was up on the table top with Alice. He whispered for her to come in on the chorus, a real pro.
‘For once in my life I’ve got something to say
I wanna say it now for now is today
A love has been given so why not enjoy
So let’s all grab and let’s all enjoy!
If the kids are united Then we’ll never be divided If the kids are united Then we’ll never be divided
Just take a look around you What do you see?
Kids with feelings Like you and me
Understand him, he’ll understand you
For you are him, and he is you
If the kids are united Then we’ll never be divided If the kids are united Then we’ll never be divided
If the kids are united Then we’ll never be divided If the kids are united Then we’ll never be divided
I don’t want to be rejected I don’t want to be denied Then it’s not my misfortune That I’ve opened up your eyes
Freedom is given Speak how you feel
I have no freedom How do you feel?
They can lie to my face But not to my heart
If we all stand together It will just be the start
Songwriters ALEXANDER WILKE, D. PARSONS, J. PURSEY
It was definitely the song to get everyone singing along. I saw George, the recently fired Van Halen bassist, with an arm around a Mexican kid, singing and jumping up and down. Our impromptu band, beating and jumping on a plastic table, was a hit. Until the LA County Sheriffs showed up. A hundred kids jumping and shouting in the parking didn’t qualify for al fresco dining. We took a break.
“Let’s go to the studio,” Nicky was frustrated without high hat, toms and snare. Although he improvised a crash cymbal on the beat up Toyota parked next to us. I ran over to Oki Yoki, who was gleefully telling a long line of hungry teenagers that all he was serving was the Sunday Special. He gave me the thumbs up. I asked for a dozen Oki Dogs, which he wrapped up in one of his bags. I figured they’d be a hit at the Weirdo’s studio. We all piled into the Wreck, Alice and Nicky in front with me. An odd assortment of young punks, including OC Mark and OC Jim glaring at each other, in the back. I weaved through traffic, which thinned out once we cleared the Oki Dog corner.
The studio was in an old, rundown office building on the corner of Hollywood and Western, in a square one room unit. We made all the kids wait on the corner while we plied the Denneys with Oki Dogs. They had been waiting for Nicky to show up.
“Where ya bin, Nicky? We bin waitin’ fer ya.” Dix complained.
“Oki Dog,” he explained. I held up the bag of treats for the boys. They dug in ravenously.
“It don’t take that long to get take-out,” John was suspicious.
“There was a long line. All the suburban kids from the Whiskey wanted to hang out on Santa Monica.”
“It’s a punk life in West Hollywood,” Alice piped up. “We entertained them with a few songs.”
“Alice sang a Bag’s song, ‘We Don’t Need the English.” We had to wear bags over our heads,” Nicky defended her.
“When are we goin’ hear yer band, Alice?”
“Only place we can play in Hollywood is on the street. You guys refuse to come to East LA.”
“And get shot by gang-bangers.”
“Better to grow up where things actually happen than to be surfer wannabees,” Alice didn’t back down.
“So, you all wore bags?”
“Totally in disguise,” I affirmed.
“What song did you do?” John was not my fan.
“We got a beach kid from OC to do ‘If the Kids Are United.’ Everyone sung along until the cops came.
“We changed the lyrics of ‘Helium Bar’ to ‘Bob Dylan don’t bop tonight,” Nicky confessed.
“Jesus Christ. That was your idea, wasn’t it, country boy?”
“Why not. It’s a one line song. I don’t really know the chords. I just stole your energy.”
“Show me what you played, so I can sue your ass,” John was feisty.
I picked up my axe and Nicky got on the drums. Alice joined me on the mic, while Cliff Roman picked up his bass. The Denneys looked unhappy. As soon as we started playing, the kids who were waiting outside the door rushed in and started thrashing in front of us. Dix forgot where his loyalties lay and joined in. His version of the pogo was to bounce on his toes and occasionally kick backward like a mule, whenever one of the kids got too close.
It sounded a lot better with a full band.
John was apoplectic at the invasion of his studio. As soon as we finished, I announced we’d do the Sham 69 song we had learned from OC Mark
Dix again couldn’t resist the energy, grabbing his guitar and joining in. One of the kids saw the bag of Oki Dogs and attacked it, drawing over his friends. Dix threw down his guitar, causing a huge feedback loop. We all stopped. John retrieved the remains of the Oki Dog stash.
John tried to shove the kids out the door, including Tony and Jimmy who had followed us to East Hollywood.
“Com’n, John. Let ‘em stay. We never play better by ourselves. They make me drum faster than I ever do,” Nicky begged.
“When do you become in charge,” John was quick to assert his leadership. “Yer nothin’ but trailer trash from San Pedro.”
“Fuck you, rich bitch, from Santa Monica.”
I pulled Tony away from the soon-to-be outcasts. “This is Tony. He does the booking for the Troubadour. You need him to play in Hollywood.”
“We ain’t gonna play the Troubadour. Do I look like Elton John?”
