Walk, Don't Run

by Steven Jae Johnson

  “Johnson,” Eddie said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ethyl was so happy not too long ago.”

  “I know…I mean, I don’t know anything just now!”

  Eddie seemed to fall into his VW. He stared blankly past me, letting the car warm up for a moment. In a dejected sadness, he put the car into reverse.

  “Just shows how it can all change in a heartbeat.”

  “Half a heart beat,” I answered back.

  Eddie pulled out and I got into the Healey. The engine now seemed to possess none of the excitement it had earlier before I’d turned on the radio. It merely clanked flatly with no life, no energetic rhythm.

  The drizzle had turned into rain as I looked through the windows to see Eddie’s car slowly turning left onto Sunset. The rain sounded like small pellets hitting the car roof. Tonight the rain felt harsh and lifeless. Grimy. It seemed to propel me downward in spirit, as if its past comfort now offered only dismal reminders of a blood-thirsty world. A demented world. The grief I felt finally unlocked itself and tears filled my eyes for Bobby Kennedy. For Jack Kennedy. For Martin Luther King.

  For an America gone insane.

  The rain ran outside.

  “Goodbye, Bobby,” I said in a broken voice.

  When I was composed, I started the drive home. I tentatively turned the low machine onto the alluring Sunset Strip, the street that held our dreams.

  13

  The Purple People Eater

  A knock at the door startled me out of my stupor. I shuffled to the door in old slippers and pajama bottoms, expecting to meet the landlord coming to collect his two weeks back rent.

  It was Eddie.

  “Johnson. You all right?”

  I looked at him, feeling as if his words could start a trigger of emotional tidal waves. I didn’t answer for a moment, then, “Na. I got to admit I’m about over the edge.”

  Eddie came in.

  “I know,” he answered, shutting the door behind him. “I keep seeing Bobby Kennedy in my dreams.” He walked to a chair and looked down and saw that it was full of empty beer cans. He bent at the waist and deposited them into a waste basket. His slow, stoic manner indicated to me he hadn’t been in the best of spirits himself.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking right now,” Eddie said flatly.

  He didn’t look straight at me when he said this. The two of us had talked over the years about my father’s alcohol abuse and how it had torn the fabric of my early family life apart.

  “Yeah, I know I shouldn’t. I feel sicker than shit from it actually. Don’t want to wind up like my old man, breaking things and getting arrested every time he ties one on.” I rubbed my eyes and sat on the pull-down bed, suddenly laughing sarcastically at myself. “I look like hell.”

  “You’ll get over it,” Eddie smiled.

  I scratched my two day growth of beard and let out a long frustrated breath. “So…what’s up with the new gig?”

  “The Factory’s closing for a week in honor of Bobby’s death,” Eddie said. “We’ve got a meeting with Ron Buck, The Factory’s boss, in a few days. He wants to meet all of us personally. There’s a problem with the amount of our salary.”

  I glanced over to him. “A problem?” I rolled my eyes. “How unusual.”

  “I’m hip,” Eddie continued, “but we’ve got to take care of this one. He’s trying to get us down a thousand a week off of the twenty-five hundred he promised us just as we handed our notice to Gazzarri.”

  “He’s a lawyer, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I rest my case.”

  I walked to the bathroom and turned on the water to shave off the mess on my face.

  I patted Eddie on the back as we walked through the door of Ron Buck’s plush offices in Beverly Hills. The Pacific Ocean cautiously greeted their new, high-powered boss. We were informed in no uncertain terms that he had the vested power to act for the entire board of all the Hollywood heavyweights involved with The Factory.

  The confusion over our salary mixed with leaving Gazzarri’s after so long and Robert Kennedy’s death played heavily on our minds. We were exhausted emotionally and raw to the bone. Buck had changed his original offer after we gave notice to Gazzarri’s. After an initial discussion, Eddie was outraged.

