Hollywood or bust.

There was a slight "detour". As we didn't know where we were actually going, we landed in downtown Los Angeles in a small sterile apartment complex. I had no job skills, so Laura worked in an office. She had her own Volkswagen car by then.  Mine, which had received a ticket for a muffler hanging too low, sat silent having reached the end of it's days. We were both inquisitive, so I dragged her to many underground clubs since I was underage. I remember being drunk and stoned on downers, with company in the living room, me in the bathtub naked, passed out. That happened a few times, but I never OD'd.

I was a very sloppy drunk, and taking seconal and nembutal simultaneously is a prescription for trouble. At a club for underage gays, friends directed me to kids who sold 3 to 5 downers for a buck, wrapped in tin foil. We'd take a few with coffee to dissolve the capsules faster, then get sloppy on the dance floor, drugged and dazed. I never had sex with anyone there,

because it was about getting loaded. During breaks, I'd go out front and talk to the transvestites and transsexuals, along with any "in between". A few were taking hormones and developing breasts in preparation for surgery. The procedure was explained to me, but I'll spare you the details or you'll never eat bananas again. I loved the "weirdness" of these strange bedfellows and their private club of freaks.

I always drove high, and a couple times I whacked someone's car and just kept on going, having "momentarily" passed out at the wheel.  Whoops!  It was considered no more unusual than a hiccup or fart, and we gaily traveled onward relatively unruffled. I usually thought, "How nice - that car was placed at the perfect spot to wake me up. I could have driven off a cliff!"

By that time, I'd figured out we were living in the "wrong place".  West Hollywood was where it was at.  The impetus to move occurred when I was stopped by the police while driving the Volkswagen for having a tail light out.  The officer told me to get out of the car.  He said, "You're under arrest", as they spun me around and shackled my wrists.  

Astonished, I desperately tried to find out why.  Told nothing, I was shoved into the back and hauled off to one of the vilest holding tanks in the country: downtown Los Angeles County Jail.  We discovered the ticket on my Chevy had progressed into a warrant. 

 As the car had been towed away months previously, I figured it was moot.  They didn't seem to agree with me.  While there, I was placed in a "holding cell" with another guy who looked in his 30's.  This was a small closed metal room with a solid metal door.  There were screw holes in the door opening into the booking area.  He and I avoided one an-other as long as we could, then put down our facades and began talking.  It seems he was hauled in by a deputy that was off duty.  Apparently, the two of them had gotten into a pissing match on the road, and this guy yelled some profanities to the cop, who had the last laugh by placing him under arrest.

No sooner had we exchanged frustrations, than we heard a commotion from the other room.  Someone screamed, "Stop! Stop! Don't hit me, please stop!"  Eyeballs glued to the small screw holes, we witnessed several white cops mercilessly beating an unarmed black man in his underwear with their batons.  They repeatedly kicked him, while curled up in a ball under a desk for protection.  The black cop at the desk turned his head to the left and looked the "other way".  When the cops had their fill, they left the man lying there in a pool of blood and walked out laughing.  The man was moaning, so he was alive, but it took another 20 minutes for someone to come and drag him away in a trail of blood.

Stunned by what we'd witnessed, the guy admitted that he was one of the Beach Boys, Brian Wilson, and that they'd had cops keeping people off the stage during performances, but he never suspected they were capable of such cruelty.  We were both concerned that we'd get similar treatment, if it were known what we saw, so we kept our voices down. He swore that when he got out, he'd do something to bring this occurrence to light. I don't know what happened to him after that, as we parted ways within a couple of hours. In my bones, it seemed we had crossed the line into a police state without me realizing it, and a large part of me wanted out.  That feeling never left.

I got out the next day, and life went on.  

We immediately moved to a small funky apartment below Sunset Strip owned by a lecherous German with an enormous handlebar moustache by the name of Mr. Hansen.  It was located on Cynthia Street, a tiny hard-to-find spot, which suited me just fine.  We were now "where it was happening".  Clubs like the Whiskey A GoGo, The Trocadero and Ciro's paid homage to a free-spirited lifestyle of the rich, famous and the rest of us, the "wannabes".  

Sunset Boulevard is famous, but the best known portion of the boulevard is the mile and a half stretch of Sunset between Hollywood and Beverly Hills that has been dubbed "The Sunset Strip."

I was very good-looking, or so I was told, and the vain thought occurred to me that I could be in show business.  Taffy Davenport would say, "Is the circus in town?"  Like many young males living in a dream world, I had my "portfolio" done, which is basically a very expensive set of pictures for naive and vain young peacocks with no talent.  Money was tight by then, so naturally the thought occurred to me to "hustle".  Intellectually, it sounded great.  To be paid for something I loved doing should be a "walk in the park" - literally. 

