Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  Not so funny, actually. She had been banished to the ‘solitary’ cabin yesterday. One of the girls brought food, tampons, and water during the day, but that was the only contact allowed with other Family members. There was an outhouse about ten yards away. The cabin door wasn’t locked – she could walk away anytime she might want to. But leaving solitary early, on her own, would mean leaving the ranch for good, and she wasn’t ready for that. But she felt close.

  Five days of solitary was Sherrie’s punishment for disobeying Charlie’s orders – again. This time, it was all about that creep, Marv.

  Last night, most everyone had gone out to the Topanga Corral Tavern to hear Little Feat, a band that they all liked, and to take advantage of Ladies’ Night drink prices. Sherry was told to stay behind at the café and keep watch – it was fire season. How am I going to stop a brush fire? she thought, but didn’t argue. She knew they just didn’t want her around, and she was on Charlie’s shit list since the trip north.

  The wind was picking up, and it was hard to hear anything outside except trees groaning and leaves shaking. During one prolonged gust of wind, Marv Feld came through the café doors, tequila bottle in hand. He seemed drunk already, but she could see that he was looking to party on. Unsteady, Marv managed to clamber onto a barstool.

  “Waitress!” he shouted, waving at Sherrie in the bar mirror. “A glass, por favor!” He raised the tequila bottle. “Or two, if you dare. C’mon, it’s Cuervo!” Marv looked around, frowning. “Where the hell is everybody? Another orgy? And me not invited, again! Shit! Who do you gotta fuck to get fucked around here?” He laughed alone at his joke.

  “They’ve all gone to the Corral, Marv – most of them. What do you want?” she asked, tired. She and Marv had never found a way to be friendly.

  Marv looked at her, trying to focus. “Oh, it’s you, the ugly stepchild. What I want is a glass, honey! Pronto! C’mon – have some with me. Less’ get drunk.”

  Sherrie sighed, but went into the kitchen and brought out the first glass she could find – a plastic cup – and put it on the bar for Marv. “No thanks, man. No tequila for me tonight. You know, it might be a long time before they get back.”

  “Thass alright,” he slurred. Marv picked up the cup in front of him – a plastic kid’s cup from Disneyland, painted with a waltzing Mickey and Minnie around the bowl. “What the fuck?” he said, and tossed the cup over his shoulder. Marv grabbed the Cuervo bottle, uncorked it, and took a swig. Then he held it out to Sherrie. “Here!” he commanded.

  “Marv – I really don’t want any. You should just stop and go home. I think you’re pretty drunk already.”

  “Am I?” Marv asked, his face quizzical. He stared in the mirror for a moment then laughed slyly. “I must be, ‘coz you’re looking pretty cute to me right about now, baby!”

  Shit! Sherrie grimaced. All the girls were under orders to give Marv whatever he wanted. But none of them liked him, and Sherrie was repulsed by him, especially like this. She didn’t want any more trouble with Charlie, but the thought of doing whatever with Marv gave her a sick spasm in her throat. Just try to stall him, she thought. Maybe he’ll just pass out.

  Marv was off the stool, and moving toward her. His eyes had the mescal look – lids cranked open, but not really seeing. He was still laughing, leering at her.

  “Marv, cut it out! Sit down and –”

  Marv lunged to embrace her but she sidestepped him and he fell, his head cracking against the wood floor. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled. The tequila bottle spun away, spilling the mescal in a circle.

  Sherrie reached down to try and help him get up, but he rolled onto his back and pulled her down to him. “You’re such a mean little girl! C’mon, let’s get it on!” He grabbed her tee shirt, trying to lift it off. It was old and worn, and ripped completely in two, leaving Sherrie topless. “Hey, now!” Marv howled.

  Sherrie was mad now. She was done with this asshole’s games. She got up on one knee, and with a grunt brought the other into Marv’s groin. He made an animal groan, vomited across the floor, and curled into a ball. She stood up, panting, and sat down in the closest chair as Marv moaned and spit.

  “I’m warning you, asshole! Leave me alone, or I’m gonna tell everyone and anyone I can about the Charlie Manson I know! I don’t think you can sell too many records by a guy that’s on Death Row! I’m serious! I almost told that writer guy Alex the whole story last time you were so nice to me.”

