Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

by Quentin Tarantino

  And while the idea of Terry Melcher signing Charlie to make an album for Columbia Records was always far-fetched, the Beach Boys started their own record label, Brother Records, and a Charles Manson album for that label could’ve happened. The reason it didn’t all stemmed from the aggravation and eventual fear Dennis Wilson felt for the sketchy characters he let take root in his home. It was the girls that first lured Dennis into the “Family” fold. Then later it was his genuine fellowship with Charlie that kept Dennis in the “Family” orbit. But it was Wilson’s exasperation at Charlie’s pinhead family of hippies that eventually led to burning the Beach Boys bridge just as Charlie was preparing to cross it.

  The share-and-share-alike anti-establishment ethos of the Topanga Canyon Hollywood hippie entertainment class of the late sixties was what Dennis Wilson offered these ragamuffins. However, pretty quickly, these garbage-eating, acid-tripping, clap-ridden, singsong-sounding runaways proved themselves to be a bunch of freeloading ingrates. They wrecked Wilson’s pad and cost him thousands of dollars in venereal-disease medicine and lost, stolen, and damaged property. Until, finally, Wilson just moved out of the house and left it to his business manager to evict the squalid squatters.

  If the “Family” hadn’t turned Dennis’s house into a zoo, causing his bandmates to worry and lose respect for him, Charles Manson would have been a perfect prospect for the Beach Boys’ new record label. One doubts much would have happened with the disc or even if Manson, with his peculiarities, would have been capable of completing a full album. But it’s entirely possible that, if the other band members hadn’t associated Charlie with that group of freaks freeloading off of sweet Dennis, Manson could have parlayed his association into something.

  But the way it was, the “Family” cost Dennis so much money that, even when the Beach Boys did record one of Charlie’s songs, they kept his name off the publishing, figuring the costly antics of his acolytes were payment enough. (Rumors exist that in lieu of putting Charlie’s name on the copyright, Wilson gave him a motorcycle.)

  So by February 8, 1969, all of Charlie’s once-promising musical connections have dried up. Only one remains—that vague commitment that Terry Melcher once made about someday sitting down and letting Charlie play his music for him. Only he’s lost contact with Terry. There was a time when Charlie saw Terry, if not often, often enough to plan a meeting. But that was before he became persona non grata at Dennis Wilson’s pad. And even Charlie knows that’s reason enough to squash any possible deal. But, then again, maybe not? Charlie did get one of his songs on the new Beach Boys album. Now, true, he didn’t get credit for it. But one of the few people who knows it originated from his song Cease to Exist is Melcher. So now Terry can legitimately think of Manson as a music composer worthy of producing commercial music, instead of as the shaggy pimp who supplied the record producer with syphilis-ridden jailbait.

  Now, Terry Melcher had already agreed to come out to Spahn Ranch and give Charlie’s songs a listen. A date was set, a time was agreed to, an appointment was confirmed, and a whole shindig was put into place at the ranch . . . then Terry was a no-show.

  For Charles Manson to be stood up like that was devastating on a few different fronts. One, Charlie had planned all week for this opportunity to finally perform his music for Terry. The Family had decked out and decorated the ranch for this big whoop-de-do, including practicing with background instruments and half-naked girls harmonizing and dancing in the background . . . then Terry didn’t show.

  Also, that day was the day.

  Charlie was on fire that day.

  Manson never forgave himself for letting his nerves get the better of him during his one professional recording session.

  But this day would be different.

  On this day Charlie was perfectly on point, his mind was calm, his heart was full, and his music was at his fingertips.

  This day was the day he’d been dreaming about since he first started listening to the Beatles in prison.

  On this day all Charlie’s dreams would become a reality and his life would be changed forever.

  On this day the music was going to come flooding out of him. He owned his creativity. He couldn’t play a wrong note.

  He was at one with his talent, at one with his muse, and at one with God . . . then Terry didn’t show.

  Terry’s no-show not only thwarted Manson’s creativity and frankly hurt his feelings, but it also compromised him with his kids.

