Outside the Gates of Eden

by Lewis Shiner

  Yet now, as they passed weird, scrap-lumber sculptures of humanoids and animals that stood in the mudflats at the edge of the Bay; as they crossed the Bay Bridge and made landfall to the pungent aroma of roasting coffee from the Folgers building; as they navigated the forest of signs for South Beach and Rincon Hill and the Embarcadero; as she bounced around the front seat, excitedly taking in everything she could see and hear and smell; as all this magic unfolded, she was willing to believe six impossible things before dinner and no end of unlikelihoods.

  Cole pointed out the sights as they drove across the peninsula: Buena Vista Park, the Haight, Golden Gate Park, and finally, as they made a short circle before pulling into the motel, the vastness of the Pacific. Gradually her excitement subsided into calm delight. She gave herself credit for making the right choice; she saw that already she was more sophisticated than she’d been the night before; she knew that no books or classrooms could replace the richness of immediate experience.

  At the motel, she signed the registration card “Mrs. Madelyn Cole,” the “Mrs.” and the “Cole” so unpracticed as to look fraudulent.

  Over dinner at a Thai restaurant that Cole knew, Lenny was the only one whose feelings approximated hers. He’d never been out of Texas before and the trip had been one revelation after another, with San Francisco as the somewhat unnerving climax. “Freaks everywhere!” he said. “It’s like a sci-fi movie where the revolution is over and we won. I mean, I’m fucking terrified, but I love it already.”

  Cole, who had let Madelyn spell him for no more than short stretches over the last three days, was exhausted. “It’s even colder than I remembered.”

  Madelyn, having heard Cole’s complaints about San Francisco weather on too many prior occasions, had dressed for winter in jeans, boots, and a bulky sweater and was perfectly comfortable. “I refuse to be brought down by the likes of you,” she told him, and raised her glass of Tab to Lenny. “Here’s to new beginnings.”

  *

  On Monday, August 5, near the end of their second month in San Francisco, Cole woke up once again at four am, consumed by regrets and recriminations, ready to give up.

  He’d been an idiot to come back to this city that he hated. Blind to think that they could simply find a bass player when, without a bass player, they couldn’t even perform in public and get a reputation that would get them the quality performer they needed.

  He’d begun to obsess over increasingly desperate schemes. Was there some way to get himself and Madelyn enrolled for the fall semester at ut and crawl back to Texas, his tail between his legs? Could he talk Alex into coming out for two weeks, long enough to learn an hour’s worth of tunes, play a few gigs, and attract enough attention to find a replacement? What if he or Lenny switched to bass and they worked for a while as a power trio? What if he just ran away, got up right now and put on his clothes and hitchhiked to Mexico and left Madelyn and Lenny and Tommy to fend for themselves?

  He looked at Madelyn, snoring softly next to him. For the last month, she’d been working at an art gallery at the Marina, hired for her looks and her brains, making enough to pay the rent on their dilapidated two-bedroom apartment, not in the Haight where he’d wanted to be, but over the line in the Fillmore district, where racial tensions still sat on a lit burner, ready to boil over on a moment’s notice, and where Madelyn got hassled nearly every day, though Cole walked her to her streetcar stop every morning and met her there every evening.

  Cole had looked for a steady day job, as had Lenny and Tommy, and all the unskilled jobs were taken for miles around. Cole found a contractor who would give him occasional construction work, when there was enough to go around, which was not often. Bands were moving out of the Haight, which had lost its cool and turned increasingly dangerous as speed and heroin continued to take the place of lsd and pot.

  The Fillmore Auditorium had closed after the July 4 show, and Graham had moved his operation to the old Carousel Ballroom and reopened there the next night. The hall was bigger, and an easy walk from the apartment, but they’d only been once, to see Jeff Beck open for Moby Grape a week ago. Cole had become leery of spending money on anything beyond food, and Madelyn was still not that deeply into rock, especially when it was live and loud. The show had been vaguely disappointing. Skip Spence, the crazy Moby Grape guitarist, had gone literally crazy in New York and been committed to Belleview, taking much of the band’s life force with him. Beck was distracted and out of sorts. Even the room lacked the magic the old Fillmore had.

