Angry White Male

Angry White Male Page 16

by Steven Travers

CHAPTER TEN

  HIGH HARD ONES

  “When I think about the joys of life

  One thing is perfectly clear

  Never am I happier

  Than when you are near

  “The one I love

  My little one

  That perfect feeling I get

  “When the one I love

  My little one

  Gets her hair all wet

  “It's such a pure, unconditional love

  So pure and true

  “It's you

  “The one I love

  My little one

  And God knows it's true

  “It's you

  “My Sweetie

  My joy

  “The one who makes me pure

  “You love me

  I love you

  And God knows of this I'm sure”

  --"THE ONE I LOVE"

  By Steven R. Travers

  Stan's mind was full of hope, anxiety, doubt and joy on the day he embarked on his professional career. He fully expected to someday land in the Major Leagues. But he was conflicted. He knew that many distractions are available to professional athletes. He had experienced college. He had sampled the delights of L.A. Loose women and shady characters had come in and out of his life. He was far from the sheltered kid who had grown up on the Palos Verdes Peninsula.

  He had heard all the stories about "baseball groupies" in the minor leagues. There had been groupies in college, but this promised to be different. Now he was far from home. He was getting paid and expected to make responsible choices. He was suddenly a family man. This created extra pressure to succeed.

  His parents did not yet know about Karen’s pregnancy. When Stan arrived in Johnson City, he wrote a letter to them. He wrote that he had asked Karen to marry him and she had agreed. He wanted to marry her when he came back after Labor Day. He also wrote something else.

  For years, Stan had dealt with his father in close proximity. Dan had ingratiated himself with his coaches, often to their irritation. He offered his loud opinions and oft-unhappy observations of all things involving his son and his baseball career. Dan had made outright enemies of Stan’s rivals. This was a constant source of strain for Stan and the teammates he had to live with. Stan understood the concept of team play. Winning trumped individual concerns. Dan, the former athlete, should have understood this concept. Instead, he seemed to disdain it. This was the cause of much strain for Stan, who had to balance his duties as a teammate with his personal success - and failures. He had even been named team captain in his senior year at Rolling Hills High School, and again in his senior year at Southern Cal. Stan had demonstrated to his coaches that he was a team guy.

  Dan had attended almost all of Stan's games. Not just home games, but many away games, too. When SC went to Hawaii, there was Dan. Dan showed up in Tempe, Arizona and the Motel Six in Fresno, California. When the team checked in to their hotels in Berkeley and Palo Alto, there was Dan. Dan showed up at practice. He went to Winter league games.

  Summer had been a time of some respite for Stan. He had played in Canada, Colorado and Alaska. Dan had made a few trips to these locations, but he could never stay the whole Summer. Dan had always insisted that Stan call after every game he pitched. He wanted complete stats, rundown and analysis, as if Stan were Peter Gammons on “Baseball Tonight.” When he pitched well, these reports were not hard for Stan. Most of the time, he had good reports. But the calls after a loss or bad outing had never gotten easier. He dreaded the long, painful silences and the probing questions in Dan's pained voice. It was not as if he was asking Stan how many runs he gave up, but how many times he had put his hand on the little boys’ crotch.

  Dan had had enough. He wanted freedom. Tennessee seemed to offer enough distance and an opportunity to take a stand. In the letter home, after telling them he planned to marry Karen, he wrote the following:

  "I have also decided on a policy. If I am a starting pitcher, I will inform you what nights my turn in the rotation falls. If I win or pitch well, I will call home. If I do not pitch well, I will write you a letter and include the game story from the local paper. I simply have no desire to subject myself to the long silences and feeling of disappointing you, Dad, on days I do not pitch well. I will have enough on my mind already."

  When Dan got the letter, he immediately called his son at the Mid-Town Hotel, where he was staying. The subject was the marriage to Karen. Dan probed and asked and pried. There was very little in the way of congratulations.

  If you would just lighten up I would have conversations with you, Stan thought to himself. He simply chose to tell his father as little as possible. His experience was that to tell him things almost never resulted in anything good for him. The old man giving him crap about not telling him things was always better than the crap he gave him for not telling him things.

  The question of Stan calling home win or lose did not come up.

  As far as baseball was concerned, Stan was off and running. He won his first start, 3-1, over the Kingsport, Tennessee Mets, then left after 10 innings of a scoreless tie against the Bluefield, West Virginia Orioles. After a month, he was leading the league in ERA and was thrilled to see his name among the league leaders in The Sporting News.

  He dutifully called his parents after his scintillating performances. As soon as he satisfied Dan that he had pitched a gem, the old man treated him as if he had just won the Nobel Peace prize. Off the field, he fit in and enjoyed minor league life.

  One foxy local girl had sex with all the members of the Bristol, Tennessee Tigers. By mid-season, she had moved in on the Johnson City Cardinals. Stan was going out a lot, but he kept himself in check. He was determined to stay true to Karen in California. The girl in Tennessee came to be known as Roster Woman because she was bent on having sex with every guy on the roster. She moved in for the kill. She was cute as hell, and according to her "victims" had a mouth that did not stop. But Stan was thinking about his girlfriend, carrying his baby. He resisted her advances. The Mid-Town Hotel was not an easy place for a young guy to stay faithful. It had two wings. One wing included Cardinals' farmhands. The other included local hookers. He managed to steer clear of those temptations, too.

  His biggest problem came in July when Kingsport lit him up like a Christmas tree. Stan had dominated the Mets in two previous starts, including one 15-strikeout performance, but he did not have it on this day. He was removed with two outs in the first inning, five runs in, and the bases loaded. He took the loss that night. His beautifully carved earned run average took a beating that dropped him from The Sporting News' league leaders.

  That night, Stan did not call Dan. He bought two six-packs of Budweiser, and sat around with some teammates getting hammered. At about four in the morning, the phone rang. There were about 12 people in the room, all laughing, partying and having a blast. Somebody answered the ring, and after some confusion, Stan heard a voice from among the melee.

  "Hey, Taylor, it's your old man."

  Stan felt like a man walking to the gallows as he approached the phone. He thought about telling the guy who answered it to tell his dad he was not there. He picked up the receiver.

  "Yeah," he said.

  "Stan?" said Dan.

  "Yeah," said Stan.

  "I can hardly hear you," said Dan. "What the hell's goin' on there?"

  "The usual post-game revelry," said Stan.

  "How did you do?" asked Dan.

  "Two-thirds, six runs, five earned, five hits, a walk, took the loss, 11-4," deadpanned Stan.

  "You took the loss?" asked Dan.

  "That's what I said," said Stan.

  There was long, painful silence. Then the clinical questioning started. Dan asked to confirm that Stan had taken the loss three times. He was like a detective at a crime scene who keeps saying, “Tell me what happened one more time.” Stan was this close to saying, "I know damn well I said that, I s
aid it in English, I said it clearly, and that you understand English, so why the fuck do you keep asking me?" But he did not.

  Dan was apoplectic that Stan had not called.

  "How come you just let me sit here like an asshole without calling?" Dan quizzed him.

  "I told you in my letter, Dad," Stan replied patiently, "if I don't pitch well, I'm not callin' home. I don't need these kinds of phone calls."

  Stan had come close to forgetting about the game, amidst the beers and his teammates' camaraderie. His father could drag him down every single time. Dan tracked Stan down in the wee morning hours after a couple of other less-than-sterling efforts that Summer. He was a regular Sam Spade who successfully found his son in motels in Paintsville, Kentucky and the blue hills of West Virginia.

  Stan wrote another letter around mid-season telling them that Karen was pregnant. His mother called him and was thrilled that she would become a grandmother. His season was an overall success. Stan made the Appalachian League All-Star team. He was a prospect on the move.

  Stan returned to California after Labor Day. His parents managed to organize his wedding while he was away. It was held at the Episcopalian Church in Palos Verdes Estates that Stan had attended a few times. They were married in mid-September. Karen was showing but not yet in an obvious way.

  Stan’s best man was Brad, who had returned to Europe and forged a successful acting career. Brad flew to Los Angeles for the wedding in honor of his friend. It was a beautiful wedding that went off without a hitch, even though it had been put together in a relatively short period of time.

  Walt was there. His life had changed dramatically in just a few years. He had gone to El Camino, and after all his prognostications had ended up at Cal State, Long Beach. He had met a liberal Jewish Brandeis girl from Long Island and was living with her. His father had arranged for him to work for the re-insurance company he was in charge of. Walt wore a suit and tie and worked in a high rise in the Wilshire District. He did not call his girlfriend “Kuyke.” He no longer spouted racist rants or jingoistic calls to “bomb the Communists back to the Stone Age.” He followed his girlfriend’s politics now. That meant endorsing uni-lateral disarmament and getting out of Nicaragua. When reminded of his regular use of the “N word,” Walt shrugged and hoped that all that would be forgotten.