John turned dark red with everyone laughing at him.
“I don’t care what you think, John. I like your band. I’ll set you up as a regular at the Starwood. It’s up to you to bring in the fans,” Tony asserted.
“Yeah,” Nicky added. “And, let’s play faster. That bomb song needs more energy.”
I put my guitar down and grabbed one of the remaining Oki Dogs. The rest of the band got the last ones, and we took a break.
OC Mark and OC Jim were secretly finishing their dogs in the corner.
“See those two,” I pointed at them for John. “They hate each other, but Oki Dog unites us.”
He finally laughed. “Okay, slick. I ain’t never gonna stop hating you.”
‘Good. That’s a solid basis for our friendship.”
He hiccuped and chili ran down his chin and across his tee-shirt.
After the break, they went through the songs they wanted to rehearse. The kids were into it, but because John kept stopping in the middle of songs to make adjustments, the kids finally lost interest. I hoped they’d let me play some of my songs. I waited for the next break. John went out for cigarettes finally. I picked up my SG.
“Wanna hear some Iowa attitude,” I asked. Nicky stayed on the drums, while Dix and Cliff stood there, still hooked up to their amps. I plugged in.
“I wrote this song after we got jumped by the football team at a New Year’s Eve party. It’s called ‘Fuck Off’
‘Don’t fuck with me
Might take ya down
Gots ta be free
Hate makes me drown
Anger sees me seethe
Can’t seem to breathe
Yer arms on me
I gots ta be free.
Get outta my face
This ain’t the place
To make a stand
To be a man
Your nose I’ll crunch
My knockout punch
Will put ya down
La La Land bound.
With Nicky’s drumming, I had to speed it up so much that I decided to do it twice.
You get beat up by them football players?” Dix snarked.
“Naw. I knocked out two and put three down to stay,” which was the truth.
“Oh. So yer a redneck, too” Dix put down his guitar and charged me.
I chest-bumped him and when he jumped back, I knocked the legs from under him. Down he went. I held him down by the neck.
“See. It’s easy if you don’t back down.
I picked up my guitar and started playing the Tom Petty/Heartbreakers song.
Cliff and Nicky joined in, complaining it was too slow while laughing at Dix under my heel.
John came back and saw Dix being held down. He attacked me. I let Dix loose and held him off while still playing the rock song. The other players kept going while the OC boys run up and held John back. I had my own bouncers.
“This is fucked,” John complained, and stormed off, with Dix following him.
“Sorry,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to bust up yer rehearsal.”
“It usually ends one way or another,” Cliff remarked. “Ya wanna be our new singer and guitar player?”
“NO! man. I got a job remember?”
“Yer really a movie producer?”
“Assistant Producer. I just do the music soundtrack.”
“You seem to like our music. Why’d we not get hired?”
“I love you guys. I wanted to let you audition but we’re looking for a cover band to play 50’s pop.”
“John said you screwed us over.”
“I just wanted to promote you. Wait until a more modern movie needs your kind of energy.”
“We just wanna get signed.”
“Don’t be disappointed when you get what you hope for.”
“Why? We just wanna get paid as musicians.”
“We told Springsteen to stop tryin’ to be Dylan and changed his song from ‘Runaway American Dream’ to “Born to Run.’ He cut his beard and hit the bigtime.”
“Yeah, before he was the Boss.”
“Yer a trip.”
We helped them close up the studio, making sure no one stole Dix’s guitar. We were in East Hollywood. I drove everyone back to the Whiskey, with Alice and Nicky riding in the front. The kids liked the back seat but Santa Monica was dead late on a Sunday night. Driving past Oki Dog, the parking lot looked like Hiroshima. I beeped and Oki Yoki waved while sweeping up. We had made his night.
Alice and Nicky had that ‘we need to be alone’ look, so I left them at their door.
“You goin’ to work in the morning?”
“Eight o’clock. Up with the cows. I’m still a country boy.”
“Hardest working faggot in rock n roll,” Alice observed. She never gives a guy any slack.
The only good thing about coming in on time in LA is that no one else is there. I made coffee, depositing John’s donuts on his desk. I decided it was a new regime after the long holiday and left his door open. If Miller resumed his obnoxious behavior, I still had my one-two knock-out punch. I drew a sketch of a trophy and titled it “All Hollywood Ivy League Lightweight Boxing Champ.” I posted it next to John’s door, just to the left of my desk. All interlopers beware.
As I anticipated, the next person to show up was Miller. He saw my poster and looked ashamed.
“John won’t be in for a while,” I advised.
“It’s okay. I came to apologize. I’ve been a real jerk.”
Maybe he was being sincere, but still, my role was to undercut him.
“It’s okay, Chris. You didn’t know I have quite a few fights under my belt. Can I count on you to check with me before going in to see John?”
He looked confused. No one had told him that in the Hollywood pecking order, writers were somewhere below assistants.
