Straight Life

by Art Pepper; Laurie Pepper

  I'm home a couple of days, and here's a knock at the door. It's my parole officer. He comes in and we talk. He's sitting on the couch with his arm along the top, and in back of this couch is the check protector and the book of checks. He's talking, he looks around, and he mentions how nice the place is, and I have to tell him, "Well, my old lady's been working and I'm going to start playing." Finally he leaves.

  There's a guy I know of from Pasadena; he has a bad reputa tion-he's got a reputation of being not quite trustworthy. I think he's a rat. One day this guy comes to my door. He says his name. I say, "What are you doing here? What do you want?" He says, "Oh, uh, Arnold wanted me to pick up something for him." I say, "Arnold who?" He says, "Well, Arnold, you know. He wants me to pick up a couple checks." I said, "I don't know what you're talking about, man! There ain't no kind of checks here! There ain't nothing happening here! Get out! I don't want to see you around here again, and whoever this Arnold is, tell him not to send anyone else! We're moving right away, and if anyone comes out, if the police come out, it's all over for you!" He says, "Ohhhh, man!" I say, "Get the fuck out!"

  He left, and I figured the police would be coming at any moment. Diane wasn't home. I grabbed the check protector and the checks and ran outside in the night. I didn't want to throw the machine away because I didn't want to get involved with Arnold in that kind of thing, but I wanted it out of the house. I called Arnold. I told him, "Man, I want you to get this shit out of here immediately!" He said, "Man, I can't keep it here!" I said, "I don't care! Get it out of here!" Diane comes home and she brings some stuff; so we fix and then I tell her that the shit's out and that's it. I said, "You've never been in jail. You don't know what it's like. I don't want to go back to San Quentin." I don't know what she said. I fell out.

  The next morning there's another knock on the door and here's my parole officer again-here he is and he's got two detectives with him. He says, "I want to talk to you. Is your wife home?" I say, "Wait a minute." And they waited for a minute, which I couldn't believe. I ran into the bedroom: there was an outfit and stuff in there. Another "possession." I woke Diane up. "The heat are here!" I said, "Take this. Get rid of it. Flush it. I'll keep them in the front room." I went out and said, "She's getting up." I closed the door into the hall. I said. "Well, what is it?" They said, "We've been informed that you know something about a burglary. We have to check you out." One of the detectives said, "Have you got anything in the house?" I said, "Anything what?" He said, "Anything anything. Anything at all." I said, "No." He said, "Do you mind if we search the place?"

  They started their search and they found all these groceries. They'd look in a drawer and look at each other and raise their eyebrows and nod. My parole officer told my old lady, "We've got a complaint. We have to take him in." They took me outside, put handcuffs on me, and put chains around my stomach to hold the handcuffs. They told me to get into the front seat of the car. They drove me down to the station in Pasadena and put me in a cell. I couldn't find out what was going on, and I waited there for three days until finally they called my name. I walk out, and here's my parole officer. "We want to know if you'll give permission for a polygraph test. You've been accused of certain things. Our informant has given us definite information. If you're innocent you don't have anything to worry about. If you're guilty you won't want to take the test, and we'll just violate you." They had checked me for marks. I had marks. They could violate my parole. My only chance was to take the polygraph test.

  I walked into a room, and here's the machine all set up. The guy introduced himself. He said, "You're taking this of your own free will? You haven't been coerced?" I said, "I guess you can call it that. If I don't take it, I'm admitting guilt. It's a nice game you got going." The machine looked like something out of science fiction with lights and dials and bubbles. I'm scared to death because I know exactly what they want to know. Even though I wasn't involved with the check protector and hadn't participated in the robbery, I was aware of what was going on and I was a recipient of its benefits.