  Mark Terry, now engaged to Sandra, was an usher. Mark had played half a season of Rookie League ball for the Giants before being released. After graduation, he went to work for the Coca-Cola Company, and was on their fast track.

  Bennie Hussein was an usher. One-Armed Bob, Pit Boston and Tammy Rubenstein made their appearance. Mike Hoffmeister had spent one year in the Mariners’ organization before getting released. He and Ken MacDonald slept in and missed the wedding, but showed up for the reception. Jack Oliver was in attendance. Stan thought it was kind of funny how nice Dan was to Jack. He always seemed to make an extra effort to be nice to his black friends. None of Stan’s little league teammates or classmates from grade school and junior high was there.

  Stan’s Uncle Charles and the rest of the Taylor Family were in attendance. Stan had never had much to do with Uncle Charles. He had resigned as Secretary of State at the beginning of 1985. A multi-millionaire who had made brilliant stock market investments, he was now a regular on cable TV political shows. His autobiography was due out in a few months, and it would make the New York Times Best Seller list.

  Stan pulled him to the side and had a long discussion about politics and national affairs. He was eager to demonstrate to his famous uncle that he was not a dumb baseball boob.

  The reception was held at the Taylor's house. Shirley handled most of the preparations. The entire day was a grand success, and one of the happiest of Stan’s life. Karen and Stan went to Hawaii for a two-week honeymoon. They moved in to the Taylor's home in Palos Verdes Estates upon their return.

  Dan stepped up in a big way. With his help, Stan and Karen were able to buy a little house in Redondo Beach. They moved in shortly after Christmas. Karen went downhill with her pregnancy. The one-time USC cheerleader had been voluptuous and beautiful, but she gained a tremendous amount of weight during the pregnancy. One of her Christmas presents was a raincoat. When she put it on she looked like racecar driver Andy Granatelli, who wore a raincoat when he did TV commercials for STP oil.

  Kaitlyn Taylor was born in Los Angeles on Stan's birthday, February 1, 1987. A couple of days after giving birth, Stan and Karen brought little Kaitlyn home. Stan was happy on his wedding day. He was delirious when Kaitlyn was born. His whole life, he had been selfish. He had never cared about children or little babies. Shirley would go gaga over babies. Stan would stare at them as if they were aliens. But now, little Kaitlyn brought out in him feelings of love above and beyond his ability to comprehend.

  Stan changed totally when Kaitlyn was born. His tender feelings for her were as real and genuine as the feelings any man has ever had for a child. She was so sweet and perfect. She made his life complete.

  Stan was in the operating room when Kaitlyn was born. It was messy, but it thrilled him. He was happy that he had decided to be there for this great event. After Kaitlyn was born, Stan looked at his wife and was shocked. Everything drained out of her - puss, blood, menstrual fluids, water. Her breasts had inflated to twice there normal size throughout the term. Suddenly, everything was gone, not just the size but her shape. Karen’s body was now distorted and misshapen beyond recognition. Her once-beautiful breasts, which had filled out the white USC cheerleader sweater, now looked like bananas. They were distended in the manner of a starving Ethiopian woman.

  No longer pregnant, she developed a habit for Moosehead beer, six to 10 at a time. Still, Stan was infatuated with her. He was in love for the first time in his life. He had felt an odd mixture of love and lust for the wild and crazy Rebecca, but Karen had been the first woman who had given herself to him, accepted him, and become a part of his family.

  Shortly after Kaitlyn was born, Karen had a terrible case of post-partum depression. She threw a piece of furniture at Stan, swore at him, and told him she wished she had never met him.

  Stan was stunned, but that event passed. She was always sick. She had constant colds, coughs, yeast infections, and a myriad of ailments. None of this fazed Stan. He felt only affection for her no matter what. He held their little baby in his arms. In those arms was his whole life. He was done. The heart and soul of Stan Taylor was captured.

  A weird but good thing also happened with the birth of Kaitlyn. Stan noticed that his parents treated him better. The existence of Karen, and Stan being a father, seemed to give him the imprimatur of respectability. His new family was a buffer against Dan’s tirades and swearing put-downs.

  Stan loved it. The air seemed fresher. The sun shined brighter. Everything was wonderful. During that off-season, Stan truly began to educate himself. He had his degree, and he was well versed in film. He had begun the process after his father had put him down in front of Brad the previous year. His conversation with Uncle Charles whetted his appetite for political knowledge.

  Television had always been disdained in the Taylor household. Shirley called it the “idiot box.” The Taylor’s watched sports, news and good films on TV. They were not a Nielsen Family, wasting their hours on sitcoms or other drivel. Stan felt guilty if he spent too much time in front of the TV. He viewed it as the lazy recreation center of the Dumbellionite Class. Stan had a theory about the Dumbellionites. They are the largest human tribe in the world. In ancient times, the Israelites, Mennonites, Canaanites and other peoples roamed the plains. Eventually, most of these tribes were dispersed or made to be part of a larger group. The largest remaining group was the Dumbellionites. They grew larger every day! Stan was not a member of the Dumbellionite Class.

  He had begun the habit of reading the entire L.A Times every day. He bought the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. He subscribed to Time magazine and read National Review, Human Events, California Journ
al and The Nation. Stan had no trouble reading liberal views that differed from his. He read Richard Nixon’s “Memoirs”, William Shirer’s “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich” and Theodore White’s “The Making of the President 1960”. He developed a fascination with politics and history. Driving with his father to games and other places, he talked about these subjects. For the first time, he was able to speak as an equal to his old man about events of importance, other than sports. He talked about his family, and Stan felt like a real man. Having sex, getting drunk, and getting guys to laugh at his jokes did not make him a real man. Fathering a child did not make him a real man. Being a father to his child made him a real man.

  He felt that his father finally respected him. Sports had never been enough for Stan to feel like he could gain his father’s admiration. For every shutout, there was a team that beat Stan on a given day, a hitter who had his number, or a pitcher who out-dueled him. These events served to set Stan back in his never-ending quest for his dad’s approval. Marriage, family and his newly acquired intellectual curiosity did serve this purpose. He had taken to heart what his father had said that night with Brad, challenging him to upgrade himself into a man of the world, beyond the petty boundaries of the jock’s world. Not that Dan came out and acknowledged that Stan had met his challenge, but Stan had done it and could tell his father was impressed.

  He thought about what he would do if baseball did not pan out. He considered the law politics. He had found inspiration in hearing Liddy speak, and felt the need to serve in the military. Stan was fiercely patriotic. All the Taylor’s before him had been citizen soldiers at some point in their lives. If Stan were to pursue a political path, he wanted to punch certain tickets. He already had a strong background as a USC graduate and professional ballplayer. He came from the right family. If he could show military service and succeed in the law, he might be able to parlay that into a political future. His father had thought the same thing, but it had not come to fruition. Stan would be different.

  His film school background did not drive his ambitions. Now that he had a family to support, Stan put any Hollywood ambitions he may have had on the back burner. Stan wanted to become a Renaissance Man, a well-rounded poet-warrior who combined athletic strength, military discipline, educational attainment, professional accomplishment and intellectual savvy.

  As Stan grew into his skin, he no longer obsessed with one Billy Boswell. While Stan was making the Appalachian League All-Star team in 1986, the Great Wizard of Bos, as the New York media had come to call him, was the Most Valuable Player in the American League, hitting 46 homers with 141 runs batted in, hitting .353. This earned him baseball’s first Triple Crown (winning the league home run, RBI and batting average titles) since Boston’s Carl Yastrzemski in 1967. The Yankees won the World Series. Boswell was the MVP of the All-Star Game, the A.L. Championship Series and the World Series. He was The Sporting News American league Player of the Year, was named Major League Player of the Year, and was the center fielder on the junior circuit’s All-Star and Gold Glove teams. He was named Sports Illustrated’s Sportsman of the Year and received the Hickock Belt as the Professional Athlete of the Year. The sports pundits estimated that he had made the most thorough sweep of available awards and honors of any pro athlete in history.

  Stan was even able to feel good for his old rival. Somehow, seeing Bos in pinstripes did not enrage him as much as seeing him win the MVP award at Williamsport, or wearing the Bruins’ blue and gold uniform. Mostly, though, Stan was obsessed with his own good fortune. Being a family man and father was better than anything he could imagine. Let Billy win the Triple Crown and another MVP award. Stan’s had a better award. She was named Kaitlyn.