“No hard feelings?” He stuck his hand.
“Of course,” I managed a fairly manly shake. “Just don’t expect me to get you stoned again.”
“We never smoked pot at Dartmouth.”
“That explains why the script’s not funny for stoners.”
“Huh?” It was a new revelation to him that he wasn’t funny. “I never thought about how stoners think.”
All sorts of lights were going off in his head. He ran off to get it on paper.
When Landis finally arrived about eleven, I told him that Miller had apologized.
“Did you graciously accept?”
“Of course. I just told him his writing wasn’t funny and suggested he study Mack Sennett to learn how to write comedy.”
“Sennett’s Canadian. I’m not sure that’s an improvement.”
“Chris ran off all inspired.”
“I was warned not to let you take control of my movie.”
“Now, that’s funny.”
“Thanks for the donut. Where’s my coffee?”
“Spoken like a true boss. It’s ready. What do you want for lunch?”
“We’re going out. I’m not ready for a full day’s work.”
“How about you put in an hour before lunch and we take the afternoon off. I have a hankering for Tommy’s and some downtown roof-top sight-seeing.”
“Now, that’s funny, too.”
We got down to work. While John answered calls and organized future meetings, I came up with a list of 50’s pop songs, all dance-able. When he had been off the phone awhile, I knocked and sat in his office.
“You know I have to go back to Harvard for finals next week. I’m planning not to return until after the holidays.”
“You just started and now you want a three-week vacation?”
“It’s the holidays, John.”
“We’ll talk about it. You have been working day and night since you started.”
“And I got Miller put in his place. That should save you several hours a day, not having to deal with him.”
“Okay. We’ll talk later. I just don’t want you leaving and not coming back. Let’s go eat. Debbie won’t let me eat anything but health food.”
“It must not be good for you. It’s making you old.”
“You mean more of an adult.”
“Oh, the horror. I can’t work with anyone older than 25.”
Naturally we took the Wreck to Beverly and Rampart, about a mile north of MacArthur Park. Landis was inspired, as we rode down the Hollywood Freeway with the top down, to sing that depressing song by Richard Harris. He was trying too hard to be cool
‘MacArthur’s Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
‘Cause it took so long to bake it
And I’ll never have that recipe again
Oh, no Oh, no No, no Oh, no’
Songwriter: Jimmy Webb
“That has to be the worst song ever.” I complained.
“I didn’t do it justice. You havta hear the music.”
“I’ve heard the music. It’s 50’s TV soundtrack.”
“Isn’t that what we want for the movie?”
“Only if you want Belushi to kill himself.”
I appreciated that he wanted to sing with me. I turned to him and started singing Lulu”s ‘To Sir, with Love.”
‘And as I leave I know that I am leaving my best friend
A friend who taught me right from wrong and weak from strong
That’s a lot to learn, but what can I give you in return?
If you wanted the moon I would try to make a start
But I would rather you let me give my heart ‘To Sir, With Love’
Songwriters: DON BLACK, MARK LONDON © EMI Music Publishing, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
He laughed and started up another 60’s movie hit, a trifecta of Swinging London ballads, ‘Georgie Girl,’ except he changed the lyrics to ‘Timmy boy.
‘Hey there! Timmy boy
Swinging down the street so fancy free,
nobody you meet could ever see
the loneliness there inside you.
Hey there! Timmy boy
why do all the boys just pass you by?
Could it be you just don’t try,
or is it the clothes you wear?
Songwriters: JIM DALE, TOM SPRINGFIELD
© Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.
It was great. We laughed and laughed, until we pulled into the strip mall parking lot behind Tommy’s Hamburgers. As always, there was a line for the chilli and cheese smothered burgers. It didn’t matter, we had taken the afternoon off.
“What was the Lampoon like, when you were there?” I asked.
“What makes you think I went to college, let alone Harvard?”
“Everyone else, other than Miller, went there,” I guessed.
“I started working at Fox in high school. I wasn’t giving up that opportunity for a vaguely glorified future as a college grad.”
“Jack says college prepares you for life. I’ve been living real life for the last two years, since we started the band.”
“This is the third movie you’ve worked on. Scorsese is probably the best director in New York. I don’t know what you did for him, but I know he’s not gay.”
“And now you’re working with the best director in Hollywood.”
“I wouldn’t do it otherwise.”
“No one gets that many breaks and blows them off.”
“Are you worried I’m staying at Harvard?”
“I’m not worried. The pleasure I get from eating greasy hamburgers is not anything like I got watching you destroy Miller in the ring last week. You are the champ. But if you start acting conceited, you’re fired.”
“And, look at your car.”
“I love the Wreck.”
“Don’t you want a Beemer?”
“I’s ridin’ my ten-speed at home until Jack showed up in his gay Cabriolet.”
“Is it pink?”
“And this country accent is for real?”
“I grew up in the military. They call me the Alaska Cracker.”
