“Awww, reindeer—that’s precious,” I teased.
A tea kettle whistled in the kitchen and Eddie went for it. A squeaking cupboard door and the sound of two cups hitting the counter top told me something warm was coming.
“If Joey could get here in say a week,” Eddie began through sips of the steaming Lipton, “we could have Ronnie broken in on our tunes and Joey would take another seven days. It’d only take maybe two weeks and we could be right back in the loop.”
“I think tha—” I was stopped in mid-sentence by the sudden ring of the phone.
“Hello! Joey?” My voice was overflowing with anticipation.
“Yeah, Rusty, it’s me.”
Something was awkward. I sensed it immediately.
“Listen, I—thank you for the offer. We’ll be gigging together soon, man. I promise. But right now’s just impossible for me to get away.”
“Ahhh, Joey. Shit, man, this is a perfect situation. Money. Long-term gig. Everything. What’s the problem?” I groaned, not wanting to accept his answer. This is what we had all been wanting. How could he turn it down?
“Well, it’s Karen, the girl I’ve been telling you about. She’s stuck here for a few more years with school and a business. And…well…I’ve started working with that band, Chips and Company, and the recording studio I’m working at is starting to put me up the ladder a bit. I’m sorry, Rusty. It’s just a few more years here, then I’m back. I promise.”
“Man, this is a complete three-sixty,” I said, shocked.
Eddie read my face and yelled, “Get on out here, Zagarino! We need you, boy.”
Joey laughed. “Tell him I’ll be there soon, Rusty.”
We both fell silent on the phone. I flashed on the day he drove off with his parents and sister, and I stood there, feeling like I wanted to die. I didn’t feel all that different now.
“Well, hell,” I said, crushed. “I know you’ve had to plant some roots there and I can understand the thing with Karen. She sounds like an out-of-sight girl.”
“She is, man. Extremely groovy.” Joey’s voice seemed happier now. “I can’t wait for you to meet her. We’re really hot and heavy.”
I could feel myself accepting the inevitable. “All right. It’ll work out. I know it’s the way it’s supposed to be. I have ultimate faith, bro.” I ran my fingers through my wet hair.
“I’ll be back, Johnson, and with what I’m learning in the recording studio and what you’re doing there, we’re gonna be in hog heaven by the time I return. Okay, pal?”
“Okay, Zigg-arino,” I answered. “All right, write me and send me stuff on your band. Hey, a picture of the cheesecake Karen, too. I’ll bet we get signed before you do.”
“I will. I’ll write and talk to you soon, brother. Good-bye,” he said.
“Yeah, bye, bro.”
I hung up the phone slowly.
Eddie looked up. “Well, better call Ronnie and Toney.”
“Yep,” I said, staring at the damp carpet. “Really a shame.”
I took a moment for myself, letting the full force of the disappointment settle in, kicking myself mentally for getting so wound up. But inside, I felt like screaming. I’d tried to get Joey back and it didn’t work.
Eddie fixed his gaze on the opening night crowd. Gazzarri’s was sold out for The Pacific Ocean’s return. We took the stage. Our frame of mind was way over the top and we were chomping at the bit to perform. Eddie stepped up to the microphone.
“How you all doing?”
The audience was wailing and cheering and ready to see what we had come up with this time.
“Rusty and I have some new friends we’d like you to meet. Right here on guitar is none other than the world class ‘New York’ Toney Carr! And over there sitting on keyboards next to Rusty, the multi-talented Mr. Ron Henslee!”
The crowd cheered.
“We’re going to start with a little ‘Ninety-nine and a Half .’”
He bent at the waist and shouted, “Ah-1-2-3-4!”
Something surged from the audience, and the power coming from the stage ignited us. Eddie and I glanced at each other and smiled, knowing the combination was right.
We had gambled and won. Our life on the wire was once again alive.
I reached for a fistful of popcorn on the bar and looked at my watch. 12:26 a.m. the twelve-dollar Timex warned. Eddie and I were merely killing time until the 1:00 a.m. set and talking with two beautiful black girls from UCLA. Eddie lost interest in the conversation and was on his toes, pointing towards the back of the club.