  Marv groaned. “What? What the fuck are you talking about?” he rasped.

  “I got an even better idea,” she said, and reached into her jeans for the Crib Notes business card that Alex Swain had given her. Sherrie went to the payphone, put in a dime, and dialed a number written on the card. She waited a few rings, then the answering service for Crib Notes Magazine picked up. “I’d like to leave a message for Alex – uh – Alex Swain” she said, reading from the paper. “Right. The message is: Sherrie Caster wants to talk to him. From the ranch. He’ll know who I am. OK – thanks!”

  Sherrie went to the kitchen and found and old food-stained shirt to put on. She came back into the café as Marv was sitting up. “So,” she said, “any time you start bein’ nasty to me, I will go straight to this Alex guy, or the cops, and cry a river of secrets. Got it?”

  A truck pulled in to the lot outside, and they heard car doors slam and voices laughing and shouting at party level.

  The alcohol was clearing from Marv’s head, replaced now by pain and confusion. “Just be cool. Be cool! Sorry – too much tequila,” he said as he sat up, wiping his mouth.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sherrie said. “Asshole.”

  Kat, Spence, Charlie and a new girl pushed into the café in high spirits. They stumbled into each other as they stopped to take in the scene in the room. Marv was now on his hands and knees, still coughing and spitting.

  “Marv’s here, Charlie,” Sherrie said flatly. “Too much tequila, though.”

  Charlie laughed. “You’ve made a big mess, Marvie! Jeez! I don’t get what you clowns see in that alcohol shit. Look at yourself, man!” They all laughed, except Marv.

  “She fuckin’ kicked me in the balls, man!” Marv hissed. “I’m not this fucked up from a little tequila!” He got up and sat in a chair, looked at Manson, then nodded at Sherrie. “This cunt here wouldn’t give it up, Charlie.” Marv looked at Manson. “I thought you said, ‘any time, any place,’ man! That’s the way I understood it.”

  Sherrie went off. “Bullshit, asshole! You’re too drunk to fuck anything!” She turned to Manson. “He said he was looking for an orgy, Charlie!” she blurted out. “He is so gross – we all can’t stand him!”

  Manson looked at Sherrie, then Marv. He saw the ripped tee shirt on the floor, and picked it up. “What’s this? What is it those pigs say on ‘Dragnet?’ Signs of a struggle? Looks like Marv was going for it, but he may have met his match!” Manson put his hands on his hips, laughed, and shook his head.

  “An orgy, Marv? Is that what they call a hot party in Studio City? First it was the money, and now you’re coming around making everybody uptight and freaking out!” Manson giggled. “You may have balls, Marv, but I don’t think the rest of you can get it up for an orgy! All right - I’m horny as hell after all that dancing and hot pussy at the Corral. Why not? Let’s go – everyone in the love circle!” Everyone but Marv, Sherrie, and the new girl began throwing off whatever clothing they had on – sandals, jeans, shirts – laughing and whooping. “C’mon, Marv – here’s your little fantasy! Sherrie – get him out of those clothes, and you, too – go!”

  Sherrie began to cry, muttering, “No, no!” Attended by a naked Kat, Sherrie resisted getting her shirt and pants off. Now only Marv and the stranger were left with clothing. He looked at Charlie, pleading: “Charlie, c’mon man! I was only kidding around, trying to get a little –”

  “Fuck you!” Manson yelled. “We’re all gonna get down! Spence, help him out. He must be too shy to do it himself. Sherrie, get him
started. He obviously doesn’t get enough head from his little Studio City girlfriend!” Manson pulled Kat close to him and they kissed deeply as they caressed each other.

  “Charlie,” Sherrie said, sobbing. “I can’t do this! I’m on the fucking rag, man!”

  Manson broke away from Kat, lunging at Sherrie. He shoved her hard toward the back of the room, where she fell underneath the pay phone. “Damn you, woman!” he shouted.