We just kept carrying on, laughing at each other. I was so happy my boss wasn’t another Harvard twit. Our grease fix satisfied, I knew how to top a perfect meal. We drove to Wilshire Blvd and took the elevator to the roof of our favorite office building. I knew Jimmy had been there recently, as two lawn chairs were spread out on the eastern side of the roof, a perfect view of Downtown LA. The thirteen story limit on all California buildings had recently been repealed. The Met Life/Interstate Bank building near the Santa Monica Freeway (I-10) was the main landmark, with the circular Hyatt Regency going up as a precursor to the new LA. Sitting comfortably with our feet up against the outside railing, I took out the compulsory joint and we got toasted together.
“I know you’re always three steps ahead of everything,” John repeated what other adults had concluded, “but the kicker is, you plan it so life is always a fun trip.”
“Yeah. I always keep on a’truckin.’”
“You’re just too damned adorable, Tim. What’s your secret?”
“Last night I met these two kids from Orange County, who hate everything about their suburban lives. They even hated each other. We went and jammed with that punk band we rejected for the movie. Everyone hated each other, but we had the best time. Both kids got up and sang with the band. Dix, the guitarist, kept kicking everyone. Hate is such fun.”
Being high is totally absurd. We sat there and enjoyed our time without Miller, the Studio, or anyone else, bothering us. Until a security guard came up to bust us. Except Landis convinced him he worked in the building, so he left us alone. He was another Mick, just like at the Ritz in Boston. I was going to light up another joint to share with the guard, until Landis warned me not to push our luck.
“Let’s go to the Beach,” Landis decided. It was about 2 pm. We had to beat the rush hour traffic. Taking the 10 Freeway and south on the 405, we exited on Washington and went west to Venice. Wandering the boardwalk, which was more of a bike path, I pulled out another joint. We leaned against the wall around the Muscle Beach workout area and smoked out. This bronzed Michelin Man with a bubbled up body and a South African accent came over and smoked with us.
“Yah, dis is gud shit,” he pronounced. “Much betta than local weed.”
“Only the best for you, Arnold.”
We wandered and mixed with the crowd. This chick on skates in a string bikini liked us, or, at least our weed. When she asked us to come back to her ‘pad,’ we both giggled. I told her we were gay. John got all red.
“Now you can tell Debbie what we did today and not havta lie.”
He thought that was totally funny. But, it reminded him that our afternoon was coming to a close. We sat in the swings and watched the sunset. It came early in December.
“What do you think about the opera themes for each character in the movie?” I asked.
“The only thing I liked about that whole discussion was using bed sheets for the toga party.”
“You are a cheap son of a bitch,” I laughed. “My composer boyfriend will be disappointed.”
“I knew something was up with you two. He’s twice your age.”
“He’s interesting. Trouble is he’s kinda serious about me. Jack showing up was not part of the plan.”
“Okay. I see you have it under control, like everything else. What else don’t I know about you.”
“Oh, I’m so complicated at 18.”
“Tell me,” his stoned brain demanded.
“Okay,” I confessed just part of it. “I have to write a business school case study about the movie for Harvard.”
“You going to write about everyone getting stoned with you?”
“Only if it affects the outcome.”
“You think our movie has a chance? It’s so different from regular Hollywood films.”
“You mean all those unfunny comedies?”
“Can Miller write a comedy?”
“I told him he needs to write for the stoner audience. He ran off with a whole new perspective.”
“Maybe we better get back to the office.”
“Too late. Just give him a few days to rally the writers. I think he’s the only straight writer on staff.”
“I think I’m coming down.”
“I got more joints.”
“No. Take me home to the Valley. I wanna crash.”
I deposited him in Woodland Hills. Debbie insisted I spend the night, so I could drive Landis to work in the morning.
“He’ll have to get up early so we get in by 8 am.”
“That’ll be his punishment for getting high.”
“I have more joints,” I offered her.
“Let’s go smoke out those hillbillies at the motel. I have many ideas about how they should dress.”
It tweaked my interest, imaging her undressing Tom and his band. Straight boys gone bad.
It turned out less than exciting, but Debbie showed them how to upgrade their look. The fashion show over, I drove Debbie to the studio so she could drive John’s car home. I told her we should go to Oki Dog to eat. We compromised by hitting the Formosa, next to Paramount Studios on Sunset and La Brea. I ate three entrees of Chinese food with unlimited white rice. Debbie sat there feeling like a mom as I ate. She only had spring rolls, sharing with me between main dishes. The place was another Hollywood landmark, with autographed head-shots of long forgotten movie stars. I drove home and fell asleep on the floor with a bulging belly. I woke up about 10 pm. Naturally I was hungry again. Off to Oki Dog. It was dead. Oki Yoki made me pay that night – $1.25. He was exhausted from the run on his product the previous night.
“Me sick of boys never pay,” he complained.
“Success breeds contempt,” I quipped. He understood and laughed.