  The detective said, "I'm going to explain something." He hooks the machine on to me so when I answer a question they can tell by my heartbeat and perspiration the emotions the questions are evoking. If I tell a lie the dials register it. He said, "Just to show you that we don't want to trick you I'm going to read the whole thing to you before you start the test." This is the most diabolic part of all. I didn't realize it at the time. He said, "I'm going to start out by asking you your name." And he told me all the things that would be asked of me in the order they were going to be asked. When he finished he said, "Just to make sure there's no question about it, I'm going to run through it again." One of the questions was "Do you have knowledge of the burglary that took place at so-and-so?" And after that, "What was your mother's maiden name?" And then, "Do you own a dog?" Then, "Did you ever see a check protector?" And, "Do you know a person by the name of Arnold Samsa?" He would go back and forth like that, and because he went through it twice I knew the exact order of the questions he was going to ask. So when he asked me, "What did you have for lunch?" I knew the next question would be "Have you ever seen anyone forging the checks in question or forging a signature on the checks in question?" I could feel my whole body moving and vibrating, the blood pumping through my veins, the sweat forming on my forehead and underneath my arms; my voice sounded strange to me. There was no way I could control all that. Then we went through it again. By this time I knew every question. Three questions before, I knew when he was going to ask the real question, and I could feel myself getting excited. My mouth got dry. All these things were measured, and they were adead giveaway I knew something.

  When I finished, the detective didn't say anything. The parole officer didn't say anything. They sent me back to my cell and left me there for three more days with no word. At last they called me out, and my parole officer said, "The test shows exactly what I figured. You know something about the checks. It's up to you." He said, "Do you want to talk about it?" I said, "There's nothing to talk about. I have nothing to say." They sent me back to my cell. I stayed for three more days. Then they came and interrogated me. I said, "I'd love to help you out, but I don't know anything at all. If you're going to send me to jail, send me to jail. I can't help you."

  They released me. I called Diane to come and get me. I've got a big beard. I haven't shaved in nine days. We go to the house, the same apartment, and I don't know if the police are outside or what, and Diane goes to a drawer and pulls out a condom of stuff and an outfit! Here she is, as if she's got a legal pass to do all this shit! But I'm dirty and miserable and here's some heroin, the only thing that's friendly and warm and good. So I fixed. Then I went into the living room and, just as a formality, I kind of glanced around the pad. I happened to look behind the couch and here it was again! I couldn't believe it. I could not believe it. The check protector and this big book of checks. I just couldn't believe it, man.

  I told Diane and I told Arnold-I got this Arnold over there-I said, "Take this fuckin' thing out of here!" I told Diane, "If that's what you want you can go with the machine and the checks and just get the fuck out!" She said, "Well, this is my place!" I said, "Alright, fuck you! I'll get out!" And then she said, "Ohhhh! Noooooo! Art!" And she started whining. Finally Arnold took it away.

  We stayed in Glendale. We had all these groceries. We had nothing, really, just all this nonsense, and finally it went. I was on the Nalline program again, killing myself trying to beat the tests, and we didn't have a car. I was riding the bus to East L.A. to score. Finally I hung up everything-the Nalline program, my parole-and so we had to move. I had to hide again. We moved in with a relative of Diane's, an aunt; Diane's mother was staying there, too. I remember walking the streets, picking up cigarette butts. I'd work occasionally, and every penny I made we spent on dope and cough syrup.

  Finally a guy offered me a job at a jazz club out in Orange County. I was afraid to take it, but the money was very good and I felt that even t
hough I'd hung up my parole they wouldn't look for me that close. I told the guy I'd work the job if he didn't advertise in the paper. I told him he could put my name on the club. I got a kid I was giving lessons to to drive us out there. Diane hadn't heard me play in a long time and she wanted to come along. As we approached the club I got a feeling, a premonition, that something bad was going to happen. I told the kid, "I'm afraid to have Diane in the club. We know some people out here in Orange County. Please drop her at their house, where she'll be safe. Then you can come back." I told Diane, "Just before the job ends give me a call at the club and I'll tell you if everything's okay. Our friends can bring you over." I had the kid drop me a block and a half from the club. I walked. I had my alto case in my hand, and I saw they had my name out front, which I'd said they could do. I didn't know this: the owner had also put an ad in the Orange County papers.

