Speaking of girls, I know it doesn’t make any sense, but there’s something cool about Caroline being so uncool. Just because she’s not in bell-bottoms and platform sandals like the rest of the girls at school doesn’t mean she’s any less smart or fun than they are. It’s like the list I keep in the back of my notebook: “Songs I’m Afraid to Admit I Like.” Everybody has those, right? The ones you make fun of in front of your friends but never switch the station when they come on the radio? I just added one to my list last week—“Superstar” by the Carpenters. I give my mother such grief when she listens to them belting out their stupid ballads on the radio, but THAT song? You have to admit it’s kind of great. And it’s not just because the backstory is filled with artists of real credibility—it was written by Leon Russell and Bonnie Bramlett about some fictional groupie pining after their buddy Eric Clapton—but also because of the arrangement itself. I mean, who opens a pop song with a stinking OBOE? And a female singer with over-the-top histrionics who plays drums? The song should SUCK, but it doesn’t. That’s what I’m saying about Caroline—kneesocks and a pleated skirt that matches her mother’s? Sure, it SOUNDS terrible, but who knows? Maybe there’s a sleeper hit in there somewhere too.
FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH
9/71
Ray Manzarek knew Jim Morrison from a film class at UCLA. When he ran into Morrison at Venice Beach, Morrison sang him the lyrics to a poem he’d written called “Moonlight Drive.” Manzarek said they should form a band and asked a guy from his Transcendental Meditation class if he wanted to join. John Densmore brought his friend Robby Krieger, and the Doors were born. It couldn’t have been more random or spontaneous. Suppose Manzarek hadn’t been at the beach that day, suppose Densmore never meditated? All that music, gone. All those memories of mine, of yours--poof! It almost makes you believe in destiny.
My mother gives me two earfuls of grief the second I walk in the door. I tell her I looked for a pay phone several times during the day but couldn’t find one. It turns out she’s not the only one who’s upset.
“It’s okay for you to take the bus with a friend,” my father says, “but downtown? You were a block from Skid Row!”
For the tenth time, I tell him Ryan and I were fine.
“Almost three million people live in this city,” he continues. “That guarantees more than a few creeps.”
He doesn’t have to spell it out more than that; we all know who he’s referring to. Even though the Charles Manson murders took place two years ago, the city still reverberates with their after effects. People who used to leave their doors open all the time began locking them. Canyon residents started to check out partygoers on their patios and porches. Dad didn’t have to mention the fact that Susan Atkins—one of Manson’s “family”—had been to our house several times. My parents still can’t talk about the fact that Susan actually watched me one afternoon while Mom tended to the store. Dad doesn’t need to say it, but I know his concern about Ryan and me going downtown today is the memory of the freak show of a trial that took place in the courthouse there last summer. My parents were understandably rocked by the whole affair, enough to change all the locks in the house and install several deadbolts, which we used for a month or two before resorting to our standard open-door policy.
My mother steers the conversation to another topic. “Your new friend came into the store today. Caroline? Very nice.”
“I told her to ask for a discount—was that okay?”
She hands me a slice of pear. “She and her mother picked out several pieces. I was happy to give them a discount.”
I wait for her to mention the mother/daughter outfits but she doesn’t.
“I don’t think they know a soul in town. You should have Caroline over sometime.”
I shrug, even though I was planning to do just that.
As if she can feel my conversational discomfort three thousand miles away, Soosie calls. She’s been gone a month, and I finally wrote her my first letter the other day because my mom told me we couldn’t afford the collect phone calls. My father waits patiently as Mom asks Soosie about her classes; I hope talking to Soosie will put an end to Dad’s concerns about how dangerous the city can be.
After my father finishes with Soosie, he hands the phone to me. I tell my sister about my day with Ryan, and she laughs.
“You went to Venice by yourselves? What, are you all grown up now?” She asks me how school’s been and if I’ve been practicing guitar.
I suddenly realize that we’ve been on the phone for almost ten minutes. “Don’t you have to go? This will cost more money than a plane ticket home.”
Her voice shifts to a whisper. “I just found out about this new trick you can do with phones—it’s called phreaking.”
She explains that some enterprising guy discovered that the whistle that comes inside a box of Cap’n Crunch cereal just happens to blow at a frequency of 2600 hertz—the same one the phone company uses to change trunk lines. “If you blow it into the phone, you can make long distance calls for free.”
“The Cap’n Crunch whistle—are you kidding me? How does someone discover something so random? Did he go through every toy in a box of Cracker Jacks first? Besides, you hate Cap’n Crunch.”
“Not anymore! But don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay? It’s illegal.”
I’m so fascinated with someone coming up with something so arbitrary that it almost doesn’t dawn on me that this is obviously some kind of theft.
“You should get one and try it,” she says. “That way you can call me whenever you want for nothing.”
“And why would I do that?’
“Did you find the present I left you yet?”
I tell her I tore apart both our rooms and the den but came up empty-handed. Before I hang up, she makes me promise to call using her new system.
As Mom thumbs through a stack of magazines, I try to look nonchalant as I take down the box of Cap’n Crunch from the top shelf of the cupboard and pour myself a bowl.
