Straight Life

by Art Pepper; Laurie Pepper

  BOB WATERFIELD: "He was so poised. I've yet to see a football quarterback who did everything so perfectly. I'll never forget seeing Bob kick a 48-yard field goal with ten seconds left to play-to beat the Bears."

  MASS COMMUNICATION MEDIA: "It's amazing the way they mold the minds of the people in any way they please. Coming home from England after World War II, when Russia was being praised as our ally, an officer seated by me on the boat said that within 10 years the Red Star would be the symbol of villainy instead of the Rising Sun and the Swastika. How true!"

  MILES DAVIS: "His development has been phenomenal. I've listened to Miles Ahead by the hour and his warmth, choice of notes, and beautiful simplicity has touched my very soul." down beat, October 16, 1958. Copyright 1958 by down beat. Reprinted by special permission.

  12

  Suicides

  1958-1960

  I NEEDED MONEY SO I started working at the Tiffany Club with my own group, still shooting half a piece a day. One night Diane's sister, Marie, came to the job with a boyfriend to hear me play. She said, "Where's Diane?" She said, "I'll give her a call." I had just finished the first set; Marie went to the phone; and then I heard her scream my name: "She's killed herself! She's killing herself!" I grabbed the phone. Diane said, "Goooodbyyye, Aaaart." She said it was no use, she couldn't stand it anymore, and she wanted me to know she always loved me. Goodbye. She had taken some sleeping pills. Marie kept her on the phone, kept her talking, and I ran to the bar, where there was a private phone. I called the police and the Georgia Street Receiving Hospital and gave them the address.

  The police and the firemen got to the house at the same time. Diane had moved all the furniture up to the doors: they had to break the windows. By this time she was out. They put her in an ambulance, rushed her to the hospital, and pumped her stomach. They didn't know if she was going to live or not. The police had a note for me that she'd written saying goodbye. Now, if Marie hadn't come to the club I wouldn't have gotten home until three o'clock in the morning, and Diane would have been dead.

  She came out of it two days later, and when she'd been in the hospital about four days I brought her home. She was like a drunk. I had to do everything for her-take her to the bathroom, pull down her panties-and she loved that, the fact that I was doing these things for her.

  I tried to straighten up a bit. I hit on Mario once more for some pills; and I almost stopped, but then I goofed again. And right about this time, during the night, I heard a noise and found the loan company breaking into the gargage. We were behind on the payments, so they took the car, and that fucked everything up. Here were were trapped on this hill (it was practically impossible to walk up) with no car. Then Mario got rousted; one of his dealers got busted and turned over on him; so he was hiding and that ended him. I was going out on the streets trying to score. Finally I did manage to clean up a little. We got an old car from Diane's father; I kept on working; and we moved to Glendale, into a little apartment house.

  It was a nice place. There was a pool, and we'd swim. There were a couple of young girls there and they'd flirt with me, and I would probably flirt a little bit with them, and Diane was just, she was getting into that frame of mind. She felt I didn't really dig her. She was acting strange. She accused me of all kinds of things. I was goofing now and then as far as getting loaded, but I was working and I wasn't out of line that much. But she had these things going on in her mind, and I don't know what they were. I don't know if she felt guilty about leaving her kids or what it was.

  One night I went to work and as I was coming home after the job for some reason I had a strange feeling; I kept picking up weird vibes out of nothing. I got to the apartment house, went upstairs, and opened the door. The chain was hooked. I said, "Diane, let me in. Open the chain." There was no answer, and the light was on in the front room. I couldn't figure out what was happening, but I knew it was something bad. I kept knocking and calling, but there was no response. Fortunately there was a louvered window close to the door and it was cracked open, so I was able to take the screen off, push it open, reach my hand in, and get the bolt loose.

  I hollered her name. There was no sound. I went to the door of the bathroom. She had taken the knob off and locked it from inside. When I saw that I got scared to death. I was afraid to go in, but I had to. I put my shoulder to the door and hit it. Nothing happened. I hit it again, and it gave a little. The third time the door broke in, and I looked to my right, and it was a sight I'll never forget.