I knew where the "boys" hung out to escort, and one day I got up the courage to go.  Within a few minutes a potential "client" pulled over and rolled down his window.  He was old and unattractive.  It took one nanosecond to realize that it "just wasn't me".  I couldn't force myself to have sex with someone for money.  I politely excused myself, walked away, and never looked back.

To earn money, I took a job with a small mail-order business, and was hired to "fill orders" and transcribe the owner's book.  It turned out to be a pornography business.  When caught up on the day's orders, I put headphones on, stepped on a peddle, and typed the words from a dictaphone.  Well, it was a job.  We had a small circle of strange bedfellows as "friends".  

All were underground cult drug addicts and one was the funniest, strangest fellow with long stringy blonde hair and face like a turtle by the name of Rick.  Alan was the "star" of the crowd.  With aspirations to stardom, he had the looks to match, and slept with anyone and everyone, myself included. 

As close as I ever got to "the Studios" was by listening to stories about his auditions.  Oh, I met people with Jaguar sports cars, afghan hounds, enormous mansions in Beverly Hills, all of it just one fast blur like a high speed car chase on the Autobahn.

For fun, we'd drop acid (LSD) at Arthur J's Coffee Shop, with a couple of downers, then "go out" from there.  I remember looking at the plastic table with astonishment and telling everyone, "It's ALIVE!"  

Many nights were spent in a blackout, yet there was always someone around to say, "Do you know what you did last night?"  I got so tired of hearing that that I told everyone the next day, "I don't want to know anything about what I did, so just shut up".  Of course, they told me anyway and I was duly shocked at my own performances.  I should have won an Academy Award - for being foolish!  Shoulder-length hair, a patent leather jacket, I thought I had arrived.

We'd have dinner at one of the Strip's outdoor hamburger joints, looking around to see who was there, having fun being "seen".  None of us took ourselves too seriously, however, because we all knew we were 100% authentic phony baloney.  When you pass out at a table, or do something bizarre on drugs, it's hard to convince your friends that you're "something special".  In fact, we had the most fun laughing at ourselves.

One day, we got to Rick's place and everyone was distraught. A friend of theirs had injected himself with heroine and didn't know the strength of what he had, which turned out to be almost pure. No sooner had it gone into his arm than he looked up in shock bordering on horror, then instantly dropped dead.  I vouched that I'd never "shoot up", but that was a "never" that came true years later. 

Wise not say “never” in the first place; in the second place too.

There is always another floor one can fall down on the way to the basement, but we don't have to get out there.  The elevator stops at every floor.

Our relationship was becoming rocky.  My partying was "off the hook", and she was coming along to watch over me and keep me alive.  Still, it must have been difficult on her, and we eventually agreed to separate.  She returned to Santa Barbara, and my mother told me that Neil, her old friend, had built a new house in a small village outside of Mazatlan called Loma de Monterey.  I could visit Neil, and possibly teach English.  This seemed like a marvelous opportunity to solve several problems at once.

I was utterly convinced, from my debacle in jail, that California was becoming a police state and it was only a matter of time before the "little old world" realized it.  Still confused about my sexuality, I couldn't handle the bar scene, being underage.  We gave notice, and Mr. Hansen was very sorry to see us leave.  He had a "thing" about Laura, who spent time in Germany, and could speak the language.  He and his wife were kind, decent people who gave us "kids" a break by not charging outlandish rents.  Life meant more than making money, although his property which was quite large, probably sold for many millions of dollars.  I wish them both the best.

Neil was on his way back to Mexico, which seemed to be timed perfectly with my departure from Hollywood, exit stage left.  We caravanned through the border, Neil in the lead, as I would never have found his home.  I didn't know what to expect, and though warned there was no electricity, it was surprising to find he lived in a small village in the middle of nowhere.  This was no large city or small city.  It was a very small village of about a hundred people. 

They lived in huts with dirt floors and thatched roofs, and most had never been "to town".  Horses were used for local travel, and there was a decent sized muddy river running through the moist, tropical landscape, lush and green.  The house itself was built of red brick, three feet off the ground.  I learned this was to keep snakes and scorpions out, and was warned to check my shoes each morning. 

There were no glass windows, as the air was always humid and warm, allowing breezes to flow naturally.  We sat around at night by lantern light, several local teenage boys with us, who spoke no English.  I enjoyed learning new vocabulary, as Spanish was my language in high school.  It came in very handy indeed.