  At the beginning of 1987, Stan was strong, ripped and powerful. He came to Spring Training more mentally and physically prepared than he had been for anything in his life. He was prepared, and in fabulous condition after running an Ironman Decathlon that Winter.

  After pitching 17 scoreless innings in Spring Training, Stan was elevated to the Cardinals’ AA farm club in Little Rock, Arkansas. Pitching for the Arkansas Travelers, Stan started the season 9-0. By August, he was 14-4 with a league-leading 2.23 earned run average. The St. Louis papers were touting him as the Cardinals’ best pitching prospect. He was slated to be called up to the Major Leagues prior to September 1. The Cardinals needed him in their desperate stretch run against the New York Mets, and wanted him eligible for the post-season. Boswell had the Yankees in first place in the American League East. He envisioned a Card-Yank World Series, facing Boswell with everything on the line.

  Dan, Shirley, Karen and little Kaitlyn came out to see him pitch. He responded with a shutout. Stan was popular and respected among his teammates. He joked and hung out with them. The pretty Baseball Annie’s who make up the Texas League’s groupie scene made themselves available to him. Stan summoned the willpower to resist them. It was not always easy.

  “Jail Bait” replaced “Roster Woman”. Jail Bait were two young girls who Stan would see driving around the condo complex where most of the team lived. They had a flashy red Corvette. Both girls were hot stuff, with short shorts and halter tops exposing dark tans. They had high heels and big hair.

  Stan left his condo on his way to lunch. A few doors down the hall were a line of teammates, most of them black and Hispanic. He passed by and saw a fellow named Mickey, a 6-10 ex-basketball player from Sacramento State.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” asked Stan, knowing the answer.

  “Gonna pinch a bitch, man,” said Mickey, smiling.

  “Hey, I’m not cuttin’ in,” said Stan, “but I gotta see this shit.”

  Stan opened the door and took a step inside. Both girls were displayed on the bed. The sexiest girl was lying on her back while several studs stroked wood near her. She had puddles of semen on all over her. Above her, on his knees, was first baseman Greg Rosales.

  Yes, the same Greg Rosales who Stan had beaned and started a brawl with after he yelled “tits lit, tits lit” while rounding third in Canada. Rosales and Stan had recognized each other and become fast friends with the Cardinals. Stan loved Rosales’ Mick Jagger imitations.

  “Start me up, uhhh,” Rosales sang.

  Now, Greg was getting his knob polished when he noticed big Stan in the doorway.

  “Hey Taylor man,” Rosales said when he saw Stan, “c’mon on in and get some head. It’s free.”

  A small angel appeared on his right shoulder.

  “Get the hell out of here, Stan,” the little angel told him.

  That was all Stan needed to hear. Stan walked out and headed straight to the coffee shop. After dining on water, French dip, fries and a side salad, he returned to the complex.

  Flashing police lights were everywhere. Half his teammates were hauled away in handcuffs. The main ringleader, the son of a prominent big leaguer, was being taken away on charges ranging from statutory rape to contribution to the delinquency of a minor. Both girls, it turned out, were 16. One of them was the daughter of a nearby town’s mayor. This, unlike the girls, did not go down well. At all.

  Stan congratulated himself on passing another “test.” He did not desire other women. Nothing could stand in his way.

  Half the teams in the Texas League were not in Texas. The Giants had a farm club in Shreveport, Louisiana. The Travelers went to Shreveport, and Stan went to warm up against them. It was hot and muggy, as usual. Stan liked the Southern weather in the Summer. The humidity and bugs the size of birds did not bother him.

  Stan had a regular routine. He jogged across the outfield, stretched, played catch, extended that to long toss, then threw about 40 warm-pitches in the bullpen. He had done his jog and was stretching when the oddest-looking man he had ever seen in his life interrupted him. The man looked to be about 6-4, 120 pounds, with a shrunken face contorted in a cartoonish set of jowls and wrinkles. He wore what might be described as a baseball uniform, but it was all lo
psided, out of place, with the stirrups on backwards, the shirt inside out, and the hat perched on his bony head like a pixie. A question mark was where his number should have been.

  “Hey, kid, I gotta talk to you for a second,” the man said to Stan. Stan recognized who he was. His name was Max Patkin, a well known “baseball clown” who performed an act at minor league parks for decades. He later portrayed himself in “Bull Durham”, starring Kevin Costner.

  “Yeah, I know you,” said Stan, putting his warm-up routine on hold.

  “Listen, kid,” said Patkin, “I’m gonna be doin’ my act out there. I’ll interrupt the game in the second inning. The umps are in on it. I’ll just be clownin’ on you and the players, but don’t get the red-ass, it’s just my act.”

  Baseball fan Stan, who had read of Patkin in The Sporting News, spoke with him for a while. When Patkin and he were done talking, Stan looked at the clock on the scoreboard and realized he had miscalculated the time. He only had five minutes before the game. Because it was so hot, he felt loose enough to start throwing without stretching his shoulder. He uncorked his first warm-up after Patkin’s departure with gusto. As soon as he released the ball, he knew he was in trouble. Something popped in his shoulder. Stan struggled through the rest of the warm-ups, but his heart was troubled. He knew he done something to his shoulder.

  In the first inning, Stan had nothing. The Giants tagged him hard for four runs. He went out to start the second inning, and after barely making eight warm-ups, was set to face the first hitter of the inning. He went into his wind-up, and was just ready to release the ball when the crowd roared. Out of the corner of his eye Stan spotted a giant geyser of water spouting from somewhere behind first base.

  He halted his motion, but it was awkward. In so doing he exacerbated the damage in his arm. Stan slumped to the ground in pain, and nobody noticed. He was writhing, on his knees, in tears.

  Max Patkin had “entered” the game, blowing a huge stream of water out of his mouth, or some secret water pump he carried in his “uniform.” Stan never knew how Patkin did it, nor did he care. He just knew his career was over!

  Eventually, the Cardinals’ manager and trainer saw Stan.

  “Jesus God,” they seemed to say together.

  Stan was taken out of the game. His season was over. The Cardinals sent him to the Kerlan-Jobe Sports Clinic at Centinela Medical Center in Inglewood. Dr. Kerlan performed rotator cuff surgery on his shoulder. The surgery was relatively new at that time, although Kerlan had already established a track record of success. His surgery on Stan was unsuccessful.

  Dan Taylor slipped into a brutal funk. He had gotten wind of the Max Patkin story and filled the air with expletives about “that fuckin’ clown.” He viewed the injury as some kind of cosmic plot to make life miserable for he and his. The fact that his son had suffered a career-ending injury, just as he had been hurt at Fort Ord, simply could not be a coincidence. He looked for people and institutions to blame and laid it on all of them. Being around him was pure misery, and poor Shirley simply had to endure him.

  As terrible as the injury was to Stan and his plans in baseball, he maintained a great deal of optimism about his future. He had a college degree, a wife and a beautiful child. He still felt that the world was a place he could conquer. He was young and strong. He was in love, and when he held Kaitlyn in his arms, there was no room for pain. She brought him only joy. He avoided Dan.

  Stan knew he was lucky just to be living in America. He was lucky to be healthy, and to have the opportunities that he had. As much as Stan loved baseball, he was surprised to discover that the prospect of not continuing with the game did not leave him in a state of despair. He had no doubt that he would be successful in anything he set his mind to. The injury was a blow, for sure, but he had given the game everything he had. He knew he would not have to look back and find blame in himself if he failed to make it, for whatever reason.

  Despite Kerlan’s failed surgical procedure, he decided to give baseball one final try. During the 1987-88 off-season, Stan went through rehab. He worked as hard as he ever had. Shortly before reporting to the Cardinals’ Spring Training camp in St. Petersburg, Florida, Stan was informed that he had been traded to the Oakland A’s. If St. Louis had kept him on their roster, they might have been liable for his medical bills should he choose to pursue future medical procedures. The Cards knew he was damaged goods, and baseball is a business. The A’s decided to give him a look-see, with no promises and a minimum salary. He never pitched in Spring Training. After a month in Modesto, he had pitched seven ineffective innings and was deemed washed up.

  “Stan,” manager Keith Lieppman said to him after a game, “would you step in here please?”

  After Lip released him, Stan waited in his office before going to shower and clear his locker. This is a tradition in baseball. Nobody wants to be around a released player. He might as well be dead.

  Stan’s unconditional release from the A’s created more angst for Dan. It was a strangely liberating experience for Stan. He had been gripping a baseball since he was eight years old. He realized it was baseball that gripped him. The game had been the end-all of things for too long. It still was to his father. After getting married and ascending to the top of the St. Louis Cardinals’ prospect list, Stan had briefly “earned” Dan’s respect. Now, he was back in the doghouse. The vitriol that he felt was not openly directed at him. Dan knew his “failure” to become a Major Leaguer was not his doing. But the “culprits” were not readily available for Dan to berate. Stan was, as usual.