  Diane had on a dress I was really crazy about. It was white, crocheted. Tiny crocheting. Handmade. It was a lacy, white dress you could wear to a wedding. She had put this dress on, and she was sitting on the toilet with her head hanging down on her chest, her arms laid out on her thighs and her hands hanging palms up. And I saw the red.

  I couldn't stand to see it all at once. I turned and looked at the sink. There were three or four razor blades in it with blood on them. There was blood all over the sink and the floor. I looked again. There was blood all over this white dress. I looked, and she had cut both her wrists. I didn't know if she was still alive, but I saw, when I was finally able to look at her, that she was breathing, heavy, kind of sobbing, and I said, "Oh, my God! What happened? Why did you do that? What did you do that for? What's wrong with you? Jesus Christ." I grabbed each of her wrists over the cuts and held them as hard as I could to stop the blood and pulled her up off the toilet. I held her like that and just screamed at her, "What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you? Why did you do it? Oh, God!" I was getting sick because the sight of blood just makes me ... I'm terrified of blood.

  I dragged her into the front room. I didn't know what to do. I was trying to revive her. I got her on the couch over by the phone. I put one of her wrists in my armpit to hold it and dialed a number. I got an ambulance, got a doctor to come, got ahold of her sister, all this time hanging on to her, and it seemed like forever. Finally there was a doctor there; there was police; and somebody came and took her away from me. She came to as they were carrying her out. She looked at me and said, "I'm sorry," and started crying.

  When Diane came home I asked her why? She told me that she felt she couldn't reach me. That living with me was like being alone, and she loved me so much she couldn't stand it. She couldn't stand it and she wanted to die. I was really trapped then. I felt so sorry for her. It was a horrible situation. Patti kept calling. I just felt so guilty. We'd gotten an old car from Diane's dad; I think it was a '47 Pontiac. We drove to Las Vegas in this car and got married.

  When we got back, I received word from the court that a hearing would be forthcoming. Remo and Patti were going to adopt Patricia. Then I got a phone call from Patti asking me if I'd got the papers. I said, "Yeah, but that won't do any good. I'm going to contest it." Patti said, "Well, I'm sorry, but we're going to win by default-by your not being there." She said, "I don't think I'd go if I were you. If you do, I just want to tell you what's going to happen." She had hired a private detective to follow me, and she proceeded to tell me all the places I'd scored at, all the things I'd done, the people who would get busted if I went to that hearing, and what would happen to me if those people got busted. It would be told to them how they got busted-because of me.

  There was nothing I could do. I knew Patti must have told Patricia that I was a fiend. A sex fiend. A monster. She had set this whole thing up when I was in Terminal Island by taking Patricia to see me. The hearing was held. I couldn't go. Remo adopted Patricia.

  Afterwards I got very frantic thinking about it. I remember one night it hit me more than usual. I'd been drinking. I told Diane, "I'm gonna go out to the valley and see them." I was going to kill them. Diane got scared. She wouldn't let me go alone. We got in the car, and she drove me out to Panorama City, all the time trying to talk me out of it, but I just kept raving, getting more and more worked up. I told her where to turn, and we stopped in the front of the house. I'd brought a hammer along. I got out of the car and I said, "You wait here." He n
ot only took my wife but now he'd taken my daughter, and they were poisoning her mind against me! They'd tell her I hadn't contested the adoption because I didn't care about her!

  I was really crazy. I'd been drinking in the car, and I'd taken a bunch of speed. I walked up to the door and I was saying, "You motherfuckers! God, how I hate you!" I pounded on the door with my hammer. There was a light on in the house, but there was no answer. I pounded again. Then I heard Suzy. That was my little dog! Remo had everything! My wife, my house, my dog! He had all these things, and he wasn't content with that! Now he was going to take my daughter, even in name! I hammered again. Suzy and I had really loved each other. She would always leap on me and jump up and down, and I think she knew who it was and she was leaping at the door. I could hear her as I pounded. No one was there. Suzy kept on yowling and whining. I started crying. I said, "Little Suzy." I felt so miserable and so lost and so alone. I walked out on the front lawn and took the hammer and threw it at the house. I got back into the car, and I cried and cried and cried, and Diane drove us back to Glendale.