  The kids at the ranch weren’t hip to exactly how much Charlie wanted to be a rock star. How much he wanted fame, money, and recognition. Because to them, Charlie preached against those base desires.

  They thought Charlie was on a spiritual path to enlightenment.

  They thought Charlie’s true desire was to pass on that enlightenment.

  They thought Charlie’s goal was to create a new world order guided by that enlightenment and love for all mankind.

  They believed Charlie had a higher purpose, because he told them he did, and they believed him. It never would have occurred to them that he’d ditch all that horseshit in a minute to put on a Revolutionary War outfit and trade places with Mark Lindsay.

  It never would have occurred to them that he’d say goodbye to all of them, all that he created, and all he taught them, to trade places with Micky Dolenz and join the Monkees.

  They thought the only reason Charlie wanted a recording contract in the first place was to expand his influence. To bring his enlightenment to a larger audience, a worldwide audience on a planet starving for it.

  Like the Beatles. Like Jesus Christ. Like Charlie.

  He didn’t want fame for himself; he wanted fame for what his music would mean to others. But the music would simply be an entry point for the planet earth to get to know Charlie. With God working through him, Charlie would write some of the greatest music ever written, the way Jesus Christ wrote some of the greatest poetry ever written. Not to have framed platinum albums on his walls, like Dennis Wilson. Not to own sports cars, like Dennis Wilson. Not to be on the cover of Crawdaddy magazine. Not to have a song on the Easy Rider soundtrack. Not to join the Real Don Steele in crazy promotional contests on KHJ. But to save all mankind.

  Their first glimpse that Charlie’s motives and desires may have been less pure than their own was when he couldn’t help but reveal his anxiety over the Terry Melcher audition.

  Everybody wanted everything to go well, but nobody else at the ranch thought everything was riding on it.

  It goes . . . it doesn’t go. Don’t sweat it, baby. What’s supposed to happen will happen. Men plan, God laughs. That’s what Charlie taught them.

  So then why was Charlie stressing out so much about what Terry Melcher thought of him?

  Why was Charlie freaking fucking out about whether or not Terry Melcher liked his music or had a good time?

  Why was Charlie flipping fucking out trying to make a good impression on Terry “Fucking” Melcher?

  But as Terry Melcher’s three-thirty appointment turned to three-forty, then three-fifty, then four o’clock, then four-ten, then four-twenty, then four-thirty, and it became apparent to all that Terry Melcher wasn’t going to show, it became apparent to all how badly Charlie felt. Terry’s no-show made Manson look weak in front of his kids. Nothing that took place in front of “the Family” ever made Charlie look weak. Not irate parents, sometimes carrying shotguns; not former members, who sometimes came back to the ranch accompanied by friends demanding money, cars, or babies. Not the Black Panthers. Not even the pigs. Charlie faced them all down with a wink and a smile. Secure in the knowledge that God was on his side. But not this time. This time it was Charlie who looked foolish. Something else that day also became apparent, something the kids at Spahn Ranch had never considered before. Maybe Charlie was just another long-haired hippie with a guitar, trying to get on the radio. They couldn’t believe it and they wouldn’t believe it. But for the first time, it occurred to some of them.

  Somehow, Me
lcher got word to Charlie that he didn’t stand him up out of disrespect. He’s a busy man and something important came up. But that was a little while ago. Since then, there’s been no effort made to reschedule. And now Charlie and Terry don’t run in the same circles. The idea of just bumping into him and setting up another time for another audition doesn’t seem likely.

  In a way, Charlie was getting a good education in what the entertainment business is like. People fall in and out of social circles. Somebody you seriously hung with yesterday rates no more than a wave today. Promising opportunities just don’t pan out. Or as Pauline Kael once wrote: “In Hollywood, you could die of encouragement.”

  Well, since Mohammed wasn’t going to just bump into the mountain at the Whisky a Go Go, drinking Cutty Sark, Mohammed would have to go to the mountain, or in this case the Hollywood Hills.

  This is Charlie’s last card.