  Dan said that the scouts had gotten together to downgrade Stan’s draft status after his junior year at USC. Had Stan had been drafted higher as a junior, he would have entered professional ball younger and healthier, and less likely to get hurt. He felt the coaches at USC must have given bad reports to the draft bureaus. He was down on Rod Dedeaux, who had lost his edge as a coach and retired.

  “You never got any coaching out of Dedeaux,” Stan exclaimed bitterly.

  Dan dwelled on the many innings his son had thrown for Jim Amber at Rollings Hills. He was mad about Stan’s back injury his junior year, and the way Ambers brought him in the day after pitching an entire game to relieve against Palos Verdes in the Southern Section title game in 1982. He had been over pitched at SC and in Alaska. A loose cabal of doctors, managers and player personnel directors had conspired to bring his son’s career to an end.

  Dan directed anger at Stan’s black manager in the Cardinals’ organization. He said he had pitched his son too much and ignored the “warning sign” of his injury, then “given up on Stan after he was hurt.” The racial angle did escape his view of the A’s. Stan was replaced on the Modesto roster with a black pitcher who happened to be the son of a Major League player. The Major Leaguer had been a teammate of the A’s big league manager.

  “I got it straight from the manager of the team,” Dan claimed, after having called Lieppman, “that you were replaced to make room for that black asshole because he was the son of a friend of the manager.”

  Why were you even calling Modesto? Stan thought to himself.

  Everything Dan said might have been true. Some of it probably was. Stan knew that, but as Frank Sinatra said, “that’s life.” Stan simply did not to pay credence to these theories. To spend the rest of his life harping on it was a recipe for disaster. He had hurt his arm. Max Patkin may have been to blame, but the reality was that it just happened. Stan was more concerned with his family, and his future, than in dissecting his past. The problem with hearing his father was that the “blame,” in one form or another, ended up on him. Especially when Dan was drinking. It was Stan who felt the stinging barbs, and the unshakeable feeling that his father’s bitterness was a part of his life he never could escape.

  Stan was now a man of the world. He had played with blacks and Dominicans, Southern “rednecks” and New York “wise guys.” He got along with everybody. He was popular, outgoing and respected for
his talent, work ethic, character, humor and intelligence. Stan had morphed, like a butterfly spreading its wings, from a painful child to a confident man. The one reminder of his past was Dan.

  Stan began to think about the Taylor Family. Heck, maybe it was more of a dynasty. Somehow, Dan had been left in the cold. Stan suspected that he knew why. Stan wanted to live up to his name.

  Kip Wentworth had become Secretary of Defense, serving in the Cabinet with Charles. Dan had labored in anonymity at Adams, Duque & Hazeltine. His brother had never lifted his finger to help promote Dan. Dan had received an invitation to the Presidential Inauguration, but it had come from the Republican National Committee, because he gave money to the party. He did not get any invites to the inside events, where the real power players were. Charles would never invite him into that sanctum.

  Charles’ son and grandchildren all seemed to fall into a certain “type.” None of them seemed to show the slightest interest in Charles’ successful career. They were rich trust fund kids, all of them. All they cared about was the stock market and USC football. They never even read the newspapers.

  Stan had spent very little time around his uncle and his cousins. With the birth of Kaitlyn, he felt the need to introduce her to the family. He started to make contact with the “other” Taylor’s. He reached out to Uncle Charles. Stan was naturally curious about the life his uncle led. Charles was walking, talking history.

  Stan queried Charles about his years in politics, the important decisions he was involved in, his dealings with Soviet leaders. He was rebuffed at every turn. The man could turn on the charm for television and the “talking heads.” He clammed up around his family. He was not unkind, just uncommunicative.

  Stan was part of a dysfunctional family. Stan missed his grandfather. He would have satisfied his curiosity. Stan had been the only one who paid any real attention or unforced love for his grandfather once the man became truly old.

  Karen became increasingly difficult to live with. She also expressed dismay at the way Dan and Shirley treated Stan.

  “Don’t you realize that they treat you like shit?” she asked Stan, accusingly.

  Stan had seen much worse growing up. To him, he was treated well.

  “It really pisses me off to see them treat you like they do,” she told Stan, “and it really pisses me off that you don’t stand up for yourself.”

  Stan was caught between his parents and his wife. He also had to make a living.

  A few weeks after being released by the A’s, Stan paid a visit to a Marine recruiter, who told him about a special deal the Marines were offering. They were looking for officer candidates, and would be willing to pay for graduate school in return for a tour of duty. It was a deal too good to pass up, and fit in with Stan’s vision. He saw himself as a leader and special person. The new generation of Taylor’s no longer thought about making their mark. He was the only one left. Let them play the stock market, Stan thought to himself.

  The Marines offered to fulfill two of Stan’s goals at once. He could become an officer and a lawyer on the same ticket. He would have to make it through Basic Training and Officer Candidate School. He was obligated to two years of active duty, which started when he signed his contract before Basic Training. After O.C.S., he could attend law school while serving in an active capacity. The Corps would pay for law school and he would receive an officer’s salary. If he completed law school, he would owe the Marines three years in the JAG corps. If Stan dropped out of law school, he would have to finish the remainder of his two-year tour of active duty, then serve four years in the Reserves.

  The Marines train their recruits in two places, Parris Island, South Carolina and Camp Pendleton, California, near San Diego. Camp Pendleton drill instructors are known as “Hollywood Marines.” Stan requested and was granted as part of his contract, that he be assigned to Camp Pendleton so his family could visit. Visitation was not allowed until the second half of the training cycle, and by that time Stan was aching to hold Kaitlyn.

  Basic Training was a drag, but not because of the physical requirements. Stan’s greatest challenge was separation from his family, no freedom, and mental drudgery. Stan had two main drill instructors. One of the Marines was an unlikely “jarhead” with a strange accent. He was half Louisiana Cajun, but had been raised in Puerto Rico. He was not the rock hard kind of guy one expected the D.I.’s to be, and Stan took to calling him Deputy Dog behind his back. Others were scared of the D.I.’s, but Stan saw through their act and never showed the slightest fear.

  This D.I. was tough and reliable. One day, he was teaching a man how to pull the pin on a hand grenade and throw it. The recruit was so nervous that he dropped the grenade, but the “ragin’ Cajun” quickly scooped it up and got it over the wall, avoiding disaster. He casually told recruits to “drop and gimme 20” push-ups. “No, no, no, ‘til I get tired.”

  The other Marine was a black sergeant who never said 10 words that were understood by Stan. At the firing range, he would use his hands to make a point, in a way that looked like the Atlanta Braves’ “tomahawk chop.”

  “Dare ain’ no reason dat…you can’ hit dat tahget out dare,” he said. After a while, Stan figured that he was saying, “There ain’t no reason that you can’t hit that target out there.”

  He was right. Stan hit it 17 out of 20 times to qualify as an expert marksman. The sergeant was a stickler for good hygiene. He saw Stan in the shower without a hand towel. Stan was using a bar of soap to lather up his buttocks area.

  “Yo better clean yo ass,” he yelled. “Where yo han’ towel? How yo gonna clean yo ass?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant,” Stan said, holding back snickers.

  One recruit made the mistake of calling the D.I. “Sarge.” He paid for that by lifting his M-16 over his head for four hours.

  The firing range featured another Marine nobody could understand. He was in charge of the range. Like most Marines placed in charge of property or territory, he jealously guarded it with his life. It was his personal fiefdom. With all the Marine recruits lined up in front of foxholes, M-16s at port arms, the firing range Marine gave his spiel.

  “You will put your weapawn on safe and make it a complete safe weapawn and you will not fire your weapawn until told to do so you will not leave your hole you will place your weapawn in front of you,” he said in one single monotone sentence, spoken in some kind Louisiana/Alabama dialect that was understood only by the two drill instructors, and then only because they had heard it 100 times.

  Still, it seemed pretty obvious. He wanted to make sure the Marines put their M-16s on safe, making it a complete safe “weapawn,” or weapon. Fine. Stan went into the hole. The signal went up, and he cracked off 20 shots. Excellent firing. After a minute, the range sergeant began to bellow, “Ceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaase fiiiiiiaaawwww ceeeaaase fiaww make sure yo weapawn’s on safe make sure you got a complete safe weapawn ceeeeeaaaase fiaww cease fiaww!”

  What he had said was, “cease fire, make sure you’re weapon’s on safe, make sure you got a complete safe weapon, cease fire, cease fire!” Nobody really knew what he said, but common sense dictated that he was telling the recruits to cease their fire.