  After we got married I got a job playing at the Blackhawk in San Francisco with my own group. I guess this was in 1957. The Blackhawk was a big jazz club at the time. We drove to San Francisco in this old Pontiac, which was another whole scene-it was a fantastic trip. And we stayed in a hotel which was right down the street from the club.

  I think Diane thought if we got married I might straighten up. It was just a prayer she had. But I was still using, and we kept arguing about that. I told her I just couldn't stop and as long as I'm taking care of business and doing my job please don't bug me. Maybe if I'd been madly in love with her, maybe I would have been able to do something, but I doubt that. When I was with Patti I was using, so certainly I wasn't going to stop for Diane. We were having these arguments, and Diane was getting outrageous, and I went to play this session at the Blackhawk.

  I'm in there playing and there's this guy Brew Moore, who plays tenor saxophone, plays very well; his old lady, Diane got to know her, and so here comes Diane into the club with this chick. We had had an especially bad fight before I went to work. I saw her come in and I hoped she'd be cool, but I noticed she was drinking pretty heavy and all of a sudden-I'm at the mike just before the intermission, introducing the guys in the band-and she starts shouting, "Hey, big man! Yeah, there's the big man, big Art Pepper, the great jazz musician, big man, big shot!" I say to the people, "Pardon the interruption. I'm sure that that table will maybe do us a favor and leave before the next set and go to a bar that's more befitting their character-down in the Bowery, where all the rest of the drunks are." She really flipped out then: "Son-of-a-bitch! Bastard!" I said, "It's intermission. We'll be back in fifteen minutes."

  I walked over to the table and grabbed her. I told her, "Come on, let's get out of here! This is my job! Save this shit for the room, you fuckin' asshole!" I got her out the door. This club was right on the corner. It was a Sunday afternoon and it was a nice day, so people were looking out their windows and we really attracted attention. Diane just kept coming on and coming on. I wanted to get away from her. I told Brew Moore's wife, "Why don't you take her someplace? Take her to your house. I've got a job to do." I said, "We'll argue later all you want. Please give me a break now." But she wouldn't stop. She kept cussing me out and suddenly she grabbed my right hand: she got my two fingers and bent them back and said, "I'll stop you from playing, you bastard! You son-of-a-bitch!" She bent me down to the ground. Later I had to go to an emergency hospital, where they put a splint on my fingers. I flipped out and grabbed this thing she had around her neck and pulled her; the necklace broke and stuff started rolling down the street. I slapped her and told this chick to get her out of there before I killed her. She's calling me every name- "Bastard! Dopefiend! Motherfucker!" I walked away while she screamed after me, and when I came back she wasn't around.

  When I finished the gig I went back to the hotel. The key wasn't in the box so I went up and knocked on the door. I could hear water running. She wouldn't answer. I went downstairs and told the desk clerk that my old lady must have taken the key and could I get another key. He found one and let me have it. I went upstairs, and she must have heard me coming because when I opened the door there she was, sitting on the windowsill, bending back. This was, I guess, the seventh or eighth floor, and the room faced one of those wells. She had a razor blade at her throat and her hair was all stringy; she was almost foaming at the mouth and she said, "You come near me, I'll cut my throat and jump out the window, you motherfucker!"

  I heard the water running and ran into the bathroom. There was a big bathtub with a shower, and the shower was on. The hot water was going full blast. In this bathtub was everything I owned. I had some nice clothes. I had a beautiful black cashmere overcoat, and here was the coat and all my aftershave, perfume. She'd thrown the bottles in the bathtub and broken them. I had just bought a Buffet clarinet that cost about four hundred dollars. She had taken it out of the case and dumped it in the bathtub! My clarinet that I just loved! I ran out. I shouted, "Oh, you bastard, what's wrong with you?" She yelled back, "Don't come near me! I'll kill myself!" I said, "Oh, go ahead and kill yourself, you son-of-a-bitch!" I said, "Why are you doing this to me? Why don't you just leave me alone?"