“You still hungry?” she asks.
I tell her just a little and head to my room with the box and bowl. I spend most of the night calling in requests to KHJ and trying to put my music trivia knowledge to good use by winning free tickets to see the new singer-songwriter Jackson Browne. I go back and forth between the AM and FM dials, listening to several cuts by Yes on KLOS as I finish the cereal.
Deep inside the box is the prize—nothing special, just a cheap plastic whistle. When I blow it, it makes the same sound these whistles have always made. The question is: Am I brave enough to blow it into the phone to find out if Soosie’s scheme works?
I want to tell Ryan and Willy right away—long-distance crank calls!—but my mom’s back on the phone with one of her friends. If I do try the new system, will several cops come bursting through the door as soon as the other person picks up? Maybe if I just receive illegal phone calls, I won’t be breaking any laws and Soosie will be the one to get caught.
I reach under my bed and slide out my Ouija board. (I don’t even bother keeping it in the box anymore.) “Should I use the whistle?”
This time there are no letters to string together; my hand slides across the board to the word YES. Hopefully the Ouija gods won’t rat me out to the phone company or the cops. I slip the plastic whistle into the top drawer of my desk, then lift the bowl to my mouth and drink the sugary orange milk left behind.
Okay, here’s the question: If you could call someone long distance for free, who would it be?
I don’t think I’ve ever even made a long-distance call; this might take some thought … Rolling Stone in San Francisco or CREEM in Detroit, to try and talk them into printing some of my columns? Where is Lester Bangs—should I try and call him? Or maybe Ryan when he’s in the Berkshires next summer?
When I really stop and think about it, I don’t know that many people outside of Laurel Canyon. But here’s an idea—maybe I can impress Caroline with my phreaking skills and let her call her friends back
in Connecticut for free.
Thank you, Captain Crunch.
FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH
10/71
Lots of people in this town were taken in by Charles Manson and his entourage. Before the murders, he was just another longhaired, bearded songwriter hanging around the Canyon. The Beach Boys even recorded one of Manson’s songs: “Never Learn Not to Love.” Dennis Wilson is credited on the album, but it’s Manson’s song all the way. The rumor is, Manson wanted to kill Terry Melcher--the bigwig producer who is also Doris Day’s son--for not giving him a record deal but didn’t know he’d moved to Malibu. Poor Sharon Tate was unlucky enough to be renting Melcher’s old Benedict Canyon house instead. (She was 26, not 27; I checked.)
I almost don’t recognize Caroline when I see her at school on Monday. Her jeans have so many patches, they look like Neil Young’s pair on After the Gold Rush. Her peasant blouse is definitely from Mom’s store—my sister has one exactly like it. I’m not the only guy who notices; Ryan raises his eyebrows and grins when he sees her too.
“Your mom’s the best,” Caroline says. “She even talked mine into getting two dresses to replace the dumb pantsuits she always wears.”
I look around to make sure Ryan isn’t still lurking behind his locker to hear this conversation about clothes.
“It’s a great store,” she continues. “I’m definitely going back.”
I hadn’t noticed before but Caroline’s brown eyes are flecked with bits of green, almost like stained glass.
“She said I should come over sometime, that you have a great record collection.”
I tell her I do and stammer that I’m around most afternoons. That’s the moment when I notice Willy laughing in the hall. I tell Caroline I have to go then pounce on him when she’s not looking.
Mrs. Clarkson says her doctor insists on bed rest for the final months of her pregnancy so we’ll be having substitute teachers sooner than she thought. While half of the class—mostly girls—wish her well with the baby, the others—like my friends and me—plot what we can get away with while she’s gone.
After school, I ask Ryan and Willy if they want to practice at my house. Ryan can’t because he has an orthodontist appointment and Willy’s heading to Malibu to surf. I shrug and tell them I’m playing anyway.
I’m halfway through the opening riff of Shocking Blue’s “Venus” when I hear someone at the door. I unplug my guitar and am stunned to see Caroline on the porch with her camera swinging around her neck. I stare at her blankly.
“You said I should come over sometime.”
“I didn’t think we were talking about TODAY.” I berate myself for making her smile crumple yet again and—more important—sabotaging the first girl that’s been over here who isn’t a family friend. “Actually, today is fine,” I say. “Come on in.” I offer her some grapes and show her around the house.
“We live in a bungalow too,” she says. “The insurance company in Hartford where my dad works rented it for us while he opens up a new office here.”
Like a good potential boyfriend, I store all this boring information for later use.
She motions to my guitar and asks what I was playing so I plug the guitar back into the amp and finish the song.
“That was great. What else can you play?”
“I can make my way on piano, but I really prefer guitar.”
She laughs. “I mean what other songs?”
I laugh too and launch into “Heart Full of Soul” by the Yardbirds. In a million years, I’d never compare my skills to Jeff Beck’s, but it’s one of the only songs I can play with virtually no mistakes.
Except this time.
When my fingers slide to B instead of D, my grimace gives me away. But Caroline encourages me to keep going. I finish up the rest of the song, thankfully with no more errors. “It would sound better if I had a fuzz box,” I explain.
“What are you talking about? You were amazing.”