  I went into this club still very nervous. I had quite a few drinks, and then I got up on the stand with the rhythm section and started to play. I had been playing for almost an hour and it was time to take an intermission, when a waitress came up to me. She motioned to me while the piano player was taking a solo. I bent down, and she said, "There's fuzz in this place. I think they're after you." I said, "Is there any way out of here?" She said, "No, the back is padlocked. There's only the front door." Isaid, "Well, bring me a drink, a big one."

  She brought the drink, and I remember playing. I played beautifully, and the people loved it. I really reached them. I played "Everything Happens to Me." I stayed on the stand, and the guys were looking at me. They didn't say anything, but we'd been up there for about an hour and a half. I realized there was no way out. Even if I stayed on the stand the whole night the cops would grab me, but I figured I'd play as long as I could and give the people their money's worth-so I'd have something to remember and they'd have something to remember me by. At last I announced the intermission. I introduced the guys in the band and told the people, "It's beautiful playing for you. You're a marvelous audience." Then I said, "It's just a shame that all of you aren't like most of you are." I started talking in circles. I was rapping to the people, and I think they saw some of the sadness I felt. I put my horn down, and turned to the guys, and I said, "Yeah, it was a great set. Thank you." And the minute I left the stand a guy walked up to me and said, "Please follow me. I'ma police officer."

  I knew I had no chance. I walked outside, and the guy said, "Alright. Up against the wall." I said, "Ohhhh, man, why don't we get away from this club?" He yelled, "Against the wall!" So here's the front of the club, my name in big letters, and me against the sign getting shook down. "I have a warrant for your arrest. We have an APB out for you. Parole violation." They handcuffed me. All the people were out there watching and I felt that they were really with me. Some of them said, "Is there anything we can do?" It was a touching thing, but these cops couldn't have cared less. "Alright! Come on!" They threw me in the car. I was glad Diane hadn't come along. She'd had an outfit in her purse. They asked me, "Where's your old lady? How'd you get here?" I told them I'd hitchhiked. They said, "Yeah, sure." This kid I'd come with was practically crying. He came up to the police car and I said, "If you ever run into my old lady, tell her goodbye for me."

  18

  San Quentin: Tattoos

  1965 - 1966

  THEY TOOK ME to the Orange County jail, and finally word came back from the parole department: "You've been violated. You'll be taking the chain back to San Quentin as soon as the bus is ready." And I said, "Oh, that's great. That's just great-."

  It was at this point I thought, "Well, man, I am a criminal." See, now, when I was a kid I read books about murders, mystery stories, detective stories. I saw all the movies about the "Big House." I loved things like that and I would have been happy to be a criminal until I saw the people who really were criminals: most of them were dumb and stupid and stank. But there were a few that were sharp and hep, and every now and then I'd see some real armed robber and I'd think, "Well, what do I like about this guy?" I thought, "I've got to make myself the kind of convict I like, a hep convict. I want to be proud of myself." I'd look at him and see that he had tattoos-a skull and "Hate" and "Death to All."

  A Mexican guy I knew in the Orange County jail was good at tattooing, so I asked him to give me one. He said, "Man, are you kidding? You've been in the joint twice and you're going to get a tattoo now?" He said, "Look at me." He had tattoos all over. "I'd give anything in the world if I hadn't started putting these things on." I said, "No, no, don't talk me out of it."

  He had a bunch of pictures that he'd drawn, and I could choose one. I saw a pretty one of flowers with a place to put a name, and I said, "Let me have that one." He said, "I'll put your old lady's name there. What's your old lady's name?" I said, "Diane, but, wow, I don't want her name there." He said, "Oh, it doesn't matter. Once you start you'll have a million of them." He had to get a needle and some ink smuggled in, and we had to hide and point for the bulls, and it hurt bad, but he finally got it on, and it looked beautiful. Georgeous, Every time I took my shirt off I'd stand and gaze at myself in the mirror, and it really knocked me out. I didn't want to wear a shirt anymore. I started walking around in an undershirt.