  The Marine next to Stan was scared out of his mind. He had been picked on by the D.I.’s since day one. If it had been a movie, he would have been the poor slob the D.I.’s called “Gomer Pyle.” Stan never heard anybody called “Gomer Pyle.” They were called a lot worse than that. The guy was shaking in his boots, afraid of the weapon, the range sergeant, the drill instructors, and his own shadow.

  “Wwww-whadid he say?” he asked Stan.

  Stan could not help himself. All he could think about was an order George Patton had given his men when they caught the Wehrrmacht with their pants down at Al Gatar.

  “He said ‘fire away,’” said Stan. “`Fire at will.’”

  The recruit dutifully raised his weapon, pointed it at the target, and cracked off three distinct shots that
seemed louder than 100 Marines firing at once.

  The range sergeant went ballistic. He traveled 50 yards in three and a half steps. He jumped in the foxhole, pulled the weapon out of the recruit’s hands, and placed his face not near, but on his face. He spouted off about ”complete safe weapawns” and “cease fire” orders. He pronounced that the recruit had just made Marine Corp history. He said he had created a new definition of stupidity and ignorance.

  Stan was lucky that his quiet admonition to “fire at will” never came back to him. After Basic, Stan made it through O.C.S. in Quantico, Virgina, graduating as a Second Lieutenant. He was assigned to duty at the Pentagon. It was great duty. He moved Karen and Kaitlyn out to the Washington, D.C. suburb of Fairfax, Virginia and found himself working as a clerk in the Judge Advocate Corps.

  Stan loved it. It was not typical Marine duty. He had to keep his hair high and tight and wear the uniform. He had to be up early, and adhere to the usual discipline, but it was not dirty or gritty. It was a professional office atmosphere, intellectually stimulating, and it was at the Pentagon. Stan was often tasked with going to D.C. proper on various assignments. He had the distinct impression that he was, every day and in every way, laying the ground work for a successful career in the law.

  Stan entered Georgetown University law school. It was the perfect situation. Technically, he had duties at the Pentagon, but the Marines were very supportive. Mainly, his workday consisted of studying and using the law library.

  Stan took to law school with everything he had. He was not a natural student, and he had problems with reading comprehension, but he made up for it with hard work. The problem was at home. Karen hated military life. She missed her family in Arcadia. She was lonely, taking care of Kaitlyn while Stan went to school. He was up at the crack of dawn and did not come home until after dark. She completely let herself go. She ballooned bigger and bigger every day, completely losing the shapely figure she had when she had met Stan.

  She sat around the rented house they lived in, wearing ragged, smelly sweat pants, or a half shirt from her sexy days that she should have thrown away. It accentuated her big stomach and wide hips. She would go without bathing for a day or two. She never picked up the house. She did not cook or clean. Stan came home, exhausted, and picked up dirty clothes lying all over the place. He loaded the dishwasher and put food back in the refrigerator. She used their credit cards and ran up debt that Stan could not keep up with.

  When Stan looked at Karen, he thought about one of his USC frat brothers, Larry Thatcher. Larry was a rich kid from Newport Beach who had gone to USC for a year before transferring to UCLA because he hated SC’s neighborhood. Then he went to Pepperdine Law School for one reason: The surfing in Malibu. Larry flunked out of Pepperdine and went into construction. He was a real piece of work. The first time Stan saw him in a bar, he was saying to nobody in particular was, “Get wasted.” Larry was a typical California beach kid with hair to his butt. He looked like David Lee Roth and sounded like Jack Nicholson.

  At the frat, Larry got up and announced, “I gotta take a dump.”

  “There’s no shit paper, man,” somebody said.

  “I’ll cut if off clean,” Larry replied, and he was serious. Everybody looked at him as if he was crazy. Stan thought of something Larry once said, when Stan saw his Karen lying around the house in a state of disarray.

  “Hey man,” Larry had said, describing a friend of his father’s, “this guy works his ass off all week. He’s got a mortgage and debts, a wife and two kids. His wife’s fat and ugly and don’t do shit. She sits around the house, don’t clean up, and bitches and moans about every fuckin’ thing with a bad attitude. Man, that’s supposed to be my old man’s buddy’s pay-off? Shee-it, that sucks. That ain’t no pay-off.”

  Stan contemplated whether that was his pay off. Eventually, Karen moved out of the house and took Kaitlyn with her to Arcadia. Stan finished his first year of law school. He had the world by the short hairs, except that his marriage was breaking up. He decided to try and save the marriage.

  Stan exercised his contractual opt/out with the Marines. He quit Georgetown and served out the remainder of his active duty at the Pentagon. He returned to Los Angeles, where he joined a Reserve unit.

  Stan called on his alma mater. The baseball team was looking for a bullpen coach. Stan got the job. He still owned the house in Redondo, but it was lonely without his baby girl. Every day he finished up the day’s baseball work at SC, whether it was a game or a practice. He bantered with the other coaches, smiling and joking. Then Stan took a shower, got in his car, and picked up the Harbor Freeway. He inched into rush hour traffic. By the time he passed Vernon Avenue, he was crying like a baby.

  He tried to have Kaitlyn on weekends, but the baseball schedule usually interfered with this. Karen wanted nothing to do with the marriage. She had, in fact, made good on her word, which was that she was “a bitch who’s made everybody’s life whose ever been involved with me miserable.”

  The latest on the list of les miserables was Stan Taylor. Karen hated the military lifestyle. She hated his ambitions. She hated law school and lawyers. She told Stan she was a Democrat when they met, but she had hidden how vehemently she hated Republicans. She hated Stan’s flag waving patriotism. Stan tried to introduce her Christianity. She hated that, too. She hated Stan for being in tip-top physical condition. She hated the other “jarheads” and their wives. She used the word “hate” 20 times a day.

  Stan thought she was compatible with him. She was blonde, blue eyed, and at one time voluptuous and beautiful. She was a USC girl, and a sports fanatic. But her looks left her faster than a Sandy Koufax fastball. She was moody and clinically depressed. She had no spiritual moorings and was not the kind of person who finished what she started. She was a quitter. The things Karen and Stan had in common were overshadowed by their differences and her shortcomings.

  Stan had been a good husband, an excellent father, and never cheated on her, even when beautiful baseball groupies offered themselves. She became a smelly slob; constantly sick, coughing, and saddled with yeast infections. Stan knew he had made a mistake giving up a promising legal and military career for this woman. It hurt him much more than ending his baseball career. He blamed himself. Dan and Shirley were furious at Karen, but this did Stan no good. Their loud exhortations of disdain made Stan feel like it was aimed at him. He could not stand being around them.

  During the divorce proceedings, Karen wanted the house and full custody. Stan petitioned for joint physical and legal custody. Handling his own case, he ran into continued problems with the Los Angeles Superior Court. The clerks, who were members of the Dumbellionite Class, kept kicking his petition back to him for small “infractions.” There were no infractions. The clerks were incompetence and sloppy.

  Dan stuck his head into the situation, and suggested that he stop trying for joint legal and physical custody in favor of expediency. Stan looked at him as if he was from outer space.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he told his father. “I’m gonna fight for all my parental rights. That means I’m gonna see my daughter when I want to and not when some court tells me to. That, my friend, simply falls into that category of things that’re GONNA happen!”

  Stan wanted to live in the house. Karen would not let him have it. They sold it and split the proceeds. Karen had never put a dime into its purchase or upkeep. The petition was finally approved and the divorce was final.

  26-year old Stan Taylor was now a fractured golden boy, his “perfect” life flawed by real life disappointment and failure. The experience of a broken marriage left him feeling washed up and wiped out. The settlement may have called for joint legal and physical custody of Kaitlyn, but the reality was that Karen got her. Stan got heartache and pain.

  Kaitlyn stayed with Stan on a Friday night. The arrangement was for Stan to return her to Karen at the 502 Club the next day. They were both attending a football game at the nearby Coli
seum. Stan had decided that no matter how much he despised Karen, he would be nice to her for Kaitlyn’s sake.

  The nicer Stan was, the more hateful Karen got. She could not handle the fact that she had hurt this fine young man so badly. She was not nice by nature. In order to justify what she had done, she blamed Stan for everything that was not his fault. At the 502 Club, she embodied evil. Stan’s friends were stunned that such a fat, slovenly woman had been married to this 6-6 Marine officer. Stan tried to keep things smooth, but Karen was into her beer.

  “Kaitlyn will learn the truth about you,” she spewed. “I wish I could prove her not to be yours, you’d never see her again you son of a bitch.”