  The Matrix was still the only organized jam session he knew of, and his best shot at finding an unattached bass player. So far it had been a waste of time. The Avalon was rumored to be in danger of losing its lease, and, only the night before, the Straight Theater had presented its last regular live music show. The whole scene was imploding.

  To her credit, Madelyn didn’t blame him for the mess he’d made of their lives, not out loud, anyway. Still, on those nights when she came home exhausted from work and Lenny and Tommy were laughing at some sitcom on Lenny’s portable black and white tv, and Cole hadn’t started their dinner yet, and the kitchen faucet was dripping again, and the light switch had shorted out in the bedroom, he knew she was wondering what exactly she had given up her dreams for. He felt her reluctance to complain about her job, and he knew how ungrateful he would sound if he ranted against San Francisco. They went days at a time without making love, without even talking much, gritting their teeth and putting one foot in front of the other to get from morning to night.

  At six he gave up and slipped out of bed and got dressed. As he brushed his teeth he realized he’d forgotten to call his mother the day before and knew he would have to add that to his list of chores for the day. He sat in the living room with the Strat and played it unamplified until Madelyn’s alarm went off at 7:30. He made coffee and oatmeal for the two of them while she showered. She ate in her terrycloth robe, her hair wrapped in a towel, offering him a sad smile in thanks.

  He checked the hearse as he walked Madelyn to the streetcar. No signs of trouble. He’d taken to leaving the doors unlocked after the second time the driver’s window had been smashed. Nothing to steal anyway.

  In the beginning, Madelyn had said goodbye every morning with the promise, “Good things will happen for you today.” Lately she kissed him perfunctorily and got on the trolley. Cole saw her off with a raised hand and shuffled back to the apartment.

  He smelled cigarettes when he opened the door, which meant that Lenny was awake. He sat on the couch with his Strat and picked up where he’d left off. A few minutes later Lenny himself appeared, shirtless and barefoot in bell-bottom jeans from the Army Navy store, Marlboro dangling from his mouth. He helped himself to the coffee and sat down across from Cole with his Les Paul, picking up Cole’s mood and playing it back to him, a reassurance and a reminder of why they were there.

  In the afternoon, Cole and Lenny walked over to the Haight to check the bulletin boards. Tommy, who was sliding deeper into depression by the day, stayed home, allegedly to practice, more likely to smoke dope and watch tv.

  The Haight had changed from the summer before. The crushing overpopulation had subsided, and along with it the last traces of glamour, leaving it no more than a hippie slum. When the occasional tourist bus came through, the lectures were in past tense. Career dope dealers had run the amateurs off and at least a dozen prime storefronts were boarded up. Cole reflexively looked for Becky among the street population, hoping she’d gone back to Mobile, that nothing worse had befallen her.

  Nothing new on the Purple Unicorn board, nothing at the Pall Mall Bar, former home of Love Burgers. Cole collapsed in a chair at the Pall Mall and said, “This is starting to get me down.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Lenny said. “We’ve barely been here two months.”

  Cole envied Lenny his easygoing nature. “Two months where we haven’t played a single gig.”

  “It’ll pick up when school starts. We’re fermenting, man.
Like fine wine. We’re paying our dues.”

  “Well, Madelyn’s paying them, anyway.”

  “If I could find a job…”

  “Yeah, I know. I know. Me too.”

  Cole looked up to see a familiar face at the bulletin board. Brad, his name was, the bass player from Paisley Octopus. Cole had run into them a few times, and heard them recently in the Panhandle. A year of practice hadn’t made them click.

  “Hi, Cole. Hi, Lenny.”

  “Brad,” Cole said. “What’s happening?”

  “We’re losing our lead player.” They’d been through several in the past year. “I don’t suppose either of you guys…?”

  “Sorry,” Cole said. “We’re still trying to get our thing going.”

  “Still looking for a bass player? Because I’m thinking…”

  Brad’s time-keeping was just iffy enough to sap the power from the band. “Next time we have an audition, we’ll let you know.”

  “Don’t tell the other guys, okay?”

  Cole nodded.

  “Say,” Brad said, easing out of the awkward moment, “did you hear there’s a party at the Airplane house tonight?” In defiance of the exodus from the Haight, the Airplane had bought a three-story mansion across from the northeast corner of Golden Gate Park. “Like, an open house kind of thing. Starts around eight or nine.”

  Cole looked at Lenny, who was starstruck. “Really?” Lenny said.