  I was afraid she was going to jump out the window. I would have gotten busted. I had marks; I had stuff there; I had an outfit; and she was screaming all this shit: "Junkie! Lady's boy!" Finally, I walked out the door. I said, "Do whatever you want." I walked down the stairs. I didn't know what to do. I went back upstairs, and she was gone. I went to the window and looked out. I looked for blood. I didn't see anything so I went downstairs again and asked the guy at the desk if he'd seen my old lady. He gave me a weird look. He said, "Yeah, she went out of here just a little while ago. Is there anything I can do?" I said, "No, it's just one of those hassles." He said, "Yeah, I know, I've been through it two or three times myself. Boy, they sure are a drag at times." I said, "They sure are a fuckin' drag."

  I walked all over, looked all over. I went for hours looking for her and waiting and waiting. I went back to the place, and what seemed like days later she finally walks in.

  She'd changed completely. She'd gone to the emergency hospital and told them she wanted to kill herself, and she wanted them to put her in the nut house. They sent her to a psychiatrist, and he listened to her story. Thank God, you know. Finally he said, "Do you love him?" She said yes. He said, "Well, you can do one of three things: You can leave him; you can stay with him the way things are now; or you can join him. Or you can kill yourself, but you'll just hurt him, and you won't solve anything that way." She said, "Well, I can't leave him, and I can't stand living with him the way it is, because I feel that he loves that more than me." He said, "Well that leaves one choice open. You can join him." So she'd decided that that was what she was going to do, and nothing could change her mind.

  I begged her. I tried to reason with her. I told her it was the end of her life. Unfortunately, she knew the people I was scoring from, the houses I went to, and she said, "I'll go and score from them myself." I knew they'd give it to her because they love to turn a chick on; maybe they can get some head or something. They're real assholes, especially in Frisco, the people that deal. I was trapped. She said, "You can watch me now, but you have to go to work." There was nothing I could do except fix her. She was going to anyway, and I would rather do it myself because there was no telling what might happen to her. I was afraid she'd get an overjolt. I had to do it. I gave her a taste, and she loved it. I thought, "Here we go." She really loved it. And it was too bad. But it ended all the suicides, and our life became much more peaceful.

  Diane's sister, Marie, was going with a guy named Bill who had been with the Four jokers, a singing group. Bill's mother had a lot of money, so she set him up running a hotel in Palm Springs. It was more like a motel, but fairly large; there was a bar. Bill had a comedian playing there, Yuki Sharon, a Jewish comedian who pl
ayed piano and told jokes; Bill tended bar and sang and played a little snare drum with the brushes. Marie and Bill gave us a call and asked us to come up there, and Bill offered me a job working with Yuki. He said he would give us a place to stay and he would pay me a salary, so I said yeah.

  Yuki Sharon looked like a caricature of a Jewish comedian. He was like a fat Sid Gould, and Sid Gould was the most Jewish-looking Jewish comedian I've ever seen. And he was the dirtiest Jewish comedian I've ever seen. He used to work for Blinky Palermo in Philadelphia in the underworld after-hours club. Yuki Sharon looked like him, with the big circles under the eyes, and Yuki was a great wit. He told good jokes and loved good jazz, the old jazz, and he played sort of like Fats Waller, simple but pleasant. It was easy work. We'd blow together and then he'd stop and tell a joke in the middle of the tune; I just followed him; and then, on a couple of songs, I was featured-he'd play behind me. It was enjoyable, and Bill gave me a good salary. Since we ate there and got our room for nothing, whatever I made was clear. We saved most of it because we had stopped using.

  We stopped because it got impossible for me to support two habits. Now I was getting Percodan from a doctor, and we were getting Dexamyl Spansules, and we were drinking Cosanyl cough syrup-Cosanyl had dihydrocodeinone in it, which was very strong. So between the Percodan and the Dexamyl and the Cosanyl and pot and juicing very heavy I was doing good because I wasn't using heroin.

  The first day we went to Palm Springs, the police were waiting for us when we came back to our car. They put us up against the car and searched it, the whole thing, because a '47 Pontiac sedan was an East L.A. or a Temple Street gang car. It wasn't like anything they had in Palm Springs. I explained the situation, the fact that I had a record. I had to tell them the truth because I didn't want to take a chance of anything backfiring on me. They told me to go to the police station and get a work permit and they said, "Once the cops get to know your car everything will be okay, but if you could get a better car you'd save yourself a lot of grief." In Palm Springs they try to keep up a certain air of respectability.