  Marv saw the opportunity to leave, grabbed his shirt and made for the door. “Fuck this!” he yelled. “I’m splitting. Goddam you guys! I just wanted a little fun for my three hundred you took, and all I get is hassled by everybody! Shit!” As he reached the door, he turned and said sternly, “Manson! Don’t forget the interview Sunday night! And I’m not coming out here to chauffeur you!” Then he stormed out into the wind.

  “Not in the mood anymore?” Manson yelled after him. “Fuck you, Marv!” he yelled. Then he turned to Sherrie. “And you, you little bitch! From now on, you better do like I tell you – no questions! You just got yourself a week in the solitary, girl – now get your shit out of my face! Jesus!” He threw the ripped tee shirt at Sherrie.

  The new girl had watched it all go down in a stoned, drunken gape. “Far out!” she finally said. “This is an orgy?”

  Manson, Kat, and Spence turned toward the young woman. “Could be, girl!” said Charlie, smiling. “We’re just havin’ a little fun, is all. Catchin’ a groove on a hot Libra night, baby!” He spun toward her in a little dance.

  • • •

  So, Sherrie had four more days to go in the solitary cabin. The heat baked the cabin, and she passed her sentence sweating, moving between the cot, the chair, and standing by the window. She remembered her first days at the ranch, and how the laid-back life of music and singing she loved had changed so much since those days. Sherrie decided right then that she had to leave. Instead of running immediately, she would wait out the next four days. She had to get some shit together before hitting the road. The thing that upset her most of all was having to leave her horse, Mister. It wasn’t Sherrie’s own horse, really, but she took care of him, and they had bonded easily. The wind slammed the cabin again, and she began to weep. Mister’s affection was the only clean love she could remember ever having.

  Having nowhere to go, Sherrie hoped Alex, the writer dude, might help her find a way out of this situation. She didn’t know why she was sure he could be trusted, but she had a good feeling – and no other card to play.

  Coming into Los Ange-lees

  1969 Arlo Guthrie

  September 27, 1969

  3 pm

  Alex Swain stared out his window of the TWA 707, fingers propping up his head. He liked to fly – it was a forced isolation that got him away from typewriters and telephones. Flying always seemed to encourage a sort of reverie in him, a freedom of idea flow that no other environment could bring.

  He had been in Chicago for a week, covering the trial of the Chicago Seven conspiracy defendants for Phil Crane’s magazine, Crib Notes. The trial had swiftly turned into the circus that was universally predicted.

  For many Americans, this was the first time they had seen or heard any leading lights of the ‘counterculture’ in action. The defendants took every opportunity to confront the general public, via their television news, about the unexamined assumptions and beliefs accepted in American society. It made powerful television, especially when sandwiched between news stories about burning villages and dead US soldiers in Viet Nam.

  At 30,000 feet, watching the clouds, Alex’s thoughts turned to his dead brother, Jim. If only – he began, and stopped himself. It was useless to try and rearrange history, to work on alternative tactics three years too late. But in his heart, Alex was convinced that he could have talked Jim out of enlisting - if he had known then what he had learned and believed by now.

  Impossible! It’s all in the past! he scolded himself.

  Alex had embraced journalism as a way to provide young people with information of the kind he couldn’t get when he was younger. He regarded it as knowledge that might save their lives, and possibly save America. But he now had come to see that this knowledge would probably not be coming from the mouths of the rock musicians he had been interviewing.

  The stewardess broke his train of thought by offering him another bourbon. Alex accepted and lit a cigarette. The flight, now over the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, was hitting turbulence from the updrafts but the panorama from his window seat was spectacular. Such a beautiful country! he thought. What the hell happened? Alex thought often about this, and hard. He had some ideas - some based on his reporting, some from his own life, and some from events that were too new to be considered history. But he knew a lot of what he was seeing would be historic, some day.

  Alex’s silent concentration turned to his father Robert, a strong-willed WWII vet, auto worker, and union man. A Marine in WWII, Robert came home from victory with a pride and belief in America that could not be questioned. He also carried a heavy sense of responsibility and commitment to his fallen friends - soldiers, and sailors. Robert and his veteran peers were convinced that the same leadership and industrial culture that smashed our Axis enemies would get us through our new challenge as leader and protector of the Free World - if America would just give the leaders full rein as they had done during the war.