I put the guitar back in its stand and opt for a safer route—my record collection. I sit on the floor next to Caroline, who asks how many albums I have.
“Three hundred seventy-eight.”
“Wow!”
“Counting double albums as one, of course.”
“Of course.”
I try to decide if she’s making fun of me, but her next comment tells me she is. “They’re in alphabetical order!”
“Would you rather I just throw them around the room?”
“How can you afford all these?”
I explain that every penny of my allowance, every chore I do around the neighborhood, every dollar I receive for birthdays and holidays gets plowed right into my record fund.
She suddenly squeals as if she just spotted David Cassidy outside by the compost bin. (Don’t get me started on him—PLEASE!)
“Play this! Play this!” She holds up a copy of Joni Mitchell’s Blue, an undeniable breakthrough record but as depressing as a vinyl platter can possibly be. I drag the other beanbag chair out of Soosie’s room and plop on the floor next to Caroline, who’s already transfixed by the hypnotic combination of Mitchell’s poetry and open tunings. Ryan calls Mitchell the Pied Piper of girls and I agree with him.
“I like Ladies of the Canyon too,” I start to say before Caroline shushes me back to silence. I want to tell her my mom is friends with the women Joni wrote about in the title song, but it hardly seems worth interrupting Caroline’s musical rapture. I stare at the post-and-beam ceiling and settle in for a serious dose of after-school melancholy.
When side one ends, I race to the turntable and pull off the record. Caroline is visibly disappointed. “I have to head home anyway, thanks for letting me see your collection.” She gently holds the album cover as if it’s made of hand-blown glass.
“The guy who took the photograph was one of the original actors on My Three Sons.” I personally think this is a fun piece of trivia, but Caroline bursts into laughter.
“How do you know this stuff?”
“It’s interesting to me—the stuff I write about in my column.”
She tilts her head and scrunches up her nose and I decide Caroline is the most adorable girl in our class.
“You should stop by the paper after school,” I continue. “Maybe Patty—she’s the editor—can use some of your photographs.”
“I think I will.” She holds up the album like a waiter presenting a tray of delicacies. “We haven’t known each other that long but I’m someone who really takes care of things. Is there any way I can borrow this? I won’t scratch it, I promise.”
I suddenly wonder if the tilted head and scrunched-up nose were part of a premeditated ploy to forage through my record collection. What Caroline doesn’t know is that after Willy scratched the snot out of one of my Janis Joplins and destroyed my Creedence Clearwater, I NEVER let people borrow records anymore.
I obviously take too long answering because Caroline reneges on her request and puts the album back. I can’t help but smile when she places it in its correct spot. I grab the album again and hand it to her. “Definitely take it. I won’t play it again this week anyway.”
Her face lights up and before I can stop her, she lifts up her camera and snaps a photo of me.
“Hey!”
“I’ll show it to you after I develop it. And I promise to take good care of Blue.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon writing my report on Julius Caesar and wondering how goofy I’ll look in Caroline’s picture.
I finally get up the nerve to blow the whistle into the phone. I’d be lying if I told you I’m not nervous because I am. The last thing I want is for Soosie to torture me about having a girl finally come over to our house so I wait till she’s about to hang up before I tell her. She laughs so hard, I’m afraid she’s having a seizure.
“It’s about time,” she finally says.
I tell her it’s no big deal, but of course it is.
As big as the Beatles breaking up. But in a good way this time.
FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH
10/71
My sister and I were standing behind the police barricades at the Landmark Motel when they removed Janis Joplin’s body last summer. Several other people OD’d that week--the newspaper said there was a bad bunch of heroin going around--but poor Janis died alone, her psychedelic Porsche convertible outside in the parking lot. When she bought it, the car was oyster white; one of her roadies gave the car its multicolored paint job. The car was so distinctive that fans used to leave notes for Janis underneath the windshield wipers when they saw it around town. Seeing the car in the motel lot as the medical examiner wheeled Janis’s body away was almost like watching a dog or cat left behind, still waiting for its owner. Two days after she died, John Lennon received a cassette in the mail with Janis singing Dale Evans’s “Happy Trails” to wish him a happy 30th birthday. Creepy, right?
Soosie’s latest letter talks about a nice guy working at the campus deli who just got drafted.
“Your sister and her friends tried to sign him up for classes to get a college deferment but it didn’t work,” Mom says. “I guess they’re all pretty upset by it. Sounds like she’s already made some good friends.” Mom leaves the letter on the counter for Dad to read later.
“Oh, I almost forgot to give this to you.” She hands me a small box. Inside is a pair of earrings made of peacock feathers. I stare at her blankly.
“You want me to pierce my ears?”
“They’re for your friend Caroline! I just got them in and I thought they’d match the outfit she bought.”
I realize Mom is being thoughtful and generous, but all I can think about is how can I possibly give them to Caroline without being tortured for the rest of my life by my friends? Luckily, when I get to school, the substitute teacher solves my problem by telling us to work in pairs and assigning Caroline to me.
Caroline drags her desk over and motions to the new teacher. “She wrote Ms. Thompson on the board—what does that mean?”
For What It's Worth Page 3