“Isn’t that Jim Morrison from the Doors back there with Bill Gazzarri?”
I strained to see over a few people.
“Holy moly, it is Morrison. Time to do business, rubber man.”
We walked through two hundred weekend hippies dressed in striped shirts, bell bottom pants, and clumsy platform shoes. Our attention was fixed on Jim Morrison and the possible connection he could supply for us. Morrison, a Gazzarri graduate, would hopefully offer some tricks of the trade to the two club rats. I envisioned Morrison only a few years before in this same club, on the same stage we were on now. Now that we had an official hold on the club again, we knew we were the next band in line to hit the big time.
Morrison was leaning against the back office wall like a rock and roll monarch. His black leather outfit shined under the club lights giving him an electric look.
“Man, he looks wasted,” I said.
Morrison’s long brown hair was fashionably loose around his shoulders, but the wobbling and half-mooned eyes of a drunk marred the overall image. We sauntered to a table right next to where he and Bill were standing, a table usually held for Bill’s friends and always open to the members of the performing bands. We could hear them now. Morrison spoke low and mumbled, with sudden bursts of slurred half-sentences. As we approached, Morrison lost his balance and fell into Gazzarri. Bill looked around, startled and embarrassed.
“Jim boy, you all right, son?” Bill asked.
Two girls helped stand him up and he angrily jerked his arms away.
“I don’t need your help!”
He slammed himself back into the wall that supported his entire world right now. The two girls recoiled in fear. He ran his hand through his tangled hair and gazed at the stage where he used to strut.
“A ten cent wino in a two thousand dollar leather suit,” I said disgustedly.
Bill Gazzarri spotted Eddie and me and for a fleeting moment we could see in his eyes how trapped he felt.
“Hey, Bill, introduce us to your friend,” Eddie said.
Bill gestured with his arm. “Ah…Jim, this is Eddie and Rusty of my headlining band, The Pacific Ocean. Rusty and Eddie, this is Jim Morrison.”
Eddie pulled out a chair for himself and I got into the booth with Jim where he landed sideways. We shook hands as Jim’s head bobbed from side to side, swimming in a sea of booze.
Having grown up with an alcoholic father and sensing everyone else’s fear, I saw the situation and took over. Experience had taught me to keep a drunk talking about something—anything.
“Jim, it’s great to meet you, man. Did you have a chance to hear our last set?”
Jim glanced back and forth at them in a glossy, veiled stupor.
“Ah—no, I don’t think so.” Then, “Wait!,” he slugged his beer. “You have that Latin lead singer, right?”
Eddie and I nodded our heads as if he had just given us the meaning of life. “Yeah, that’s me…Ah, I mean us,” Eddie laughed.
“You guys are good,” he said calmly. “We musicians have to stick together. The world is out to profit off our souls.”
He was strikingly handsome, with a charisma that radiated everywhere, even through the inebriation. But I knew the mood swings of drinkers could catch you off guard. I only wanted to help the embarrassed Gazzarri at this point. I knew Jim would never remember a thing in the morning anyway and that made me feel a bit angry.
A cr
owd had now gathered in front of the booth.
Eddie asked, “Jim, we’ve been digging for a record company for some time now. Which one would be good for us?”
Fire raged in Morrison’s eyes and his face contorted into a violent mask of hostility.
“Goddamn shit heads!” Morrison ranted loudly. “All of ’em. They can all blow me. They’re lying scum-buckets with shit for brains! Shit for brains! You got it?”
“I read ya, Jim.” I nodded my head, doing my best to keep him toned down.
“They’re piggish, ostentatious scum who want to make money off of us.”
He glanced up and saw the crowd hanging on his every word.
“Professional fart and belch smellers,” he continued. “Not one A and R person in this whole fucking town would know real talent if he bit him in the ass as he was playing right under their dripping, snot-filled noses. They’re all scum! Friggin’ pigs! Scum! They don’t hear or create music. No fucking ears at all. Pussies! They’re all prima-donna piss-head perverts. You got it?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Tell us how you really feel.”