  Stan was not kind of sure that he was Kaitlyn’s natural father. He knew that he was. It was factual knowledge that he possessed. Karen’s words backed him up in a way that rarely happened. He felt the way he did when he told Wayne Fingers “You are OUTTA HERE!!!” He got into Karen’s face like Leo Durocher arguing with Harry Wendelstedt. She was forced to retreat several steps and knocked over a Budweiser display. People around them stared.

  “Karen,” he said, “What it is is and it’s like this now see! I will defend my legal rights as a parent. Every single one of them! Learn that and let it burn into your consciousness. You will not come between me and my little girl.”

  “Oh, don’t give me any of your bullsh - ”

  “I’m not having a discussion with you,” said Stan, “I’m informing you that I’ve identified this slander of yours about my not being Kaitlyn’s natural father as untrue. I am aware that you know it to be untrue, yet you repeat anyway. There is a word for that. The word is lie. Now I’ve informed you that your lies are exposed.”

  Stan had her braced up against the wall. Several men were ready to intervene on her behalf, thinking he was going to hit her. Karen was frightened. She had never seen this side of him before. He had always been patient, forgiving and apologetic, no matter how moody and bitchy she acted. She was treading on sacred ground now. Kaitlyn was Stan’s whole world. She meant everything to him. Karen knew that being an obstacle to Stan being a daddy was not a smart move.

  “Fuck with me on this issue,” he snarled, “and you’ll lose.”

  She would have as much chance as a Viet Cong village against an F-16 Tomcat.

  Karen could not deny Stan his rights, but she did drive another stake through Stan’s heart. Karen’s mother moved to Walnut Creek, in the San Francisco Bay Area. Karen moved with her and took Kaitlyn. Now, Stan’s little girl was not 40 miles away. She was 400 miles away.

  Stan strongly considered going back to law school. He picked up applications to Loyola and Southwestern. Then Iraq invaded Kuwait. Stan’s Marine Reserve unit was called up and sent to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

  Stan was assigned as a paralegal to a JAG unit charged with handling cases under the Uniformed Code of Military Justice. It was hot and dusty in Saudi Arabia. The Americans were not allowed to drink or socialize outside of their base. The few cases that came up were boring. The only excitement was when Saddam Hussein launched an occasional SCUD, but the American Patriot missiles knocked them out of the sky. After four months, Stan was rotated back to the States.

  When he returned to California, Stan received a call from an old buddy who had been running a baseball team in Rome, Italy. His friend had been offered a scouting job. Would Stan be interested in replacing him as manager of a team in the Italian Professional League?

  The position did not pay all that much, but it meant a chance to live and travel in Europe for a year. Stan accepted the job. The team consisted of players from different countries. The roster included several players from Italy. Italy has enjoyed baseball for years, and the Italians were good players. There were American players of Italian descent, mainly guys who had played in college but were not drafted. Each team was allowed three Americans who were not of Italian descent, who had played professionally in the States. Stan fell into this category. The rest of the club included a few other international players - one South African, an Australian, and a guy from Taiwan.

  Stan was given a pensione and an expense account. Perks included free gym membership and admiring Italian girls. Blonde hair is big in Italy. In Rome, he had time on his hands. He sometimes worked out twice a day. Stan looked like a toned Adonis. His skin was tanned from the hot Mediterranean sun. By night, he partied at wild Rome discos and nightclubs. He did not speak Italian, but that was no problema. The Italian women knew the language of love. His sex life was outrageous. Girls fought over him. Sometimes they partnered up and shared him. Stan lived a fantasy life. His travels took him to the European capitols of Berlin, Paris and London. He somehow managed to get over Karen!

  The pay was not great, so Stan began to look for an opportunity to make money on the side. One of the discos he frequented was the Magic Balloon. It was always filled with beautiful, horny girls. Stan would party in the main bar, but there was another section of the club that was “ladies only.” Stan found out that male strippers entertained the girls in there. He had a brainstorm.

  Stan was in the best physical condition of his life, and in a place far from home where nobody would know what he was doing. He approached the Magic Balloon’s owner, and told him he wanted to be one his male strippers.

  A week later, the marquee at the Magic Balloon advertised the “California Dream.” For several months, Stan was a popular strip act at the club, where the girls dressed impeccably, hair nicely coiffed, and they were enthusiastic over him. It was a full strip act, and Stan had no trouble letting the ladies take “liberties” with him.

  One night an awesome, huge-breasted girl sat in the front row. When Stan danced in front of her, she went all the way. Stan had a full erection working, and the girl grabbed him and sucked him off until he ejaculated all over her lips. It was spectacular and drew a big cheer from the girls. After Stan left his dressing room, the girl was waiting for him. Her name was Sarah Young. She was English, but was a tremendous porno star in Germany. She was filming a movie for her production company in Italy, and asked Stan to be in her movie. Stan agreed.

  He appeared in an adult movie, one of seven men having sex with Sarah Young at the same time. She wanted him to be one of her regulars, but Stan decided that his porn debut would be his porn finale.

  The baseball experience was not without its hitches. Stan had taken the job thinking he was strictly the manager. When he got to Italy, he learned that he was a player-manager. He tried to pitch, but his rotator cuff injury left him ineffective. The Italians were not familiar with rotator cuff injuries. They thought he was the same flame-throwing pitcher who had starred at USC and in the minor leagues. Instead, Stan was a relic of his old self. In his first game, he was touched for four runs in the first inning. His teammates and club management, expecting a no-hitter, were shocked.

  “But, they hit you,” the team’s general manager said, in shock.

  Stan had been hired with the understanding that he would manage the Italian National Team, which would mean staying an extra year. When he got to Italy, he learned that he was in contention for the job of managing the national team. The Italians were about as committed to the truth as Bill Clinton. After his disappointing pitching performance, his team failed to make the upper tier of the league play-offs. Stan was not offered the managerial job.

  “You have had your chance, and you have failed,” was the way they put to him. After spending some time traveling, Stan returned to Los Angeles. Stan’s parents had arranged to have Kaitlyn with them when Stan arrived home. When he got off the plane at Los Angeles International Airport, she was standing before him wearing a cute little dress and holding a plastic lunch pale. She looked like a little doll.

  “Daddy!” she exclaimed.

  It was the greatest moment of Stan’s life. Stan rushed to her and embraced her. They kissed and held each other. The entire plane exited, right down to the flight attendants. Stan still hugged Kaitlyn. He loved this child
with a fervor that cannot be described by mere words on this page.

  The Redondo house had been sold, and he had to stay with his folks. The look on Dan’s face said it all. The joy of being with Kaitlyn was diluted by his sourpuss expressions. He perceived Stan as having failed in Europe. Stan’s team just did not have the talent to win their division. Stan had told his father what the Italians had told him, that he would manage the Rome team, then the national team. The fact he had been lied to did not register with Dan.

  “Fucking lied to me,” he muttered for Stan’s consumption.

  This was a typical example of why Stan tried to reduce the amount of information he told his parents. It could always come back to haunt him. When the Italians told him he would be there for two years, he should not have repeated that to his old man. He was better off giving them lowered expectations, like a dark horse politician.

  Stan sat in the recliner, drinking a beer. He tried to recount his experiences with enthusiasm. At one point, a silence ensued.

  “Don’t just look like some kind of an asshole,” Dan said after a while.

  This statement encapsulated the experience of Stan’s lifetime.

  “So, what the hell are you gonna do with yourself now?” Dan wanted to know.

  Unfortunately, Stan did not have the slightest clue. He stayed at his parents for a few weeks, making for constant friction.

  Stan was working at his desk when Dan entered.

  “I have an offer for you,” Dan said.

  Dan was in the middle of something and did not look up fast enough.

  “Goddamn you all to lousy hell,” Dad said and walked off in a huff.

  They did not speak for a couple of days. Dan actually preferred it that way. It made life a little more efficient. He was reading Tolstoy’s “War and Peace” when Dan walked in his room.

  “Are you going to pay attention to me?” he demanded to know.

  “Sure,” said Stan.

  “There’s a paralegal position at Adams, Duque & Hazeltine,” Dan said in the kind of clipped way that a D.A. might say, “We won’t ask for the death penalty if you admit to killing the old lady in Riverside County.” “It pays fifty thousand with benefits. You can live here rent free -.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Stan.

  “I haven’t offered it,” said Dan.

  “Will you offer it?” asked Stan.

  “Yes, if you - ” said Dan.

  “I’ll take it,” repeated Stan.

  For the next year and a half, he commuted, usually with his father, to the Adams, Duque office, located on the tenth floor of a high-rise office tower at 523 West Sixth Street in downtown Los Angeles. As long as Stan was not going to be a lawyer, it was limited, but for a while it appeared to be leading him in the direction he wanted to go. It was the same direction his father had once thought about going. He also made the time to become a steadier churchgoer than he had ever been.

