For What It's Worth

by Janet Tashjian

  What I REALLY need is to talk to him about my conversation with his idol, the Lizard King. It may sound petty, but I’ve been holding back telling Ryan about Club 27 and my Ouija board as a way to punish him for that day at Caroline’s. But he’s so happy about my encounter with Zappa that I feel guilty, so as we walk I decide to tell him. He stops in his tracks about halfway through the story.

  “Let me get this straight”—he laughs—“Jim Morrison, the lead singer of the Doors, talks to you through your Ouija board?”

  “Along with Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix—I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. I was asking Hendrix guitar tips all night.”

  “First you think I’m stealing your girlfriend, now this? You’re losing it, Quinn.”

  “Come on, I’ll show you. Ask him anything you want.”

  “Uhm, thanks but no thanks.”

  The fact that he doesn’t even consider the possibility of such a thing angers me almost as much as discovering him at Caroline’s.

  “Why would I make this up?” I ask.

  “My question exactly.” He punches me on the arm good-naturedly, as if the whole conversation isn’t worth further discussion. “My dad picked up tickets to tonight’s Lakers game. Wilt’s on fire—I can’t wait.”

  Ryan obviously isn’t interested in the intricacies of Club 27, so I follow along and talk about the Lakers. It’s hard not to be envious of how this whole divorce thing has been a giant boon for Ryan. My mother read some article about how parents separating can be hard on the kids, but Ryan’s mom and dad are so busy taking him to games and concerts, buying him new clothes and albums, he hasn’t had time to feel sad. It almost makes me wish my parents would start fighting more.

  I tell him I’ll meet him at Willy’s for practice later and he climbs the fence for the shortcut back to his house. As I walk up the hill on my own, though, I get a strange feeling someone is following me. Maybe all this talk about Ouija spirits is seeping into my brain. I decide to put an end to this creepy nonsense and whip around to see if anyone’s behind me. I nearly jump into the air like a cartoon character when someone IS following me, a guy who also walked behind me on the way to school this morning.

  “What’s your problem?” I ask. “What do you want?”

  He seems to be about eighteen or nineteen, with dirty jeans and a new beard. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days.

  “I’m a friend of your sister’s,” he says. “I worked at Brandeis and we hung out a lot.”

  “You know Soosie?”

  He stops and holds out his hand. “My name’s Brett. Your sister told me if I got into a jam, I should contact you.”

  “Me? I’m only fourteen. I don’t even have my driver’s license.” I stop too, trying to process this new information. “You’re in a jam? What did you do?”

  Brett sits down on the bench outside the store. He looks around to make sure no one’s listening before he answers. “I didn’t show up to the draft board. There’s a warrant out for my arrest. I’m looking at serious jail time.”

  This must be Soosie’s friend from the deli. What’s he doing here following ME?

  “I’m deciding if I should go to Canada,” he says. “I’ll probably only be here for a few weeks, but if you have any food to spare, I’d sure appreciate it. I ran out of money back in Arizona.”

  I ask him where he’s staying and am shocked when he tells me the woods.

  “There are coyotes, even mountain lions,” I say. “Why don’t you come to our house?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m wanted by the law. I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.” He gets up and stretches when a mother with two kids walks by. “Any leftovers you can get your hands on would be great. I’ve never been a fussy eater and I’m not about to start now.”

  When he gives me a crooked smile, it suddenly dawns on me that this guy hasn’t given me one shred of proof that he knows Soosie. He could be a vagrant who’s never met my sister. I imagine my mother’s spiel about how close we came to having one of Manson’s family stay with us a few years ago.

  “Can you prove you know Soosie?”

  He smiles again, this time a bit sadly. “She left you a present when she came east. You never found it.”

  I guess he DOES know her. “Did she tell you what it was?”

  “I’ll give you a hint,” he answers. “Dave Mason.” He heads back up toward the dusky canyon. “I’ll be a few yards off the trailhead. If you can’t help, no problem. It was nice meeting you anyway.”

  I race back to my room and flip through my records. I check my Traffic albums for any notes—nothing. I find Dave Mason’s solo album, Alone Together, and start to smile. Soosie’s always known how much I covet the marbleized vinyl of her album. I was devastated when I bought one for myself and just got the run-of-the-mill black record, not knowing the funky swirled vinyl she’d bought was a limited first edition. I’d torn my room apart looking for a present, never guessing she’d swapped my album for hers.