  “You should see that fucking place,” Brad said. “It is unbelievable.”

  “We will see that place,” Cole said. “Nothing could keep me away.”

  He called Madelyn from the apartment and told her about the party. “What time are you coming home?” he said. “You don’t want to miss this.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I think I do want to miss it. I’m going to be working late, and I have to be in early tomorrow.”

  Cole’s disappointment was the edge of something deeper. For all the things they had in common, a fundamental gap remained in the heart of their relationship. He’d been kidding himself to believe that rock music would ever touch her the way it did him.

  “Cole? I’m sorry. I know this is a big deal for you. You need to be able to go and stay there as long as you want.”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re the one that’s actually working.”

  “That’ll change. Maybe tonight you’ll find your bass player.”

  Maybe tonight I’ll meet Grace Slick, he thought, then immediately regretted it. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

  “Cheer up, for God’s sake. This should be a big adventure for you.”

  “You make it sound like a toddler’s first day at kindergarten.”

  “That’s in your head, not mine.”

  He’d managed to push her into the very corner they’d been avoiding for weeks. If he kept it up, there would be bloodletting. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I love you.”

  “I love you too. Have fun tonight.”

  “Okay. Hope you don’t have to stay too late.”

  “It’s okay. The new artist is here and it’s interesting for a change.”

  He tried to remember what she’d told him about the new show she was working on and drew a blank. “Then you have fun too.”

  He hung up and wondered if he should have pushed it. An ugly fight, both of them letting out the bile they’d been accumulating, phones slammed down, him staying home so they could have a painful discussion until early morning, ending in tearful sex and reconciliation.

  Another time, he thought. Tonight he was going to the Airplane house.

  *

  Tommy was as excited as Cole had seen him in weeks. Lenny was nervous and almost bailed. By the time they found a parking place, it was after nine and the noise from the party was audible from Stanyan Street, a long block away. Live music clashing with records, voices shouting to be heard over the chaos.

  The mansion sat on a corner lot, tall, white, narrow in front, massive Ionic columns holding up the top floor. The wrought iron gate was open, and a half-dozen steps led up to the front door, also open. A small crowd milled around on the sidewalk, and Cole led the way through them as if he were expected inside.

  The contrast between the long-haired, freakishly dressed partygoers and the stately Victorian setting got stranger as they pushed their way in. Thick Persian carpets on the floors, chandeliers overhead, mahogany paneling and wainscoting, patterned wallpaper, massive furniture, high ceilings, vast rooms. The dining room alone would easily seat 100. The tables were covered in Madras bedspreads, loaded with cut veggies, exotic breads and cheeses, imported crackers, ham, turkey. A pot of brown rice for the macrobiotic crowd. In the middle of the table sat a bowl of ice with a smaller bowl inside that held tiny black beads. A crowd spooned them onto little pancakes, among them the enormous figure of Tom Donahue, the dj Cole had last seen at the Matrix the year before.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Cole asked.

  “Caviar,” Donahue said with his mouth full. “Get some now, it’s not going to last long.” Donahue pointed with his plastic spoon at the platter of pancakes. “Blini, crème fraiche, caviar on top.”

  Cole tried it. The taste was slightly salty and incredibly rich. “Wow,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Donahue said. “Caviar is the reason people go to the trouble of making vast amounts of money.”

  Cole squeezed his way in for the last spoonful of eggs. He could get used to this.

  Another table was set up as a do-it-yourself bar. Wine, Jack Daniel’s, Southern Comfort, Smirnoff vodka. Garbage cans full of ice and beer. “Hey, check this out,” Lenny said. “Bottled water! How crazy is that?” Cole nodded and helped himself to a Heineken, using an opener that hung on a piece of twine.

  Other than Donahue, Cole didn’t recognize any of the fifty people in the dining room. Lots of cowboy hats and leather vests, women in tight jeans and high-heeled boots. Lenny and Tommy looked like it was all they could do to keep their mouths from hanging open. Cole, who liked being out of his league, felt sharp and ready for anything.

  They wandered through the first-floor rooms, which were quickly filling up with smoke, both tobacco and cannabis. A fire blazed in the parlor fireplace, and a crowd of acid heads watched it as if it were a Bergman film. A library, an industrial-sized kitchen, a music room where a guy in full American Indian getup played show tunes on a grand piano, a sitting room with wicker furniture, orchids, and a view of the gardens.