  Since he’s been to Terry Melcher’s house before, he remembers where he lives. He’s even partied there. So him just popping up at his gate to say hi, while bad form, isn’t completely out of the question.

  This is a desperate move, and it feels like a desperate move. And Charlie is pretty fucking sure Terry will read it as a desperate move. But the way things are, it’s the only move he has left. Terry had said he’d listen to Charlie’s music one day. And Terry did owe him after standing him up before. And Charlie isn’t going to just bump into him at Wilson’s pad anymore. The only chance Charlie has of rescuing this lost opportunity is lucking out and catching Terry at home and putting the bite on him. A soft bite. Just enough to make him feel too guilty to say no to Charlie’s face. But without the bite, Charlie’s never gonna see Terry again. And when this doesn’t work, which it probably won’t, at least Charlie can say he tried.

  When Charlie pulls up to the front of Terry’s house on Cielo Drive, he sees the gate is open. These people leave their gates open most days they have a lot of deliveries, so they don’t have to keep running to the intercom to buzz people in. Charlie had thought he’d get the brush-off at the call-box speaker located on the metal pole next to the driveway, outside the front gate.

  Hi, is Terry there?

  Who’s asking?

  It’s his friend Charlie.

  Charlie who?

  Charlie Manson.

  He ain’t here.

  That’s how Charlie imagined the conversation would go, even if it was Terry at the intercom, pretending to be somebody who worked for him. So the gate being open counts as a stroke of luck. Some say luck is when preparation meets opportunity. The preparation part is picking Saturday late morning/early afternoon to pay his visit. If he’s going to catch Terry bopping around his house, it’s going to be Saturday late morning/early afternoon. Who knows, he might get a face-to-face with the man yet.

  He considers driving the Twinkie truck up the long curvy driveway, but that’s way too bold. Better to be humble. Approach the house on foot, with open palms and a big smile.

  Leave a soft footprint.

  Charlie climbs out of the bakery truck. Terry lives on top of a hill at the end of a cul-de-sac. The only other human being in sight is a blond guy with his shirt off, working on an antenna on the roof of the house next door. Charlie pays him no mind as he walks up the driveway toward Terry’s front door.

  Sharon places the phonograph needle on the first track of the Paul Revere and the Raiders’ album The Spirit of ’67. The creator of the band and the producer of the album used to rent the house on Cielo Drive that Sharon and Roman are now renting from the owner, Rudi Altobelli, who lives in the guesthouse out back by the swimming pool. When the former tenant, Terry Melcher, moved out, he was living with the actress Candice Bergen. But before Candy moved in, Terry shared the pad with Raiders lead singer Mark Lindsay. So it makes sense Sharon found a whole stack of cellophane-covered copies of The Spirit of ’67 tucked away in the guest room closet. She mentioned finding the records to her husband, Roman, who made a face and said, “I hate that bubble-gum garbage.”

  Sharon didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either. She liked the bubble-gum hits she heard on KHJ. She liked that song Yummy Yummy Yummy and the follow-up song by the same group, Chewy Chewy. She liked Bobby Sherman and that Julie song. She loved that Snoopy vs. the Red Baron song.

  She wouldn’t tell this to Roman or any of their hip friends like John and Michelle Phillips or Cass Elliot or Warren Beatty, but to be completely honest, she liked the Monkees more than the Beatles.

  She knows they’re not even a real group. They’re just a TV show made to capitalize on the popularity of the Beatles. Nevertheless, in her heart of hearts, she prefers them. She thinks Davy Jones is cuter than Paul McCartney (as evidenced by her attraction to Roman and Jay, Sharon does have a thing for cute short guys who look like twelve-year-old boys). She thinks Micky Dolenz is funnier than Ringo Starr. She’s more attracted to Mike Nesmith’s “quiet one” than to George Harrison. And Peter Tork seems just as much of a hippie as John Lennon but less pretentious and probably a nicer fellow. Yeah, sure, the Beatles write all their own music, but what the fuck does Sharon care about that?