  I drop the needle onto the disc and watch the colors swirl across the turntable as Mason sings “Only You Know and I Know.” (He did an album with Cass this year; Mom went with her to The Tonight Show when they performed from it live.)

  The good news is, I now have an album I’ve lusted after for years. The bad news? I have a fugitive hiding in the woods by my house. I’m not sure about the trade-off.

  So what do I do—let the guy starve? At Christmastime?!

  Or do I help a draft dodger hiding from the police?

  All I want is to stay in my musical cocoon—is that asking too much?

  FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

  1/72

  If you do a family tree for British rock, you see a lot of places where the branches and roots converge. Eric Clapton played in the Yardbirds with Jeff Beck but not at the same time as Jimmy Page, who went on to form Led Zeppelin. Clapton, Ginger Baker, and Jack Bruce formed the influential supergroup Cream; Clapton and Baker then joined up with Steve Winwood from Traffic to form yet another supergroup, Blind Faith. Winwood used to be in Traffic with Dave Mason. These bands were not only known for their music; they were famous for their album covers too. Cream’s Disraeli Gears is a psychedlic classic, Blind Faith’s only album freaked people out with its controversial cover depicting a shirtless young girl; and everyone loved Traffic’s Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, with its optical illusion design and corner cutaways.

  I spend most of the holiday break wondering what to do about Brett. I want to help the guy, but I don’t want to be arrested. I take a baby step in the crime department and use the whistle to call Soosie at school. She stops me before I start talking and tells me she’ll call right back. By the time I make myself a ham sandwich, the phone rings.

  “I didn’t want to use the dorm phone,” she says. “Brett is breaking the law. The authorities are looking for him.”

  “Why did you tell him about me? What can I do?”

  “He didn’t know where he was going—cross country, Canada—I told him if he landed in L.A., he could look you up. He’s a good guy, Quinn.”

  I ask why she didn’t have him come to the house and ask Mom and Dad for help instead.

  “So Dad could talk him into going off to war like he did?” She sounds exasperated. “If you don’t want to help, don’t. I just thought you might want to get involved for a change.”

  “For the millionth time, the war has nothing to do with me!”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with Brett either,” she says. “Eighteen-year-olds just got the vote six months ago—no one getting drafted has even voted in a presidential election.”

  I roll my eyes at Soosie’s impromptu lecture on the Twenty-sixth Amendment, as if Mr. Woodrow hasn’t hit us over the head with it a dozen times already.

  Soosie’s voice softens. “I forget you’re still young and the draft doesn’t affect you yet. It’ll be a big deal for you in a few years. I hope you never have to find out what Brett’s going through.”<
br />
  I’m relieved to be saved from more political discussion when Caroline knocks on the back door wearing the denim skirt I bought her for Christmas at my mother’s store. As I say goodbye to Soosie, I decide not to tell Caroline about Brett. It’s not that I want to keep secrets from my girlfriend, but I know how hard it is with her brother in Vietnam, and the last thing I want to do is bring up a sore subject. I don’t have to worry about it, though, because all Caroline wants to talk about is our column and new business. Who knew my new girlfriend was such a marketing genius?

  For the Ouija idea, she’s recruited Tom, the biggest Hendrix fan in our class. His guitar skills are well below yours truly, but he has every album Hendrix ever made, including bootlegs. When Hendrix died a few weeks into school last year, Tom didn’t show up for three days, missing so much football practice the coach cut him from the team. Now this kid who would never in a million years hang out at my house is walking up my driveway, hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket.

  We sit on the rug in my bedroom and stare at the Ouija board between us.

  “You sure it’s Hendrix you’re talking to?” Tom asks.

  “I can’t guarantee it,” I say, “but it certainly sounds like him to me.”

  “You can pay us after if you want,” Caroline adds. “We’re not trying to rip anybody off.”

  This seems to placate Tom, who places his beefy fingers on the planchette. I put mine opposite his while Caroline sits on the bed poised to take notes.

  “Okay, what do you want to ask Jimi?” Caroline seems to like her role as foreman of the operation.

  “I want to ask about ‘Foxey Lady,’” Tom says. “How come foxy is spelled wrong?”

  I lower my head in feigned concentration so Tom can’t see me roll my eyes. You can pick the brain of one of the greatest guitarists of our time and you ask about a spelling error? You don’t ask why he plays the F-sharp on the second fret with his thumb or how he does that killer 7#9? What is WRONG with you? I don’t dare look at Caroline, who gives me a little kick with her clog as if she can read my mind.

  As the planchette moves across the board, I say the letters aloud to Caroline, who reads them back to Tom.

  “Record company typo,” she says.

  “It’s true,” I say. “They spelled it wrong on the U.S. album but correctly on the British.”

  Tom nods as if we’ve solved the Riddle of the Sphinx. But just as suddenly his mood shifts. “How do I know you didn’t move it?”

  “’Cuz I don’t cheat,” I answer. “It would be like a band lip-syncing—what’s the point?” I tell him to ask something else.

  Tom starts to get the hang of it and asks some good questions about “Hey Joe” and Electric Ladyland Studios. By the time the planchette cruises to the GOOD BYE part of the board, Tom can barely contain his grin.

  “That was great. Can I come by tonight with Lynne? She worshipped Jimi—Janis too.” He jams his hand into his pocket, this time emerging with a five-dollar bill, which I happily relieve him of.

  After Tom leaves, Kathye and Paula arrive on their bikes. They pretty much just want to ask Jim Morrison a million questions, none of them having anything to do with his music. Normally their lame Tiger Beat questions would infuriate me, but today I ask the Ouija patiently, without a trace of sarcasm or musical snobbery. I look over to Caroline, meticulously taking notes as if the details of Morrison’s love life need a dedicated secretary. She tilts her head in that way that just kills me and I’m good for another round of ridiculous Morrison interrogation.

  When my mom stops home to change clothes, I’m secretly glad we’re between “clients” and the Ouija board is back underneath my bed. My mother wouldn’t be happy with me spending so much time in the world of the supernatural and would be even less happy with me making money off my friends. Although to be honest, no one who’s taken advantage of our direct portal to Club 27 can technically be categorized as “friend.” Most of them barely register on the acquaintance scale.

  After my mother leaves, Caroline readies the room for our last visitors, but all I’m thinking about is more making out. The last thing on my mind is channeling Janis Joplin’s drunken stories for the entertainment of Tom’s girlfriend, but Lynne’s questions are thoughtful, without an ounce of the tabloid gossip I braced myself for. As I sit across the board from her in the relaxed concentration the Ouija calls for, it dawns on me that it’s almost a double date, that Caroline and I are spending a Friday night with the most popular couple at school. Poor Janis might have been an unpopular, overweight teen with bad skin back in Port Arthur, Texas, but she’s helping my popularity climb to the top of the charts today.

  Tom pays us the five dollars for Lynne’s session. Then I walk them to the door. “Maybe we can all hang out sometime,” I suggest. “You can come hear my band.”

  Tom looks at me as if I’ve just asked for the recipe for pineapple Bundt cake. Lynne thanks me for the session.

  “It was great to talk to Janis again,” she adds. “I used to see her outside Barney’s Beanery all the time. I really miss her.” She tells Tom she’ll catch up with him outside, then looks over her shoulder at Caroline back in my room. “If you two are still together, let’s all go hear some music.”

  If we’re still together? What’s THAT supposed to mean?

  The screen door slams between us, and when I turn around, Caroline is standing right behind me.

  “Another satisfied customer,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just tired.”

  “You worked hard today.” She looks at the kitchen clock and grabs her patchwork bag by the door. “I gotta go or my mom’s gonna kill me.” She stands across from me, waiting. So I reach across the chasm of newfound doubt and kiss her. She scrunches up her nose and tells me she’ll see me at school tomorrow.

  I run my tongue across my lips; this time, there’s not a trace of Fanta.

  Of course I race back to the board to get a read on Lynne’s comment.

  “Is Caroline going to break up with me?” I ask.

  S-H-E I-S U-N-H-A-P-P-Y, the Ouija answers.

  “But what did I do?”

  This time the question remains unanswered.

  FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

  2/72

  Usually an original song is hands down better than the cover version, but in a few cases a cover takes on a life of its own and actually improves on the original. Such is the case with Hendrix’s cover of Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower.” It changed the way Dylan thought about the song too, and after Hendrix died, Dylan only played it Jimi’s way. Other great covers: José Feliciano’s version of the Doors’ “Light My Fire.” You’d think violins would trash it, but they work. And Janis Joplin belting out Kris Kristofferson’s “Me and Bobby McGee” defines the word classic. He didn’t know she’d covered his song till he heard it the day after she died. “Me and Bobby McGee” is only the second posthumous #1 single in rock history--but I’m not telling you what the other one was.

  Breakup Songs I Hope I Don’t Have to Listen To

  “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” —Marvin Gaye

  “Crying”—Roy Orbison

  “Yesterday”—The Beatles

  “Heartbreak Hotel”—Elvis Presley

  “49 Bye-Byes”—Crosby, Stills & Nash

  “It’s Too Late”—Carole King

  “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You”—Led Zeppelin

  “Tracks of My Tears”—Smokey Robinson & the Miracles

  “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone”—Bill Withers

  “Love Hurts”—The Everly Brothers

  “Don’t Think Twice (It’s All Right)”—Bob Dylan

  “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg”—The Temptations

  “She’s Not There”—The Zombies

  “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart”—The Bee Gees

  “For No One”—The Beatles

  “River”—Joni Mitchell (For that matter, almost any Joni Mitchell s
ong will do.)

  For the next month on the way to school, I bring a Tupperware container full of leftover dinner to Brett. He always eats it quickly and is so grateful I feel bad I didn’t bring him food from the beginning. He says he’s been on the Strip looking for odd jobs and avoiding the police. I tell him my parents are usually out and there’s a small bathroom with a shower in Dad’s garage office. He tells me he doesn’t want to impose, but we both know he’s never going to find any pickup work looking the way he does now.

  It’s my first Valentine’s Day with a girlfriend, which should be a joyous occasion, but instead of making cards and buying Caroline gifts, I’m still fixated on my Ouija buddies spelling out S-H-E I-S U-N-H-A-P-P-Y. (Truth be told, I’m also obsessed with John and Yoko cohosting The Mike Douglas Show every afternoon this week, which has me racing home from school like a crazy man.) I haven’t gathered the courage to ask Caroline if she’s unhappy; maybe Lynne is wrong, maybe Club 27 is wrong, or maybe … I’m losing my first girlfriend. We spend Valentine’s evening watching Laugh-In and eating popcorn with her parents. I give her a pair of earrings my mother helped me pick out and she gives me Neil Young’s Harvest, which came out just today. I have to force myself not to run home and put it on, but when I finally do I can’t take it off. I lie in bed picking out the various artists singing background—ex-bandmates Crosby, Stills & Nash, as well as James Taylor and Linda Ronstadt. The new songs keep me from singing the Beach Boys’ “Caroline, No,” which has been running in a constant melancholic loop in my brain. Where did your long hair go? Where is the girl I used to know.… I bury my head in my pillow and try to fall asleep. Caroline and I just had a great night—why can’t I ignore Club 27’s predictions of doom?

  The next morning before school, Caroline and I meet up at the newspaper office to collaborate on our column. I tell her I don’t know what the hurry is, since my last few pieces have garnered no comments at all. NONE. (For anyone who’s interested, the answer to the trivia tidbit in my last column about the first posthumous #1 hit was Otis Redding’s “Dock of the Bay.” NOT THAT ANYONE CARES.) But Caroline’s enthusiasm is contagious, and it doesn’t take me long to start brainstorming. We decide not on a column per se, but a list of the best album covers of all time. I balk at first, thinking that saying anything is the best is like buying an artist’s greatest hits album—as if a musician’s essence can be diluted down to just his or her hits. I HATE THAT. But even I have to admit the idea is a good combination of my love of music trivia and Caroline’s obsession with images, a solid subject for our first collaboration. And when the editor commits to giving us a full page in the paper with as many photos as we want, I get even more excited. It doesn’t take long to come up with the list, which I edit throughout the day.