  One of the firm’s partners was Peter Goode. Goode was a handsome, industrious, self-made man, a former police officer who had worked his way through Southwestern Law School’s night program, and after establishing himself as a corporate litigator at another firm, was enticed to come over to Adams, Duque. He had a gift for ingratiating himself, and had passed over several other seemingly more qualified attorneys to become a partner.

  Goode was established in Los Angeles political circles. He lived in Pacific Palisades, and operated within Westside G.O.P. circles. He recognized excellent qualities in Dan Taylor’s son. He was surprised, because he was not impressed with Dan. Goode gave Stan a few perfunctory tests just to make sure he was not all exterior gloss. First, Stan was tasked with writing a feasibility report on whether the firm could self-insure or continue paying high fees to an insurance company.

  “Peter thinks your report was just excellent,” Goode’s attractive Hispanic secretary, Lauren, told Stan.

  Goode then asked Stan to prepare a case. Stan spent every day in the firm’s library until 11 at night. He worked the weekend. On morning, the motion was prepared and sitting on Peter’s desk.

  “Peter really likes your work,” Lauren told him. Lauren was an extension of Peter. The more he liked Stan, the she more she liked him.

  Goode had not spent much time with Stan. He called him in to the office.

  “Have you ever thought about a future in politics?” he asked him.

  “Yes,” said Stan, “I sure have.”

  “I’ve met your uncle,” said Peter. “I think you can follow in his footsteps. You have everything, Stan, to make it in politics: Looks, pedigree, intelligence, education, athletic background, military service, ambition. I’d like to help if you’d like.”

  “I sure would,” said Stan.

  Goode was the parliamentarian of the Los Angeles County Republican Central Committee. He invited Stan to meetings. Over time, Stan started doing “special assignments” on behest of Goode. Stan was involved in little actual legal research, court filings, and the kinds of traditional tasks reserved for paralegals and law clerks. Instead, he found himself hobnobbing with elected officials at various functions. His position made him a person of status at the Young Republican meetings that he attended. The YR’s met once a month. The Young Republicans were professional people and included plenty of attractive women looking for husbands. Stan made “friends” with a few of the ladies. He was a most eligible bachelor.

  Goode put Stan to work on several different campaigns that were going on in L.A. and Orange County during this time. He did opposition research, helped draft speeches and press releases, and provided strategic advice. Stan was the campaign manager for a Congressional candidate who ran a tough campaign against an incumbent Democrat. He used his office and the firm’s resources for the campaign. Stan was concerned that this did not go over well with some of the firm’s employees, but Peter assured him he had his blessing, which was all he needed. Stan did a good job and came close to getting his unknown candidate over the hump.

  All of Stan’s politicking caused some hullabaloo in the office. He was being paid by the firm to work almost exclusively on politics. He was frequently out of the office, even traveling on the firm’s dime. He hobnobbed with Governor Pete Wilson and was assigned to drive President George Bush’s Chief of Staff, John Sunnunu, around town during his visit to Los Angeles. This required that he go through a background check, which put him on a list for the “plumb jobs” that President’s hands out as patronage to party activists. He traveled to Washington to discuss his future. The party liked him as either a political consultant or candidate.

  He was a glamour boy, which did not go over well with everybody at Adams, Duque & Hazeltine. Dan was not the most popular lawyer there. Stan had been viewed with a touch of suspicion when he arrived. His sudden high profile caught some by surprise. The firm was not as predominantly Republican as it had been when Richard Nixon was a partner. Some of the office liberals were none too pleased to see young Taylor getting paid to work in such a blatantly partisan manner. As long as Peter Goode was his angel, however, he did not have anything to worry about.

  Stan wrote a long, detailed letter to his Uncle Charles. Charles was a visiting fellow at Stanford’s Hoover Institute. He told Charles how he had gone to work for Richard Nixon’s old law firm and was involved in politics with Peter Goode. Stan wrote that he was very interested in politics as a career. He was considering running for office some day. He also felt he had the goods to be a political consultant, speechwriter, or aide to an elected or appointed official. Stan wrote that he would love to work in Washington, D.C. He asked his uncle if he might be able to make any recommendation on his behalf, with any of his contacts from his years in public life.

  Charles never responded to the letter.

  Stan hooked up with Lauren. She was a hot number with a glint in her eye the way some Spanish women do. She wore short skirts and black nylon stockings with high heels. Stan sensed immediately that she was a very sexual girl. She came f
rom a big, Catholic family in the San Fernando Valley, and despite her flirtatious manner, was the motherly type.

  Stan poured his heart out to her about how much he missed Kaitlyn. Lauren had a little boy of her own. She had never been married, and the father had taken the child with him to Texas. She had spent a lot of money fruitlessly trying to get custody, and worried whether she would ever see him again. She commiserated with Stan, who felt great empathy with her frustration over not seeing her little boy.

  In order to take her mind off her absent child, Lauren had taken to risky lifestyle behavior. She had been a heartbreaker at Notre Dame High School. She lapsed in her Catholicism, looking for love, thrills, or something she could hold on to. She began to attend swing parties. Being pretty and sexual, she quickly became very popular. She invited Stan to go out with her, but did not disclose the true nature of the “date.”

  “I think you need this,” she told him. “It’ll take your mind off your troubles.”

  The party was at a house high in the Hollywood Hills above the Barham exit off the 101, overlooking Lake Hollywood. Stan was amazed at how many attractive women were there. He saw recognizable people from the entertainment industry. This was not one of those “pay at the door” swing parties advertised in the LA Xpress or LA Weekly.

  “Jesus,” Stan said to Lauren when he realized what was going on.

  Lauren just laughed. She quickly took to the activities. Stan and Lauren engaged in heterosexual sex and “swapped” with several couples. Then Lauren took him by the hand and led him upstairs.

  “There’s something I think you oughtta see,” she told him.

  They entered a room. It was a much different scene. Downstairs, popular rock songs had played. Upstairs, the music was weird. The atmosphere was dark and foreboding. Groups of men and women were groping at each other. It was not the “tame” straight sex that had gone on downstairs.

  “Look in the corner,” Lauren said to Stan.

  The lighting was not good. Stan strained to see what Lauren was pointing out to him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Do you see who that is?” she asked him.

  Stan looked closer.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he remarked.

  In the corner of the room, on a bed, was Peter Goode. Peter was receiving a blowjob from a girl. At the same time he was giving one to another guy.

  “You’re Republican hero’s a bi-sexual,” Lauren told him.

  Stan was ready to leave.

  “Hi, Peter,” Lauren said, loudly.

  “What are you doing?” said Stan. He tried to leave.

  “Wait,” Lauren said, and she held his arm.

  Peter pulled his mouth off the erection and looked over. He recognized Lauren, but showed no concern over being recognized. Then he saw Stan. Their eyes met. It was obvious that Peter was very mad that Stan now knew his secret.

  “Peter and I’ve been with each other at these parties a few times,” she told Stan. “He just likes to swing from both sides of the plate.”

  “Let’s go,” he said to Lauren.

  “I’m just getting started,” she told him.

  “I’m done,” he said.

  Stan got his clothes and left without Lauren.

  Stan was still young, naïve and innocent enough to find it hard to believe that a guy like Peter - who was “happily” married with three kids - could be bi-sexual. It did not fit his profile of a Republican corporate lawyer. It taught him a lesson. The lesson was that things are very often not what they seem.

  At work on Monday, Stan approached Lauren.

  “You fucked me over taking me to that Goddamn thing,” he told her.

  Lauren was not her usual friendly self.

  “Don’t act so pure, Stan,” she said to him. “You’re no virgin.”

  “I’ve been around the block,” he told her, “but you knew Peter was there. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Stan avoided Peter. When they finally had occasion to be around each other, Stan’s worst fears were realized. The happy, smiling Peter was a thing of the past. He no longer was willing to mentor his young protégé into politics. Peter wanted Stan out.

  Stan’s responsibilities became more mundane. The handwriting was on the wall. He took a vacation to the Bay Area, staying with friends so he could spend time with Kaitlyn in Walnut Creek. He drove her back to Palos Verdes Estates, trying to be a long distance dad.

  “I wish I saw you more, Daddy,” she said to him.

  “I know, baby,” Stan said. His heart was breaking inside. “I know you do.”

  “Will you and Mommy be married again?” she asked.

  “No, baby,” he replied.

  “I wish you and Mommy were married,” she told him.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” is all he could say.

  Kaitlyn cried.

  “Oh, baby,” he said. “Please don’t cry.”