  “Are you out of your mind, Buck? We did that gig for you, for Kennedy—God rest his soul. Saved your butts from an embarrassing situation. We pulled all of our equipment from Gazzarri’s down here and back again just to audition for you, when it would have been just as easy for you and Jan Martin to come see us—ten blocks from here!”

  Eddie was pure kinetic energy as he paced the room with growing frustration. I whispered to Ronnie, “He’s about to blow! We better be ready.”

  “This is what you offer?” Eddie looked at Ron Buck, stunned with wild, unbelievable emotion in his eyes. “The Gordion Knot got twice this money. Rusty and I did some detective work, too!” he informed Ron, powerfully. “We could also take you to court, I’m sure you know, because you changed your offer after we gave our notice.”

  We all saw the fleeting look of surprise on Buck’s face and knew that Eddie had struck a nerve. The heat was on.

  “We’ve been doing great business for Gazzarri all these years and most of that business is the Beverly Hills crowd. What do you think is going to be the reaction when everyone in Beverly Hills finds out how you tried to low-ball us?”

  “Eddie, calm down,” Ron said. “The band before you didn’t start at their ending pay. They—”

  “The band before us didn’t do all those years at one of your competitors right down the street and then leave to get almost the same money!” He was moving again. “This is bullshit! The Knot didn’t do a thirty-thousand-seat arena with every star in the world and knock ’em dead!”

  “Eddie—.”

  “We’ll go right back to Gazzarri’s. Now! We don’t need this. We’re not throwing years of hard work at Bill’s into the street only to get hustled by some Beverly Hills torpedo! It’s the twenty-five hundred a week or it’s nothing! We’re outta here!”

  Eddie turned to make the greatest exit of his life. His nostrils were flaring like an outraged bull. He practically tore the door off its hinges when he grabbed it. He turned back to Ron Buck with one last kiss-off. “No way!”

  He turned on his heels and swung the door to a thundering, crashing burst of anger. The reverberating sound echoed down the halls of the elegant Beverly Hills law office, rattling vases on expensive tables.

  He had made his point. He and the band were not getting screwed.

  Eddie made one miscalculation: Instead of grabbing the door by which we entered Ron’s office, Eddie had chosen the door to Ron Buck’s closet.

  Ron turned to us. We looked to Ron. The preposterousness of the moment hit us all so hard that bellowing laughter reduced us to spasms.

  A few seconds passed. Then a few more. And then even a few more.

  Eddie stayed in the closet, adding to the moment of confused disbelief that had quickly fallen across everyones’ faces.

  Ronnie Henslee fell to the couch with tears streaming down his face. I lost it so completely I sat down on the floor, putting my head between my legs and letting the moment take its course. Toney was shaking his hands and jumping up and down while Ron Buck fell back into his chair, howling with laughter.

  Eddie stayed inside the closet so long that we were getting worried, thinking a pair of Ron’s alligator shoes had come to life and absconded with the Latino dynamo.

  Finally after what seemed like an eternity, but was about a minute, Eddie emerged from the closet.

  “What’s shakin’, guys?” he said with a sheepish smile.

  The convulsions of laughter were calming, like a strong wind storm passing over a house at night, strong in its attack then slowing, subsiding to just a gentle rustling of the trees.

  Slower.

  Tapering off.

  Then finally coming to a stop.


  “Okay, okay. I give,” Buck said while wiping the tears from his eyes. “I can go $2000.”

  “$2,500,” Eddie fired back.

  Ronnie, Toney, and I each grabbed Eddie’s arms and shoulders with one hand and threw our free hands to the heavens and screamed, “Olé!”

  “$2,100,” Ron challenged.

  Ronnie, Toney, and I took the cue. “Booo!” we chanted, holding our noses.

  “$2,500 and not a penny less, Buck-o boy! My final offer,” Eddie stated shrewdly.

  Again, the three of us shouted, “Ole!”

  “All right. All right. $2,500 it is. You win! I give up! I’d pay that much money to tell this story to the guys at the club.”