  One day I noticed that the tattoo had started to fade, and I asked the guy what was happening. He said, "Oh, man, that's the trouble. Sometimes they give you India ink and it's not pure. I think I got burned, man. They gave me watered ink." It kept fading and fading, and I said, "What am I going to do?" The guy said, "All I can do is put it on again." I said, "Jesus, man, it hurts so bad." He says, "Well, you wanted a tattoo." So I said okay, and he put the whole thing on again, and it took ages, but it looked beautiful. And then it started fading again. He said, "Well, the guy burned me again, the son-of-a-bitch, man! He burned me again, and after all I've done for that asshole, man! Well, all we can do is put it on again, or it'll fade out completely." I had gone through such pain, I couldn't stop now. He put the whole thing on again, and it looked beautiful again, and to this day you can't see it. Right now you can't even see it. For a while, though, it looked great.

  They took me back to San Quentin and that was my thing, to get tattoos. I'd see guys I'd known before and they'd say, "Oh, man, what's that?" I'd say, "I'm going to be covered with 'em. I'm not going to have an empty spot on my body. I'm gonna be a real gangster." I kept looking around for guys that did tattooing. One guy did one of Pan. Pan played his little horn and all the women followed him. He'd take them into a cave and ball them, and then the women would disappear. They'd never find them again. I had Pan put on my left forearm, and then-I've always liked Peanuts-a guy put Snoopy and Linus inside my left forearm. I got the smiling and the sad masks on my right forearm. On my right bicep I got a Chinese skull, with a long moustache and a Van Dyke beard, smoking an opium pipe. Above my left breast I got a naked lady, a rear view of her squatting, but that one faded. And then on my back I got a chick doing the limbo, going under the bar, with little black panties on. That one came out nice. Just before I got released, I was going to get a vampire. A guy had done a drawing of Dracula, and it was going to be on my right arm over my vein. The mouth would be open over the vein, and then when I fixed I could say, "Hey, wait a minute! I gotta feed mah man! He's hungry, jack!" You know. "Come on, baby, I gotta go first. Mah man's hungry. He needs some blood!" But I got out before I could get it, and I always wanted that one.

  One day I was sitting out in the yard. I was taking black-andwhites, which were easy to get, and I'd finally succumbed to the lowest and most dangerous thing to do in prison, which is sniffing glue. It causes you to hallucinate, it's bad for you physically, it's bad for your mind, and it's degrading. I got with a guy named Sleepy, and I was sniffing glue with him. You could buy a bottle of white shoe glue for four packs of cigarettes, which is cheap. You take a towel and cut it up into strips and pour the glue onto a strip and roll it up in your hand; then you cup your hand, put your fist to your mouth and suck in hard two or three times
, and your ears start ringing.

  So me and Sleepy were sitting out on the yard sniffing glue, hunched over, with our knees up, when a guy came up to me and said, "Can I talk to you for a minute?" I said yeah, and he said, "There's a friend of mine wants to talk to you, has eyes for you. She, er, he likes you. He's been watching you." I didn't know what to say. I told the guy, "Well, I'm not, I don't play any of that homosexual thing." He said, "Well, why don't you talk to him? He could do you a lot of good and he could also be a bad enemy." I knew from hearing people talk that there were some dangerous homosexuals in prison, and I knew the names of these guys, so I said, "Well, who is it?" The guy-I could tell he was a little swishy himself-said, "Mandy." And I thought, "Oh, my God, Mandy!" I'd heard stories about this guy. He was a white guy, nice looking with cold, blue eyes. He was well known in prison, dangerous. It was rumored that he'd killed two or three people and stabbed several others; he was considered insane. My first reaction was to tell the guy no, there's nothing happening, but when I heard the name I thought I'd better be careful. I told the guy, "Yeah, well, I'll talk to him." He said, "He's waiting for you down in the lower yard."