  But this was a new fight, with new weapons. Alex, as a child, would ask his father to explain the atomic bomb - so different from the rifles and Colt pistols of the cowboy movies. In middle school they learned about the ‘Radius of Atomic Destruction.’ The kids brought local road maps to class and used their school compasses to draw the rings of H-bomb blast damage around their city. By Alex’s reckoning, and confirmation by the ‘A’ grade from his teacher, Alex’s house would be completely vaporized (“Zone 0”) when the missile hit its target – City Hall.

  Robert Swain was mystified by his son’s fears. As a Marine he had seen gruesome, terrifying things he could never forget – things that blasted him awake at night, things that anyone should fear more than some tiny possibility of an H-Bomb attack on their suburban town.

  Robert understood that Alex knew nothing of the real, ancient horrors of war. His father continually told Alex to be brave - not to worry. I’ve seen a big slice of the world, he told Alex, and it’s way too big to be all blown up – no matter how many bombs they have. But Alex kept asking questions. Who’s in charge? Are you sure they won’t make a mistake? What exactly is fallout? How do we know who wins? His father moved from being annoyed to concerned. Concerned that Alex, unlike his older brother Jim, needed help becoming more confident and masculine. Some strict regimen was called for, Robert Swain decided. Even the Scouts might not be tough enough.

  Alex pulled out of his memories. Yeah – lots of questions. That’s me. He stretched as much as he could in his cramped seat before returning to his thoughts about the veterans, generals, and industrialists running the country. They were confident and focused on the future, while so many of their sons and daughters, unshaped by experience of the Depression and war, felt a kind of sick relief on waking each morning - thankful to find that they had not been atomically incinerated during the night.

  Those years of constant tension were twisted by the surreal danger of mutual atomic destruction. The counsel of official American culture seemed to be: “Banish worry with prayer and shopping!” How could anyone keep it together? Alex thought. Maybe they couldn’t. He counted eleven assassinations in the US since 1960 – from Kennedys to Black Panthers, and riots needing martial law in all the major cities. And yet the ‘Chamber of Commerce’ type of thinking was that this American way of life was still the only possible, rational choice.

  Well, Alex knew, a lot of people don’t think so anymore, guys, and those numbers are growing. Charlie’s little Family, for example, had taken the plunge and moved off the mainline. Alex respected them for that, but it was a dark and brutal refuge that Manson had created. Funny, thin
king about Manson right now, Alex thought – he heard Charlie’s song on the radio often while in Chicago.

  While working the trial in Chicago Alex got a call from Phil Crane, who told him two pieces of interesting news. A Family girl named Sherrie Caster had left a message for Alex saying that she wanted to talk with him, soon. Then, not long after, Marv - Phil’s old friend - had called Phil and asked him to cancel the article about Charlie and the ranch. Marv had some bullshit reasons, Phil told Alex. They all sounded lame, especially coming from a guy that believed there was no such thing as bad publicity. Both Phil and Alex had enough experience to suspect that the two calls were probably related, in terms of the ranch story, and this indicated a new depth to the situation. Phil and Alex agreed that Alex should return to L.A. and dig further into the Family story. As it was, the Chicago Seven trial was filthy with journalists either assigned to the story or freelancing. The chances of Alex, a relative newcomer, getting a scoop or inside source were close to zero.

  As the plane began to drop toward LAX, Alex had a flash: maybe there was a way to use the Manson Family origins to illustrate his ideas about the turn in American society. Some parallels, causes and effects about real people. That could be cool! he thought. Make it more than another dumb music biz piece.

  Alex felt an unrelenting pressure to come out with an important, ground-breaking story - and soon. He knew his career needed a boost to get to the next plateau, away from the adolescent posturing of the music business and into the adult world of politics and power. This story could be the one.

  The 707 hit the concrete at LAX with a hard bounce, tires screeching. Passengers pushed hard against the seat in front of them as the thrust reversers screamed and the tortured brakes finally brought the aircraft to a crawl.

  Welcome back to LA! Alex laughed to himself darkly. The city that doesn’t know how to stop.

  Mr. DJ