  “Ah, but that’s part of the deal. You can’t ever tell that story,” Eddie laughed. He threw up his hands. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Ron, now that everything’s straight…”

  “Yes, Eddie. What is it now?” Ron demanded, still chuckling.

  “Well, there was a pair of shoes in your closet I was thinking of buying.”

  In the elevator, we entertained the suits who stood waiting for their floor to come up.

  “A ‘Beverly Hills torpedo’?” Ronnie repeated. “Eddie, that’s the greatest exit line I’ve ever heard in my life!”

  “We should get into the acting business next, eh?” I added.

  “Everybody’s acting,” Eddie said. “All the time.”

  “By the way,” Toney chimed in, “nice shoes.”

  Night after night, the four of us would look forward to our second set at The Factory. Only then could we crank and rock the place as we were paid to do. We’d structured our sets in such a way that everyone would immediately jump from their seats and dance.

  The people around us could see how hard we were working. Peter Lawford suggested that we go into the main conference room one night after a particularly sweaty and energetic set. We followed his lead and he showed us where we could hang our clothes.

  “I’ve been thinking, fellas,” Peter said. “Since they forgot to put a dressing room in this place for the entertainers, I think it would be all right if you used this room for your breaks and costume changes.”

  We glanced around at each other, surprised at this unexpected generosity. Obviously this man knew the discomforts of giving your all for a performance and he respected the band’s efforts in doing it.

  “Occasionally, there will be small meetings in here,” Peter continued, “and some of the bigger stars might just want to hang out in here, to get away from the crowds. But I think it will be all right for you to use it.”

  Over the next month we used this special conference room like it was our own. Just like it was our dressing room at Gazzarri’s.

  At first it was a little disconcerting to see the all-star board of directors in any and all combinations having a beer when the band would come charging in after a hot and sweaty set. One night as we came laughing into the new dressing-slash-conference room, there sat Paul Newman, drinking a beer all by himself.

  “Oh! Excuse us, Mr. Newman,” Toney said.

  Waving his arm and acting like we were his guests at a backyard party, he motioned us in. “Nonsense! Come on in. This is your room. And you’re doing a great job, I might add. You guys really know how to get the crowd up on their feet.”

  “Thanks,” Eddie said.

  I looked to my left the next evening while in the middle of a song to see Sammy Davis Jr. Over the next few weeks, Sammy befriended us. He was instantly drawn into Eddie’s dynamic presentation of a song, his soulful gut wrenching delivery.

  Over drinks at Sammy’s table one night, he mentioned the song “Here Comes The Judge.” Toney knew the chord progression. He retrieved his guitar from the stage and ran it down for Sammy.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Eddie began the next set. “We’re honored to have a special guest tonight. He’s going to sing ‘Here Comes the Judge.’ The one and only…Mr. Sammy—Davis—Junior.”

  As Sammy took the stage with Eddie and the band, the audience exploded in applause.

  When Sammy sang, you’d have thought he and Eddie had rehearsed a dance routine together the way they shook their bodies for the surprised and elated crowd.

  The second time Judy Garland came in, she and I wound up talking in the hallway that led to the pool table room.

  “Hello again,” Judy smiled. “How are you guys enjoying your stay here?”

  “We’re loving it, Judy.” I smiled broadly. “Would you like to sing with us tonight?” I asked.

  She smiled. “I’ll let you know later if I feel like coming up. In the meantime, I really enjoy your voice, Rusty, and the way all of you harmonize. And that Eddie…Boy, can he put on a show. See you out front.”

  She touched my arm and left for the ladies’ room.

  I handed the ink pen to Eddie.

  “Your turn.”

  “Thank you, maestro.”

  Eddie signed, then Ronnie and Toney put down their names on the contract. We picked up glasses and toasted one another.

  The director picked up the contracts from the bar at The Factory and said, “Thank you, gentlemen. We’ll see you next Tuesday night for the taping of the show.”