  Back at the stairway at the front of the house, Lenny said, “Up or down?”

  Loud rock music came from the basement. “Down,” Cole said.

  The basement was the size of the entire ground floor, which was to say, huge. Amps, drums, keyboards, and a few floor lamps at one end of the room. A few dozen folding chairs in a random arrangement in front of the makeshift stage. The song was a mid-tempo, 4/4 blues, “Get Out of My Life, Woman” or something like it. Jorma Kaukonen was on lead, easily recognizable by his massive forehead and hawklike nose. Another guitar player, who Cole didn’t recognize, stood behind him. Grace Slick, wearing a tunic top over Capri pants, played something dissonant on a Farfisa organ, exuding a chilly sensuality. Cole hiked his shoulders back and tried for a believable smile. Spenser Dryden was on drums, in his trademark cowboy hat and Fu Manchu mustache, looking bored. As Cole walked the length of the room, Dryden noodled briefly on his hi-hat, then got up and wandered off to the side, talking to a man in coveralls.

  Tommy, eyes blazing, pushed forward. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I believe this is what they call the chance of a lifetime.” He made his way over to Dryden and said something in his ear. Dryden shrugged and Tommy got behind the drums.

  Cole was pleased for him, but his attention belonged to the guy playing bass. Six-foot-three, built like a football player. Hair cut so short that Cole could see the shine of his scalp underneath. He was playing Jack Casady’s brown Guild Starfire bass and he had Casady’s style down pat—subsonic low notes, midrange and high notes that were
unexpectedly perfect in retrospect, melodic and propulsive at the same time.

  Casady himself sat in the front row in his tiny round sunglasses, a thin headband holding back his stringy blond hair. Cole sat down next to him while Lenny retreated to the shadows. “Who is that guy?” he asked.

  “Says his name’s Gordo,” Casady said. “I never saw him before.”

  “He’s so good, I thought he was you.”

  “He’s phenomenal,” Casady said. “Am I hallucinating, or is he dancing?”

  “I think it’s Motown footwork,” Cole said. “Like the Temps or the Four Tops.”

  “I believe you’re right.”

  They sat and watched together for a minute or two, Cole thinking, I just had a conversation with Jack Casady. Holy fucking shit.

  He worked up his nerve and said, “I need to get up there and play guitar.”

  Casady looked at him over the top of his glasses. “Are you any good?”

  “That’s my drummer up there now. We’re pros.”

  Casady considered the idea.

  “Look,” Cole said, “if I couldn’t play, I wouldn’t dream of getting up there and making an idiot out of myself in front of Jorma and Grace.”

  “That’s Jorma’s little brother Peter on the sg,” Casady said. “I’ll ask him to give you five minutes. If you stink up the joint, he’ll ask for it back and you have to give it to him. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Cole said.

  Casady got up and talked to Peter, who had dark blond hair and glasses and didn’t look much like his brother. They went back and forth and then Peter shrugged and smiled and held the guitar out to Cole. Cole jumped up and took it in one hand and put the other on Peter’s shoulder. “Thanks. I need that bass player.”

  “Good luck,” Peter said.

  Cole had played a couple of sgs. They were heavy and tended to go out of tune easily. This one had lightweight strings that would only make the problem worse. He turned the volume knob all the way down and closed his eyes and listened. When he felt Jorma come to the end of a phrase, he plucked a note and slowly turned up the volume. He faced the amp and let the note decay into feedback, then tried a simple riff or two. The guitar had nice tone. It boosted his confidence and he stepped out to the front of the stage. Jorma had reverted to playing chords and was watching him with an encouraging smile. Cole played a fairly simple eight bar lead and then focused on Gordo, the bass player. He squeezed off two quick notes and then choked them, so they fell in between the notes Gordo was playing. On the next measure he did it again, and this time Gordo answered him. Tommy was on it immediately, and now they were all stopping and starting together in a stuttering rhythm, including Grace. Cole nodded to Jorma and Jorma began to bounce off the stops, building momentum until he rocketed free. Cole caught Tommy’s eye and went back to the progression, and after eight bars of that, he wove a second lead around Jorma’s. They built to a nice climax and tied it off and got a solid round of applause from the hundred or so spectators in the room.