  If she likes Last Train to Clarksville better than A Day in the Life, she likes it better; she doesn’t care who wrote it. Anyway, Paul Revere and the Raiders are sorta like the Monkees. They sing catchy groovy songs, they’re funny, and they’re on TV all the time. She really likes their songs Kicks, Hungry, and especially Good Thing. Rudi Altobelli told her Mark Lindsay and Terry Melcher wrote Good Thing on the white piano in their living room. Cool. She thinks about that as she places the needle on the vinyl and listens to the cool opening guitar riff come out of her speakers. She starts immediately moving her shoulders and hips to the bubble-gum beat. Then she goes back to what she was doing before. Which is packing Roman’s suitcase. Roman’s leaving for London tomorrow, and she always packs his suitcase for him. It’s just a sweet thing she started doing for him, and now it’s just a sweet thing she does.

  Her ex-fiancé, Jay Sebring, is in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich before he drives Sharon over to his salon on Fairfax and does her hair for a TV appearance Roman and Sharon have to do tonight (Jay exclusively does men’s hair. Sharon is the only woman he does). They all attended a party at Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Mansion last night. And during the night Hefner hit up Roman to appear on his quasi-talk show, Playboy After Dark, filmed on top of the 9000 building, toward the end of the Sunset Strip. Sharon was irritated that Roman committed them to two things in a row without consulting her. Not only that, but she’s also reading a really good book, Gore Vidal’s Myra Breckinridge, and Roman knows she’d rather spend the evening in bed alongside him reading it. Instead, she’s going to have to get all dolled up for the second night in a row and do her “sexy little me” act (“sexy little me” is Sharon’s self-deprecating nickname for her sixties-starlet persona).

  As she folds the white turtleneck sweater she bought for Roman when they were in Switzerland and places it inside the suitcase laid open on the guest room bed, she doesn’t see the shaggy-haired dark little hippie fellow in the long untucked blue-denim shirt with the brown rawhide vest over it, the Jesus sandals, and the dirty dungarees emerge from her foliage and wander into the cement parking area in front of her house. But Jay spots him through the kitchen window as he takes a bite of his Wonder Bread turkey-and-tomato sandwich. As Jay follows with his eyes the dark little hippie’s path from the driveway to the front of the house, he thinks, Who’s this shaggy asshole walking around the property as if he owns it?

  Sharon, packing at the far end of the house, hears Jay’s voice by the front door say to somebody authoritatively, “Hello? Can I help you?”

  Then, from outside the house, she hears a muffled answer from a voice she isn’t familiar with. “Yeah, hey, man, I’m lookin’ for Terry. I’m a friend of Terry and Dennis Wilson’s.”

  Who the hell is that? she thinks, keeping her ears peeled.

  Then she hears Jay’s response to the strang
er: “Well, Terry and Candy don’t live here anymore. This is the Polanski residence now.”

  Sharon puts down the paisley shirt she’s holding and leaves the guest bedroom to investigate who Jay’s talking to. As she walks through the carpeted hallway leading to the living room, in bare feet and Levi’s cutoffs, she hears the stranger say with surprise and disappointment, “Really? He moved? Dang it! You know where?”

  Sharon turns the corner leading to the entry hall with The Fearless Vampire Killers one-sheet framed on the wall. (Roman thought it was embarrassing and juvenile to hang up in their house the posters for movies they’d done. But then Sharon reminded him he knew she was embarrassing and juvenile when he married her.)

  The front door is wide open, and Jay has moved outside to talk with this creepy-looking dude with a mop of shaggy hair and a two-day growth of dark stubble on his face.

  She reaches the door and calls out to her former fiancé, “Who is it, Jay?”

  The shaggy stranger’s eyes rise to the beautiful blonde in the doorway. Her radiant eyes look past Jay’s for a moment to lock with the dark little man’s.

  Jay turns toward her and says, “It’s okay, honey. It’s a friend of Terry’s.” Then he turns back to the shaggy stranger and directs him to where the owner of the house lives. “I’m not sure where Terry moved to, but the owner of the property, Rudi, might know. He’s in the guesthouse.” With his hand, Jay points the way. “Take the back path.”