  He began to cry, too.

  “Daddy,” she said. “Are you crying?”

  Stan was bawling.

  “I love you, Daddy,” she said through her tears.

  “I love you so much,” he managed to mumble.

  “I wish you lived with us,” she said.

  Stan was too broken-hearted to say any more.

  “Please don’t cry, Daddy,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Stan introduced Kaitlyn to the Episcopalian Church in Palos Verdes. It was the first time she had been to church since being baptized there as a baby. Karen was an atheist and Stan knew he had his hands full if he was to win the battle for her soul. When she went back to Walnut Creek, he was distraught with loneliness. Stan broke out in tears in his office, in the car, and at home.

  European porn chicks, Republican husband-seekers and Hollywood swing parties were no replacement for his daughter. He wanted a family. He had come to know that real love and lasting happiness was centered on wholesome things.

  “Daddy’s love their little girls,” he sobbed. “Daddy’s should be with their families.” Alas, his family was no more and he could do nothing about it.

  Stan sought solid things to occupy his mind. He found comfort in church and made friends with the elderly couples who made up most of the congregation. They asked a lot of personal questions, though.

  “Where’s your better half?” one woman asked, assuming he was married.

  “Where’s your daughter?” somebody else wanted to know after he had brought her in a few times.

  Stan was not so much embarrassed to explain that he was divorced and his daughter lived near San Francisco. Rather, the subject depressed him. Being reminded of it made it worse. He poured his frustrations into a continuing heavy workout regimen at Gold’s Gym in Redondo Beach, which was filled with beautiful women. Somewhere in between his Christian faith and fatherly devotion, there was still a side of him that enjoyed loose women and conquest. That side of him was not going anywhere.

  On a Saturday night at P.J. Brett’s on Sepulveda Boulevard, Stan and a buddy were trying to impress three delectable volleyball girls when Stan heard her familiar, sultry voice.

  “Some things never change,” she said.

  Stan turned. Rebecca appeared like an angel. She looked fantastic. She was sexy and seemed healthy. She was dressed casually, not like a Manila bar girl.

  “Sorry girls,” she said to the three women. “I think Bachelor Number One has made his choice.”

  Indeed he had. Stan embraced Rebecca and stuck his tongue down her throat. Rebecca grabbed his crotch.

  “You are a happy man,” she said.

  The girls just looked at the self-confident bitch, taking over this interesting guy. She had suddenly rendered them obsolete in his eyes. The weird thing was that they had not shown much interest in Stan when he was sitting with his pal drinking Coors, and then using the bottle for a spittoon after putting in a gib of Copenhagen. Now that this Linda Carter look-alike grabbed him, he instantly became
a hot commodity.

  Stan took Rebecca back to his house. His parents were at Tahoe. He told her his woes, how he had married Karen despite her warnings that she was such a bitch, only to learn that she had been quite serious. He told her he should have married her.

  “Ha,” was her reply.

  He told her about his beautiful Kaitlyn, and Rebecca was touched at the fatherly love that Stan displayed. He showed her the shrine of Kaitlyn’s photos that were displayed all over the house. Then he made love to her. It was the first time in a long while that he felt something truly special about a woman.

  Rebecca had gone to Mexico with a photographer who had taken a bunch of nude, swimsuit and lingerie photos of her, some of which had made their way into magazines like “Swank” and “Gent”.

  Rebecca had continued her drug habit. It was amazing that she looked as good as she did.

  “I’m young,” she told Stan, “but it’ll catch up to me some day.” She laughed as if she had just told a great joke, but there was just a tinge of edgy sadness to her.

  For months after that night, Stan engaged in a frustrating fight over Rebecca. She split her time between a drug dealer in Santa Monica, and some geeky guy in Lakewood. Stan bailed her out of jail. He never had a good phone number for her. She never called back when he tried to get a hold of her anyway. She would be under cover for a week or two at a time, and then emerge from the shadows. She only went to Stan when she was sober, or close to it. She did not want Stan to see her when she was really high.

  Stan would look for her in some of her haunts; dive bars in West Los Angeles, the King’s Head Pub in Santa Monica, the 502 Club, D.B. Cooper’s on Motor Avenue, and the Hermosa Saloon on P.C.H. Sometimes he found her. Sometimes he found her in the arms of another guy. It was usually a fruitless, frustrating search.

  Stan was infatuated with Rebecca. In her he saw beauty and grace. He saw an intelligent young lady from a great family. Somehow he got it in his head, as he had for a brief time during college, that he could “save” her. He finally called her father and had a long conversation with him. He explained that he had known her at USC. He told him he was an ex-player, a law student and Marine officer. He omitted his brief career as a male stripper and porn stud. He wanted the doctor to know he was not one of her bar room drug pals. He told him he thought he could get her off drugs and make a life with her.

  Rebecca’s father was nice. He wished Stan luck. He said he would do what Stan wanted. He agreed to cooperate with the plan. Stan detected inevitability in his voice. He did not have much faith that Rebecca could be saved.

  “If she were my daughter I’d do anything, I’d take her place in hell, to save her,” Stan said.

  Nothing worked. Rebecca showed up, and Stan would spend a day, maybe a gloriously happy weekend with her. She had a smile like sunshine. Her personality and sense of humor was rare and different. She was off the wall and wonderful. Their sex was off the charts.

  Then she would be gone. Stan imagined the worst. A drunk Rebecca getting picked up by strange men next to the jukebox. A drug dealer including her as part of a sex bargain to increase the cost of the blow he was selling.

  Stan had chosen the “good girl” Karen over the “bad girl” Rebecca. What a joke. Karen was evil and conniving. Other girls were in contempt of Rebecca’s sexuality. Karen would have cut her to pieces with vicious barbs and slurs had she known her. But Rebecca had a genuine good heart. Life offered interesting choices and equally interesting results. Stan always came back to the realization that his union with Karen had produced the lovely Kaitlyn. For this, he was eternally grateful.

  God works in mysterious ways, he told himself.

  The respectability he had expected out of marriage to Karen had backfired. He had chosen a path that seemed not only obvious, but also paved with gold. One by one, his life had taken twists and turns. The experiences were enlightening. He had shown a reckless streak. Being a male stripper and porn actor was not exactly a smart choice for the nephew of the former United States Secretary of State. e had shown a reckless streak. Dancing naked and making a porn flick was not the best possible choice for the nephew of the former Unuited StatexdSecretary of State. In the end, perhaps his choices would make him a better man, but right now his emotions were raw. Now, his political path had been halted, at least temporarily. Why had Lauren insisted that he see Peter at that swing party? Why had she taken him there in the first place, and for that matter, why did he stay once he knew what was going on?

  He knew the answer to the last question. He tried to tell himself that he was still young, and would outgrow his lusts. But would he? What did it all mean? What did God think of him? As a conservative who considered himself to be a member of the Christian Coalition, Stan knew that he was not living the life that true Christians were supposed to lead. But neither were a lot of high-profile Christians like Jimmy Swaggart and Jim Bakker. Stan told himself that he had to be honest in his assessment not only of himself, but in his judgments of others. He resolved not to be a hypocrite. He was what he was. He had love in his heart, and that was the most important thing.

  Stan had love in his heart for Rebecca. His efforts at helping her were noble, but down deep he asked himself the tough questions.

  Would I spend so much time trying to help Rebecca if she were ugly? he wondered. The answer was no.

  Would I spend so much time helping her if she did not fulfill all my lustful fantasies? Again, the answer was no. Stan was acting in his own selfish interests. He wanted to mold and control her. Was this a good thing? Karen accused him of trying to control her. She was right. He knew he was going to try and control Kaitlyn, too. Was that the right thing to do?

  The passage of time and a series of events helped Stan get over what she laughingly called the “Rebecca Syndrome,” and ended what Stan called his Year of Living Dangerously.

  Rebecca disappeared for an extended time with her drug dealer to Mexico. This was a blow to Stan. It made him sad and angry, but it helped cement in his mind what an uphill battle he faced if he was going to bring Rebecca to a safe life.

  Things at work were tense. Dan had no idea about Peter Goode’s bi-sexuality or the swing parties. He only knew that Goode no longer mentored his son. In his way of looking at things, it was Stan who must have “blown it,” somehow.

  Yeah, well, you shoulda seen Goode “blowing it,” Stan thought to himself.

  Either way, Stan was no longer the fair-haired boy of Adams, Duque & Hazeltine. Besides, once the 1992 elections had come and gone, politics would be put on hold insofar as it was the “official business” of the firm. Stan had never gone back to law school, and did not plan to. His future at the firm was nebulous. It was time for a change. For his sins, it found him.

 

 

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