  A Night At The Factory was the working title of the TV show. The band was officially booked with contracts with Bill Medley and Jackie DeShannon. Jackie DeShannon had already toured with the Beatles in 1964 for 26 concerts. In 1965, “What The World Needs Now Is Love” had climbed the charts to the #7 position. Her current song was “Put A Little Love In Your Heart.” The Pacific Ocean was lucky enough to share the bill with such a talented and beautiful legend.

  Bill Medley and Bobby Hatfield had recorded for Smash Records as the Paramours in 1962. Changing their name to the Righteous Brothers, their calling card became “Blue Eyed Soul.” They got great exposure with a gig on The Hullabaloo and Shindig television shows. Their careers blasted off in 1964 with the number one hit, “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.”

  The Factory closed its doors on a hot Tuesday night for the taping of A Night At The Factory. The director had informed the Pacific Ocean that we would be lip-synching our song to the play-back of our record. It was easier for the sound crew and mixers.

  The crew, Jackie DeShannon, Bill Medley, and the Pacific Ocean all gathered at the club at 6:00 p.m. and the show began. Being the house band, having worked on this stage six nights a week, we didn’t suffer from butterflies. This was our turf and we felt right at home with Bill and Jackie.

  The director was busy lining up the lighting crew for Jackie’s number. When he had his shot set, he called “Action!”

  “Put A Little Love In Your Heart” rolled through the speakers, and we were all favored with watching the lovely Ms. De Shannon perform to her pre-recorded track.

  The song faded out and the director yelled, “Cut! Good for sound and camera?”

  “Great,” came back from camera.

  “Perfect,” a voice volunteered from sound.

  The director thought for a second, whispered something to his assistant, then said with a large grin, “Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s say good night to Ms. Jackie DeShannon.”

  Everyone applauded as Jackie rushed off to her next appointment.

  “Okay, Bill, you’re up,” the director said.

  Bill approached the middle of the dance floor as the lighting people did their thing. He began his song, singing to playback. Medley had always been one of my vocal idols and this meeting had been a total God-send. We all shook hands and wished him well when Bill finished his take.

  Third up was the optimistic Pacific Ocean. The high-tech overhanging lighting system was switched on and we took our positions on stage behind our instruments. The director rehearsed a few camera moves. Having four people to shoot instead of one was a little more challenging. The tape rolled the track of “I Can’t Stand It” and we were off again in performance-land. Acting as if we were playing the song live was a whole other adventure
in our performing education. Eddie gyrated and shook, while the rest of us seemed to beat our individual instruments.

  “Fantastic, you guys,” the director yelled. “That’s a wrap.”

  I was approached by a record producer named Jerry as I stepped from the stage after the second set the following week. Jerry was brought into the conference room and introduced to the others in the band.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” Jerry said. “I work with the Lee Hazelwood Company. We develop acts for recording. We’ve seen you boys three times now and would like to speak with you tomorrow in Lee’s office about recording you.”

  Lee Hazelwood had hit the charts five times with Nancy Sinatra from April of 1967 to January of 1968. “Love Eyes,” “Lightning’s Girl,” “Lady Bird,” “Some Velvet Morning,” and, perhaps best known, “Jackson.”

  The next day, he spoke from behind his desk.

  “Gentlemen, we’re looking for a group that we can produce our way. We hope it’s your way. There is a song that one of you sing that we think would be a monster on the charts.”

  At different times in the meeting, envy spread between each of us as we gazed at the many albums in beautiful glass frames hung behind Lee’s desk. It had been about a year now since Vance had tried to break our album nationally and, even with the help from Wolfman Jack, it fizzled.

  Eddie spoke next. “Sounds great, Lee. And God knows you’re successful. I’m interested in what song we do that you’d like to produce.”

  “‘Holly’,” Lee said.

  A perplexed silence fell over the faces of each member of the band. The air in the room suddenly hung over them like a humid day in New York.

  Eddie turned to Toney. Then he turned to me, with a look of “What’d he say?”

  “Oh…‘Holly’!” Eddie said, wanting to be sure he’d heard right.