“Maybe you play again next week.” I was fired from being the house band. ‘Fashion – one day you’re in, the next, you’re out’ – Heidi Klum (age 3)
I was at work by 8 am. Miller came by shortly.
“He’s not in yet, Chris,” I was being nice.
“I came to see you,” he handed me several sheets of script revision. “Tell me if stoners find these funny.”
“I’m not stoned right now. You’ll have to wait.”
“You’re not leftover stoned?”
“You mean hung over?”
“When you got me stoned,” he still blamed me for his actions, “I wanted it to be over the next day but I was totally messed up. That’s why I was so mean to you.”
“That’s what I hated.”
“I’ll get my stoner friends to read the revisions and let you know tomorrow.”
“Cool,” he turned and walked away.
I called Jay in Miami to discuss the song-list. He suggested we get cast members to record the 50’s hits, as it would be cheaper than paying the original artists.
“Belushi will love that. He auditioned ‘Louie Louie’ for us already. He claims to be a bluesman.”
“Send me his contract. We don’t want to pay him extra to sing.”
“How about Sam Cooke. He’s dead. Will that save us money?”
“Well, he can’t re-record his songs at least. Otis Day & the Knights have refused to do ‘Twistin’ the Night Away.’ We can use the ASCAP version by Sam Cooke. It’ll be cheaper than paying the full band.”
Jay was following the Hollywood tradition of screwing over the bands. After we had reviewed other songs that Jay would research, he told me that Mike Sr. wanted to speak with me.”
“Hi, Mike,” I piped up as he came on the line.
“Tim. Are you coming home at Christmas?”
“I have finals at Harvard next week and a Christmas concert at St Paul’s in Cambridge. I have to go to Iowa for Christmas after that. Maybe I can make the Gables for New Year’s.”
“I was thinking of putting up the Globe Theater replica for a New Year’s Eve party. The two bands are in disarray after you veered from rock to country this year. They lack leadership with you gone and Michael at the University.”
“Is this is request I can’t refuse, Godfather?”
“Pretty much if you want the band to keep going.”
“Everyone’s growing up.”
“Jay says you’ve taken over the movie production company.”
“Just the music. I actually knocked out the Dartmouth writer I told you about. He’s very submissive now.”
“You had to fight someone?”
“We had a boxing match on the ‘Rocky’ set. It was a second round TKO.”
“He isn’t threatening to sue you or the studio?”
“Naw. He was the one who attacked me. I gave him a choice of boxing or being arrested. He underestimates me.”
“People should learn not to do that.”
“Michael said you’ve found a new kind of rock n roll – anarchy.”
“Like what you use to set off firecrackers?”
“Kinda. It sets the fans on fire.”
“I can hardly wait. I’ll buy extra fire extinguishers.”
My Christmas holiday dance card was filling up. I was reluctant to abandon my apartment in Hollywood for so long. It made me want to see Jake. I had to let him down about the movie score. Maybe we could tweak it so it fit our B movie genre.
“Hey, Jake. Miss me?” I got him on the phone.
“I didn’t stop vibrating until the next day when I went to Church.”
“That’ll do it every time.”
“We found a gay Catholic church in West Hollywood.”
“Beware of ex-communication.”
“Sounds like an invitation for dinner.”
“Sounds like you’re getting out and about.”
“My boss’s wife took me there after I brought him home stoned. She had to retrieve his car at work.”
“You make everything an adventure.”
“Well, let’s go out and find some place new. I’ll pick you up about six if you don’t mind riding in the Wreck.”
“Park and come up, before we go out.”
“It’s not an adventure if there’s no excitement.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat if I feel like I did on Saturday night.”
“Let’s see how long you stay hard thinking about tonight?”
“You are a devil.”
Landis finally showed up. I had left about fifteen messages from the Studio, plus several from the legal department, who I had told to call Jay in Miami. He seemed pretty hung over, or maybe still coming down from yesterday’s pot. I knew not to agitate him, lest he have a Miller-style meltdown. I had his coffee ready for him.
“No donut today. You’re having sugar withdrawals. I did put some in your coffee.”
He smiled. I was a bright spot in his day. He gave me half the messages and told me to deal with them.
I called everyone back and told them to attend the end of the day staff meeting. We’d work it all out then.
Finally, I had a chance to read some of Miller’s stoner jokes. They were all lame, mostly because no one smoked pot in the 50’s. I wrote him a note saying that talking about pot wasn’t funny. I suggested he have the joker pretend to talk as if he wasn’t stoned. I told Landis I had to see the writers and left him alone.
Miller wasn’t there, but I had really wanted to meet the other writers and get them work on their own ideas.
“The stoner jokes don’t work because no one in this era smoked.”
“Then, why’d you tell to write them.”
“I was just distracting Miller,” I admitted. “I want your ideas, not his.”
“Those are stunts, which are fine. But we need actual humor, like the frat boys making mischief while the float runs amok.”