This strategic ploy was like walking on a tight rope with no net, but it worked. Jim was stunned for a moment, then laughed like an out of control hyena. Eddie and the small crowd followed suit as soon as they saw the Lizard King’s pearly whites.
Eddie glanced up to see Gazzarri coming with coffee. He set the tray on the table.
“What’s this?” Jim protested, starring at the coffee as if it were battery acid.
“Coffee,” Bill answered like a scolding father.
“Shit, Bill, I want more beer!” Jim roared. A hand appeared from the crowd and handed him a beer.
“Jimmy-boy,” Gazzarri said, bending down closer to him. “You’re blasted. I’m supposed to eject drunks. You wanna sleep it off downstairs?”
“Downstairs? You nuts?” Jim dismissed Bill’s glare and talked back to Eddie and I. “When do you guys play next?” he asked, purposely changing the subject.
“Right now,” Eddie said and turned to me. “We’re on. Let’s go.”
We stood up. Eddie offered his hand to the leather-clad star. “Hope to see you around, Jim.”
Eddie and I walked back through the crowd to mount the stage.
“He’s stinking tonight,” I laughed.
“Too bad,” Eddie said sadly. “The jerk’s so wasted he’ll never remember a thing tomorrow, so everything we do right now is just forgotten.”
“We wouldn’t wind up like that,” I said aloud, silently hoping that was really true.
“Damn it!” I yelled into the phone.
We were at Eddie’s apartment, and Rick Marcelli was telling about the latest rejection of our demo tape. Eddie didn’t rage, but was disappointed.
“This is getting ridiculous!” I slammed the phone down. “We perform. We live this music twenty-four hours a day and still can’t get signed. What the hell’s the matter with us?”
I walked to the second story window where I noticed two kids playing with hula hoops on the sidewalk outside. Sometimes I wanted to be that innocent again, no longer being at the mercy of corporate decision makers.
Eddie just shook his head and walked into the kitchen. “I know, I know,” he muttered.
I sulked angrily, hating the hot overcast day as much as our latest setback. I walked towards the door.
“I’ll see you tonight at the club.”
“Yeah, all right,” Eddie said in a forlorn tone.
I slowly descended the stairs. Maybe I’ll just jump off the Santa Monica pier and be fish bait, I thought.
Rick Marcelli walked into the dressing room and laid a single piece of paper on the band’s dressing room counter.
“All right, you beat-heads, this isn’t a recording contract, but it’s a start to one. We’re signing to do two demos for Capital Records as a potential artist for their label.”
Eddie looked at Rick. “Well, hang ten! You’re not a ho-dad after all!”
Ronnie said, “A miracle, Ricky boy, a stone cold miracle.”
“Let’s give Rick a hand,” Toney roared in delight.
They all clapped as Rick bowed.
“There,” Rusty jabbed at Rick, “now you have the clap.”
Rick leaned against Eddie’s car as everyone finished packing their gear. The Pacific Ocean had completed our two song demo for Capital—a faster version of Tim Hardin’s “If I Were A Carpenter” and an original up-tempo song called “Set Yourself Up.”
“We have something here,” Rick said proudly, holding a small white box containing a seven inch clear plastic reel.
“So, Ricky-boy,” Toney quipped, blowing smoke into the breeze, “how long’s it gonna take to get a decision from the suits at Capital?”
“With any luck, a week.” He gently put the tape into his leather shoulder bag. “Call you in two days. My appointment with the big guns is the day after tomorrow. Wish me luck.”
“You got it,” Eddie responded.
We all watched him drive off.
“I sure hope the executives don’t see him in that car,” Ronnie said.
We stood there watching the man who had our future with him. Eddie’s stare never left Rick’s car as he said, “There they go, boys, two perfect songs that could make us or break us. They’re in God’s hands now.” He yawned. “Let’s get some rest for tonight’s show.”
The four of us dealt with the tension of Capitol Record’s pending decision differently. Eddie called Rick Marcelli every day and asked the same question: “Any decision yet?”
