by Robert Bloch
Sandy led me to a spade-bearded, scholarly-looking gentleman whose name was Mr. