Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  1965 Wilson Picket, Steve Cropper

  September 3, 1969

  9:00 am.

  Alex Swain lay dreaming, deep in REM sleep. Exhausted, he had been working the Esalen story deadline in the last weeks and a little R&R had sounded good. The visit to Charlie’s ranch was, as promised, a unique experience but it had totally drained him.

  In his dream Alex was back at Ann Arbor, at the University of Michigan. He had been a student editor at the school paper, The Michigan Daily, and in this dream he is in the newsroom trying to put together the next day’s edition. He is surrounded by a shouting group of writers and reporters, all shoving paper at him. In the middle of trying to deal with it all, the phone rings. Alex picks it up, hears a noisy breakup on the line, and then hears his older brother Jim’s voice, crackled up like over a walkie-talkie. In the background is the sound of rifle fire and explosions.

  Alex! You got to help me, Alex! Get me out of here! The CO is gone, Gunny too, man – we’re down to our last rounds! Alex!

  Alex’s brother Jim, a little over two years older, enlisted in the Marines in ‘64, straight out of high school. He was killed last year in the Battle of Hue City during the Tet offensive of 1968. Alex had been having dreams and nightmares like this one ever since Tet.

  Alex – help me! For God’s sake Al! Come pick me up! There’s too many of them!

  Jim had been the all-star, the beloved. Even though Alex was always ‘the little brother,’ Jim protected as well as teased him. Alex was a curious and intense kid, always asking questions. In high school Alex discovered a passion for writing – which eventually led to him hanging out with an “undesirable” crowd. But being Jim’s younger brother was usually enough to protect him, most of the time – except from their father.

  ALEX! The dream scream was bloody raw.

  Alex jolted awake in groggy fear. He quickly realized that he didn’t know where he was – a common anxiety attack for a traveling journalist. Some never got used to it. Rather than being in a familiar room in Ann Arbor with his old girlfriend Grace, he was in a dirty, patched-up sleeping bag somewhere with a different woman.

  He recognized her: it was Sandy, Manson’s date at the record release party. At once, scenes from the night’s fire-lit wildness came flooding back into his consciousness like a movie promo trailer running faster and faster, beyond control.

  • • •

  Earlier that night, Marv and Alex had dinner at El Coyote on Beverly, where the tequila began to do its work. Marv told Alex about his new venture, and Alex told Marv his account of being at the Chicago riots during the Democratic Convention the year before. The trial of the Chicago Seven ‘conspirators’ was to begin later this month and he would be covering it for Crib Notes.

  They arrived at Spahn Ranch about 10 pm, bringing more tequila, Margarita mix, and ice. After parking the car among the few others in the dirt plaza at the ranch, they walked toward the voices and firelight they saw off in the darkness. The night was perfectly balmy, and a light breeze rustled the treetops. The tequila was performing its legendary magic: everything seemed important, but hazy and just out of reach. The visual became almost cinematic, like a kind of Panavision, where everything played out on a wide stage. You were watching but somehow also in the show.

  There were 15 to 20 people hanging around a campfire of sorts. Alex was taken aback – some of them looked very young, too young to be somewhere like this scene. Charlie was at one end of the crowd, dancing in a strange, robotic way. Some people were clapping a rhythm while he danced and spun, his arms chopping the air. When he saw Marv and Alex, he stopped, squinted, and just stared at them for a moment. Then he laughed and said, “Hey, everybody, Mr. Salesman is back!’

  Marv smiled good naturedly, and held up the bottle of tequila. “I bring fire-water!” He shouted. A cheer went up from the crowd and the older ones rushed up to him. “Do you have any glasses?” Marv asked. “I’ve got the mix and –”

  Steve Corgan grabbed the bottle out his hand, spun off the cap, and took three gulping swallows. Handing it back to Marv he said, “I can’t stand that rancid green shit they put in perfectly good tequila!” and lit a cigarette. Kat was next, but took only one hit, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thanks, Marv!”

  Marv got smart. “Okay, from now on: tequila tax! I’m charging a kiss for each girl that wants a taste!” Alex watched as the girls lined up, laughing, planting long French kisses on Marv. They were getting quite a kick from stoking Marv’s growing excitement. Valley Jane pulled his arm and tried to get him to dance to Charlie’s guitar, and a few other girls joined them to form a circle. Marv was just able to pass the bottle to Alex before he was swept away.

  “What’s your price, Alex?” It was Sandy – the girl with Manson when they had met at the Whiskey. Alex was glad to see a familiar face, and even happier that she might be flirting with him.

  “Hey, Sandy! You got a real blast going here!” said Alex, as he passed the bottle to her. “Is it like this every night?”

  “No,” Sandy said. “Most nights you aren’t here with tequila!” she laughed. She gave the bottle back to Alex. “Actually, I don’t like tequila much. But here – this is some pretty trippy Mexican weed.” She offered a joint to Alex, who took it as she lit it. They both toked.

  Someone in a cabin put on The Rolling Stones’ “Beggars Banquet” album, the stereo set’s speakers pushed into a window frame. The music became a soundtrack to the party as the Stones echoed around the little valley.

  “Who’s your friend, Sandy?” Squeaky asked as she walked up to the two of them. “You look like a movie star, man!” she breathed, touching Alex’s face. She was very high. “Ooh – tequila!” she cried in her little twisted voice. She grabbed the bottle and took a chug. “A movie star and an angel! You need to come with us, man!” she whined.

  “Where?” Alex asked, but now it was Charlie who came up out of the murk. He sat down on his stump. “How’s it hangin’, man?” he asked Alex. “Welcome to our fuckin’ world out here!” He giggled, reached out, and took the joint from Sandy. “A little bit of sanity and freedom in the middle of the piggy-industrial complex!”

  Squeaky walked over to Charlie unsteadily. She stood behind him and grabbed a comb from her back pocket. As Charlie and Alex talked she hummed and gently combed Charlie’s hair, working out tangles.

  Charlie pulled out his Bowie knife. As he talked he fondled it, caressing the blade, and began to play mumbley-peg with it. The knife would spin, end over end, and fall between his legs, sticking into the wooden stump.

  “I had enough of trying to live by the straight world’s rules, man. Every time I tried, I’d just land back in prison. Ever since I started living free, I don’t got those problems no more, man – they don’t know what to do with me! I don’t fit into any of their little boxes.” He took a long drag from the joint. “And once other people see how it can be done, the ones whose eyes are open - man, they just naturally want to live like me. Like us.”

  Sandy laughed. “Sometimes, they need a little persuasion.”

  “But how can so many people make it out here, day to day?” asked Alex.

  “Oh, we take care of the ranch for George, and some money comes from that,” said Squeaky. “We also know how to survive, man. There’s plenty for everyone if you know where to look.”

  “Squeaky’s got nothin’ to worry about,” said Charlie. “She takes care of old man Spahn. He’s her old man!” said Charlie, laughing at his pun.

  Squeaky moved around in front of Charlie, between his legs. “You’re my old man, Charlie,” she said, as she sat on the ground and leaned back. She rubbed the back of her head into Charlie’s crotch.

  Charlie kissed the top of her head and reached one hand down into her shirt. He looked up at Alex. “She’s my little Squeaky toy,” he said, as he pinched her nipple - hard. Squeaky let out a high-pitched yelp and jumped up. “Charl-eee!” she shouted, whining, falling back into Sandy and Alex. Her sq
ueal got a response from the horses in the stable, and they whinnied nervously.

  Alex heard Marv whooping in the distance and he looked over, trying to see him. He finally was able to see Marv stumbling naked in the valley oaks, his pants and underwear taut around his ankles. Several girls, some naked themselves, were circling and teasing Marv to try and catch them. His erect penis was waving around like a loose boom on sailboat. Everyone was laughing hysterically.

  Alex heard the sound of a hard slap behind him, and turned to see Squeaky falling to the ground. Sandy was backing away as Manson stood over Squeaky with his Bowie knife.

  “I told you, cunt! Don’t EVER say that shit again! I NEED that old fucker’s money!” He started to lunge toward Squeaky, but noticed Alex and stopped. He glared at Alex for a second and then turned and stalked away toward the town buildings, sheathing his knife. Alex had seen a deep chasm in Manson’s eyes, even as the fire-light created a small sparkle there in the corners.

  Sandy bent down to Squeaky. “What just happened here?” Alex asked, confused.

  Squeaky tried to speak through her tears. “I – I just said the wrong thing, as usual. I guess I’ll never learn to shut up, like he says.”

  “He’s just high, Squeak. You know how he gets,” Sandy said.

  “So, this is like, normal for him?” Alex asked. “And you guys put up with it?”

  “It’s not like you think, Alex. He’s not like that much – it’s just … he gets uptight, especially if he’s been tripping for a few days.”

  There was a low rumble, then the unmistakable throttle and roar of large motorcycles. Their headlights were visible up on the Pass Road and everyone could hear them downshifting to make the turn onto the road leading down to the Ranch. There were at least ten long, low bikes.

  “Charlie works really hard to take care of us, you know,” Sandy continued. “Everything we got here is because of him,” she said, caressing Squeaky’s hair.

  Everyone at the campfire immediately stopped what they were doing and watched the bikers intently. A few girls grabbed clothes and blankets and ran off into the darkness of the hills. The men stood up and tried to make sure they were ready for whatever might happen. The Stones’ music filled the canyon and the bikes paraded down into the plaza, circling.

  “Who are they?” asked Alex.

  “Don’t know yet,” said Sandy, unfazed. “Could be Angels, Straight Satans - could be Mongols.” She shrugged. “Probably just here to score.”

  “Score? You mean Charlie’s a dealer?” Alex asked, trying to be casual about it.

  Sandy turned to look at him with her usual calm expression. “Not just Charlie, not just drugs. It’s all of us. It’s all how we’re able to keep our Family together.”

  The bikes parked, and a group of men swaggered down into the campfire area. Biker tough, they controlled the ground and the mood shifted immediately. Some wore leather chaps over their jeans, and all wore sleeveless denim jackets covered in writing and patches. Sandy watched Steve Corgan walk up to them. “It’s cool,” she said, finally. “They’re Straight Satans. Steve is one of them.”

  The atmosphere lightened up instantly. The party vibe quickly returned, and the bikers pulled beers out of their saddle packs. They made straight for the girls that hadn’t run away. A few of the Satans noticed Marv, still drunk and naked but no longer so excited, and walked over to him. “What the fuck happened to you, man?” laughed one, pointing to Marv’s pants and BVDs in the dirt. His name, “Beto,” was embroidered over the pocket of his jacket. “Hey! Why don’t you bend over and count your toes while I take care of some business?” he said, and began unbuckling his belt while his friends cheered and roared with laughter. The other bikers, sensing an opportunity for domination, started to gather around, beers in hand, jeering.

  Marv clutched at his pants, trying to pull them up into place, and fast. “I – I,” he stuttered.

  “C’mon, cupcake! This won’t take but a lil’ minuto!” Beto sneered. His pants were now loose around his hips. The others screamed and urged their partner on and the circle tightened. Hands reached out for Marv.

  “I’m – I’m a friend of Charlie’s, guys!” said Marv. He was beginning to panic.

  “Wadda ya know! I’m a friend of Charlie’s too!” Beto said, grinning wide. “He’s my homie!” Beto leered. “He’s next, right guys?” The other bikers were in a near frenzy, chanting, “Beto! Beto!”

  Steve Corgan stepped in. “Beto! All right, Beto, be cool! Be cool. Enough - this guy is an important dude right now. Don’t hassle him.” The Satans became quiet, but upset. They did not appreciate being shushed.

  Beto peered into Steve’s face as he gauged the situation. This could be an opportunity to fight, make a name, settle old slights. Or not. Beto made the decision to let it go this time. “Sure, man. Just jokin’ around – lighten up!” He turned to Marv, who was busy fastening his pants. “Just fuckin’ with you, man! It’s a party, right?” He held out his hand, and Marv took it to shake. “But you better get yourself together, dude! You’re a mess!” The crowd roared with laughter and drifted apart under the oaks.

  Marv got his pants on, found his shoes and shirt. He walked over to Alex and Sandy, who had watched while the whole thing went down. Alex had wondered if he should intervene in the situation, but he didn’t. He hardly knew Marv, and as a journalist he needed to stay uninvolved - out of the action. But a small, irritating voice in his head suggested that maybe he wasn’t actually working right now. When do you stop being a journalist and start being a person?

  “Man! I gotta go, Alex. Too much fun for me tonight! I didn’t even get a chance to talk to Charlie!” He buttoned his shirt. “You coming or staying?”

  Alex’s first thought was to go back to his motel room. But before he could speak, Sandy softly grabbed his arm. “Well, Marv, I think I’ll stay awhile. But you’re right: it’s really something out here.”

  Sandy

  September 3, 1969

  9:00 am.

  The ranch was coming alive with the sounds of singing and people calling out to each other. Tack jingled as horses were saddled and put out, some of them whinnying in protest. Sandy rolled over in the sleeping bag, snuggling closer to Alex after he had jerked awake. Charlie’s orders aside, she had enjoyed seducing such a good looking and worldly guy.

  “Morning,” she murmured, kissing his ear lightly.

  Alex rolled over to face her. His memory of the stoned sex from last night was coming back. “Hi,” he said, kissing her on the lips softly. “Well, I guess we survived the attack of the Straight Satans.”

  She laughed out loud. “They aren’t so tough. Last night, they just came to pick up some speed.”

  It was true. After leaving the café, saddlebags over his shoulder, the boss Satan whistled down to his crew. They scrambled up the hill to the bikes, various pieces of clothing flapping as they hurried to put their colors back on.

  “I’m just glad I wasn’t forced to defend your virtue!” Alex smiled, and ran his hand down her smooth, tanned back.

  “La-dee-dah!” Sandy laughed. “Those days are long gone, man. You just wanted me all to yourself is what it was.”

  “True. But – do all the girls really, ah, sleep with outsiders?”

  “Well,” said Sandy, “if Charlie wants us to, or tells us it’s important, of course! We’re family, and he’s like our father, sort of, I guess. He keeps our home here protected, and he’s got big plans for us.”

  “What do you need protection from?” asked Alex, tracing her cheekbone with his finger.

  “Jeez, Alex! It’s a dangerous world out there for girls who have left the old ways behind. We don’t have anything to call our own! There’s hustlers, there’s pimps, cops, parents, detectives, blacks …”

  “What do you mean, blacks?” Alex asked, interrupting. He had noticed that everyone at the ranch was lily white.

  “Alex. C’mon, man – you’re not dumb. They’re getting ready to take o
ver! Haven’t you seen it with your own eyes? The Panthers, the organizers, the riots. The white man’s time is over soon, man. At least that’s the way Charlie explains it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Yeah! Like those murders, that actress and her baby –”

  “Sharon Tate?”

  “Yeah! Her and those people. It was the Panthers, giving us a taste of what’s gonna happen. All that blood, the warnings on the wall …”

  “You mean that stuff about ‘pigs’? ‘Helter Skelter’?”

  Sandy stroked Alex’s hair. “Right on! They’re just gonna slaughter as many whites as they can, and take over society. Helter Skelter! The Beatles saw it coming first – they tried to warn the people, but no one wants to believe it. But we believe it!” Sandy looked Alex in the eyes and kissed him fully, slowly. “Maybe you’re supposed to come with us!”

  ‘Where? Squeaky said the same thing! Where are you going?”

  “Charlie has built us a fort in the desert. We’re all gonna go there to ride out the time of the slaughter.”

  Alex, still not fully awake and sober, was having trouble believing that Sandy was serious. Maybe she was psycho. Or she could be righteously into this idea, or plan, or whatever it was. Either way, his writer’s sense was telling him that there was a cool story here.

  “So – this is Charlie’s vision?” Alex asked. He sat up and reached for his glasses.

  “Well,” Sandy said, rolling onto her back, “we all see it, but he completely understands what’s happening.” She looked up at him. “He’s read a ton of books, and rapped with lots of heavy people, Alex. To you, he may look like a hippie. But he’s way more.”

  “I’d really like to talk to him some more,” Alex said. “It sounds like he’s got a lot to say.”

  “He does!” said Sandy, rising to embrace him from behind. “But he won’t be up for hours. We’ve got lots of time.” She turned his head toward her and kissed him.

  Alex felt unnerved. He wanted a reality check – something to reassure him he wasn’t just dreaming this whole thing. He kissed Sandy on the cheek. “Girl, I’ve got to get a move on. I have to check in with my editor,” he lied. He got up and began to put his pants on. “Is there a shower I can use?”