Toney drank twice as much coffee and smoked an endless number of red-boxed Marlboros. Ronnie’s tardiness was perfected to an art form, causing the rest of us to learn songs we could perform without him. I dealt with my anxiety by meeting more girls around the club.
“Wonder what it’d be like to be rich?” I asked Toney as we mounted the steps to our side of the stage.
Toney strapped on his guitar and looked toward the back of the club. “You just might find out, Johnson. There’s Marcelli at the front door.”
We both strained our necks to try and read the expression on the man’s face.
“Is he perky or pissed?” I yelled to Eddie.
“Can’t really make him out from here.”
“If he looks suicidal,” Toney quipped, “we’ll probably all be jumping off the L.A. Bridge tonight.”
“Okay, dudes,” Eddie said, getting our attention. “We won’t know anything till after the performance, so let’s give it all we got. ‘Walkin’ The Dog’. Ah…one…two…three…four…”
I threw the drum fill and we were immediately in the pocket of the song. Eddie twirled like a prancing leopard, grabbed the mic as if it were the sexiest woman alive, and wailed in his anguished, gut-wrenching voice. We had the audience where we wanted them one more time.
My vantage point from the drum riser was perfect. If I cracked my eyelids just a wee bit, I could study the crowd studying us. The face I tried to read the most was Rick’s, but he was too far back and nestled in the shadows. Is that for a reason? I wondered.
After our set, we walked like victorious gladiators on our usual path to the dressing room. I was the first one in the door. I nervously picked up Eddie’s brush and ran it through my hair, my eyes dancing all over the room.
Eddie wiped off his sweat while choosing a clean shirt for the next set. Ronnie lit a cigarette, nervously tapping it at the ash tray. Toney clanked a spoon like an out of tune church bell against the side of his coffee cup.
Rick’s boots echoed down the hall. Each echo was either a nail in our musical coffin or a step toward rock and roll fame. No one uttered a word as Rick walked into the dressing room.
“Hey, guys.”
Like it was just another casual meeting between all of us, everyone played it cool.
“Hey, Rick,” we all answered, trying to mask our apprehension.
Eddie turned to face him first.
“Wh
at’s the news, Ricky?”
Rick drew a breath and smiled in a strangely apologetic way. He grabbed the top of a chair for support.
“I’m afraid Capital passed.”
“Ah, Jesus!” I yelled, standing up and walking to the corner of the room, clenching my fists in anger.
“Hold on,” Eddie said trying to calm everyone. “Let the man talk.”
Rick continued, “Their final word was you’re just not San Francisco enough for them.”
“And I suppose Otis Redding falls under the San Francisco sound,” Toney retorted.
“And the Young Rascals and the Doors…Oh! Now there’s a real San Francisco sounding band!” I shouted sarcastically.
“I know. I tried to tell them,” Rick countered.
I suddenly whirled around, my face flushed with rage. “Those damn suited assholes wouldn’t know a great band if it bit them in the ass. I thought Morrison was a little strong that night, but you know what? He was right. Scum bags.”
“I know, I know,” Eddie said calmly. He turned to Rick. “Is that their final word, Rick?”
“Yes,” Rick said in a barely audible voice.
The room fell quiet. My breathing pumped hard, heavy with anger. Toney and Ronnie bowed their heads in frustration.
I stormed out of the room, kicking the door open to the parking lot. Two girls, who were just stepping out of the nearby ladies room, jumped two feet from the crash of the door. Hitting the cold air, I pulled a cigarette out and lit it. I walked to the farthest end of the parking lot and back again, turning around wildly.
“Damn!” I howled at the half-covered moon.
Eddie had come out and was leaning against a car. “Johnson,” he began slowly.
I turned on him. “What?” I yelled in a backlash of rage. I slammed my right hand down on the hood of the car Eddie was resting against. Eddie didn’t move, choosing to let me get it all out. “You’re so God damned calm about this.”
“I’m not calm, Johnson,” Eddie answered. “I deal with it in a different way than you do.”
“Fine, but I’m packing up tomorrow, selling my drums, and going back to college to try and make up for the lost time.”
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