Miller walked in, barely refraining from scowling at me.
“Remember to run these ideas among yourselves and add laughs wherever you find them.” I walked out as Miller started interrogating his boys. Maybe I should stop harassing him. But tit for tat is fair payback. I brought Landis his donut with a second cup of coffee. Time to make a lunch run.
“Who are you seeing after lunch?” I asked.
“I need to get rid of the legal guy before I get lunch.”
“What do you want? I’ll bring two portions and you can hash it out over a meal.”
“You chose. Not too sloppy, like Tommy’s. The guy’s a neat freak.”
I called the Formosa and ordered take-out. Greasy Chinese would seem like comfort food to the sanctimonious prick.
I had to drive down the hill to Hollywood. I left early and put the top down. I stopped by Rent-a-Wreck to renew for another week. They offered me an upgrade but I praised the Wreck too much. They raised the rate $5 on me. I could have taken the upgrade at the old rate but I wasn’t about the give up the Wreck. I couldn’t help but feel I got beaten on that negotiation. I had to remind myself that I was still the All-Hollywood lightweight champ and wasn’t going to put up with bullying salesmen.
The manager at the Formosa recognized me as a loyal customer. She asked if I had a head shot I’d sign for her. She asked what movie I was doing. When I said it was ‘Animal House,’ she looked disappointed and gave up on my photo.
“You must like Chinese food,” she noticed I was picking up three entrees.
“Oh, it’s for the Director and his boss,” I explained.
“Here,” she said, “chose the right fortune cookie for their meeting.”
She had a box with the fortunes described. I chose “You will make a lot of money,” “ Fortune smiles on you today,” and “Make up your mind.”
When I got back, Landis had the door shut. I knocked and brought in the take-out order. They stopped talking while I laid out the food. I left the fortune cookies prominently displayed. I went back to my desk, as they continued their argument.
The legal finally left. I went in to collect the leftovers for my own lunch. Only one cookie had been taken.
“What did your fortune cookie say?”
“I haven’t taken it yet.”
Good. “Good meeting?” I asked.
“Maybe. I have to wait for his decision.”
“I bet he gives in?”
“You were listening?”
“No way. I just know you convinced him.”
“You know what we were arguing about?”
“No idea. I just believe in you.”
About ten minutes later the legal guy called. Once they spoke, Landis came out.
“You were right. I owe you dinner. Debbie wants to fill you up with health food.”
“I knew you’d win. But I’ve got a date tonight. Health food some other night.”
“You got a rain check. Legal agreed we can go with your guy in Miami.”
“Alright. Let’s see what your fortune cookie says.”
He laughed, ‘Fortune smiles on you today.’
I smiled into my carton of Kung Pao Chicken. There was still sweet & sour pork and mu shu dumplings to finish. I knew I’d need the energy that night. I ended up in a bathroom stall, calming my dick down with a quick jerk. I hadn’t jerked off by myself since that night with Pete in Miami when I was 14. It felt so decadent being the chased rather than the predator. If I acted chaste, it would make me a tease. I was in for it that night.
Landis made a long call to the New York minders. As long as he was on with them, I was safe to call Kurt in Cambridge;
“I’ll be back for finals next week. I’m wrapping up the musical deal here and Miller has been demoted. He physically assaulted me and I knocked him out. He’s taking my ideas on how to make his script funnier. Landis loves me. His wife asked me to come to dinner tonight.”
“So, you’re back for good? Everyone’s holding their breath here. Jack has promised you’ll perform a Christmas miracle at St. Paul’s.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I moaned.
“I’ll deal with Jack. I’m not sure I’m going to give up my spot on the movie. I’ve rented an apartment here.”
“No, Tim. That’s not the deal. You have to come back. You were supposed to find out how important a Harvard education is for you and Jack. I’m not splitting you two up.”
“Of course not. We’ll talk next week. What’s happening at the Lampoon Castle?”
“Parties and Christmas break once exams are over. The highlight of the year was the 100th anniversary issue party you missed. The rumor had it you were strung out in a Hollywood opium den. Jack had to go out and rescue you.”
“I couldn’t have been too strung out if I knocked Miller out.”
“Jack related that story. He thinks you’re coming back for good.”
“Who knows where I’ll land after Christmas. Look for me next week. We need to do a complete debriefing on how it has worked out here.”
“Who were you talking to?” Landis stuck his head out.
“Really. You don’t want to be a dropout like me?”
“I thought you never went in the first place?”
“If I don’t go back, it’ll screw up the whole work/study program. Harvard needs my tuition.”
“I’ll bet. What about the case study?”
“I’ll do that once I’m there. My boyfriend believes I’m going to perform a miracle at St Paul’s Christmas pageant.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“What did the Church say?”
“We were banned from working with the kids. They barely agreed to let the boys play in the Christmas pageant.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Can the prop department make me up a bunch of fake golden flakes?”
My day ended soon enough. I was all aflutter about seeing Jake. I went home first to shower and prepare myself to be ravished. I decided that my turn-on with Jake was that I made him feel like a young stud. I’d have to confess my growing ageist prejudice, but only to Father Frank. Maybe the young priest at St Viktor’s would have experience in dealing with the sins of the boys from West Hollywood (Boystown). It reminded me that his Dignity group met the next night. I needed to get through the current night before renewing my dignity.
“I’ve found the perfect place for our dinner date,” he announced. “We can go now. You look like a nervous virgin on a high school date. Let’s save the sex for later.”
I must admit I felt relieved.
He jumped into my car and we took Western to Hollywood Blvd, turning right and going several blocks. It was a hole in the wall, called ‘Mongolian Barbecue.’
“Why are you laughing?” Jake asked.
“Just that our band played barbecue joints in the South. We were drenched in beer and got to pig out on ribs after each show.”
“We drove an old De Soto convertible from Miami to New York City. Maybe that’s why I love the Wreck so much.”
“Well, park in front, so we can keep an eye on it.” It was not a great neighborhood.
The restaurant served the meals buffet style. The Mongolian lady running the place (who looked Korean) told us we could eat as much as we wanted, but if we left food on our plates, we’d be charged for uneaten food – very environmentally sustainable for 1976. The chef stood behind a griddle and mixed the different slices of beef, pork, lamb and possibly dog with mild to hot sauces plus several veggies: onions, cabbage, peppers, sprouts and things I had no idea what they were. I stood there salivating as it cooked in front of me. Again, they served unlimited rice. I wondered if I was becoming a rice queen. One look at Jake disabused me of that misconception. I went back for three helpings and made sure to clean my plate. Jake ate a normal amount, leaving him to stare at me as I shoveled in second and third helpings. His intense staring actually calmed me down, knowing he was so enthralled with me. What had been a semi-hard-on all afternoon was fully erect, knowing what was planned for dessert. The Asian lady said we got ginseng ice cream with our meal.
“Good for you know what,” she winked at us.
I paid for us – $12 plus tip – and we jumped into the Wreck. I wanted Jake to snuggle next to me, but he teased me by sliding against the passenger door. We flew up Western to his place. He showed me where to park in the lot. The Wreck was no longer ostracized to down the street. I refused to wait for the elevator and we ran up the stairs to his fifth floor penthouse. He kept brushing his fingers against my ass as we climbed the stairs. Each time he touched me, I jumped and twitched. The tip of my dick was sticking out the top of my jeans. Breathless, I paused on the fourth floor landing and pulled Jake into a tight embrace. I couldn’t stop myself from cumming. It went all over him.
“That is so cute,” he excused my faux paux.
I kept him in the embrace feeling his hard-on through our trousers. I was so glad he had better control.
“Let’s see if we can make it into my place before I have to rape you in the stairwell,” as he pulled out of my clutching embrace. He was out of breath, maybe from running up the stairs, while I was still panting from the orgasm. He dragged me up the final flight of stairs, while I pulled on his shirt and pants, trying to undress him.
Inside his door, he turned and opened his arms to allow me to pull off the rest of his clothes. They were a sticky mess, as were my shirt and jeans. We needed to be naked, immediately.
I was kissing him madly with my arms around his neck. He fell backwards onto his queen-sized bed. I felt completely at home, relaxing my arms and legs as we uncoupled. I slid up and down on his stomach, my dick completely hard again, as I rubbed and bounced against his dick.
“Stop. Stop,” he ordered. But it was too late as he geysered all over me.
“Whoa, whoa,” he tried to slow me down. It just made me crazier. My dreams of being totally fucked by Jake were shattered as I started an involuntary ride into and out of him. My body jerked and my dick thrust in quick humps that weren’t going to last long. My mind was unable to gain control. Jake was just recovering from the painful surprise of penetration. He sensed I was about to pre-maturely ejaculate again.
“Stop,’ he ordered, holding me deep inside him. Luckily I wasn’t quite ready to explode. I took several deep breaths and slowly calmed down. I was twitching, as he held my dick firmly inside him. My head was spinning, telling me I needed him inside of me. My dick was not listening, as I slowly began thrusting again, getting a longer and calmer motion going. His body responded to my rhythm and we rocked up and down on the bed. Jake’s hands had clutched the sheets and was pulling them up off the bed as he grimaced and relaxed. He was stuck between the pain of my forced penetration and the relaxed giving in to the increased pleasure that stroking his butt and prostrate evoked. I felt like a stud riding a mare. My mind imagined I was a jockey urging my charge down the homestretch of the Kentucky Derby. I was whipping Jake’s butt cheeks with an open palm as we both reached the finish line. I went off and collapsed on top of him.
He looked at me and shook his head. What happened to simultaneous orgasm? I rolled off of him and presented my butt, wiggling to make sure he knew what I wanted and needed. Always the gentleman, he rubbed his dick into the smeared cum on our bellies and teased my butt by rubbing his slick dick against my anal opening. I moaned and tried thrusting my butt onto his pole. He laughed and continued to tease me. He noticed my dick was still totally engorged. He gave in to my need to be fucked. Lifting my hips and kneeling behind me, he found his favorite fucking stance. The tip of his dick entered me as my anal rings hung onto it for dear life. I squeezed and released as he lowered himself into me. When I felt his pubic hairs rubbing my butt, I fell forward, bringing him with me as his dick sunk fully into my ass.
“Ah,” I moaned. Finally. I needed it so much. My mind spun and my butt took over this time. I rocked myself forward and back in rhythm to his strokes. We went slowly, like a locomotive engine gaining steam. My head moved to the top of the bed, banging into the headboard, until Jake placed a pillow to protect me from fucking my brains out. He was in charge. I luxuriated in the fucking that kept going faster and faster.
“I think I can. I think I can,” my mind sung an old nursery rhyme. My arms reached back, grasping his butt cheeks as he thrust fully into me. I pulled him back when he tried to withdraw. As his breathing became ragged and deep moans escaped his lips, I was squealing like a stuck pig. I tried not to sound like a little girl, but the pitch kept going up. I tried panting to hide my embarrassment. Jake was gasping for air. He rolled us over, swinging my legs so they were planted on the bed as I sat on his dick. He arched upward, pulling me down on the straining dick. I was riding him like a bull at the rodeo. With one arm on his shoulder and the other waving like a cowboy, I did my best Scott Watt imitation, whooping and hollering. Now Jake was into the involuntary quick thrusts. His eyes were lost into the coming climax. I hooked my feet behind his arm pits and leaned over to kiss him. His tongue thrust into me at the same time I was receiving his dick’s thrust at the other end. Huffing and puffing, he was close to orgasm. He rolled me onto my back, violently impaling me, as I screamed in ecstasy.
My legs were locked around his waist and my hands held his shaking head, as if he was saying he didn’t want it to end. I kept kissing him on the lips, finally collapsing back into the bed. He fell beside me, my butt making an embarrassing popping noise as his dick slipped out. We started laughing and laughing, hugging each other. My left leg was over both his legs and my left arm reached across his chest. The vibrating I had experienced after our previous time fucking started again. I shuddered, fearing I was becoming epileptic. Jake held me and began vibrating himself. It was like we were bouncing off each other. Finally I shuddered once and when the vibrations started up again, we were in synch. I started purring like a cat, in time with our vibration. Max would be upset. I laughed.
We could barely talk between the vibrations and shuddering. “What’s so funny?” Jake asked.
“I’m purring like a cat. My dog, Max, will be so upset. He hates cats.”
“Does he chase them?”
“Well, Max will have fun.”
“You’re really fucked now.”
“Totally and completely,” I signed to Jace.
“What are you doing?” Jake noticed I wasn’t paying attention to him.
“That sounds like bestiality.”
“And you are my stallion, Jake.”
“Okay, but let’s not talk about dogs.”
“We may need wait a bit,” he admitted. His dick was still erect. I moved to stroke it, but he jumped away.
“We’re having sex withdrawals,” I noted.
“I thought I was too old for new experiences.”
“Not when you’re with a teenager.”
“Jesus, Tim. Is this some pedophile guilt trip?”
“I’m not a kid. I’m 18 and have been having sex since I was 14.”
“14? That is a kid.”
“I’m over my issues about that. It was with my 19-year-old cousin. He set me up with several girls to cure me from being gay. When that didn’t stop me from lusting for him, he flew to Miami and we fucked non-stop for a whole weekend. That did it.”
“Is he around? Do I have competition?”
“He’s my favorite cousin. I’ll always love him. He’s 22 now and a junkie. That’s a dick-killer.”
We tried cuddling in bed, but between the hard dicks, the vibrating, and the spontaneous shuddering, it was impossible to get comfortable.
I could barely find my clothes. Jake tried to help dress me. I was really afraid of becoming epileptic and held him off. We laughed. I just hoped I’d still need him when the vibrating stopped.
I kissed him goodbye, but it only made the vibrating worse.
“Call me tomorrow?” he asked. “I’m worried about you now.”
I barely made it to the Wreck. I sat there trying compose myself for the drive home. I wanted to run back upstairs to Jake. The thought of him made me vibrate and shudder more. Finally I carefully drove home. I wasn’t drunk or high, just fucked out. I ran the shower for twenty minutes. I lay down after drying off. The whole room was shaking. Roxy Music ran through my addled brain”
Oh oh catch that buzz
Love is the drug I’m thinking of
Oh oh can’t you see
Love is the drug, got a hook in me
Oh oh catch that buzz
Love is the drug I’m thinking of
Oh oh can’t you see
Love is the drug for me’
Songwriters: ANDREW MC KAY, BRYAN FERRY
© Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC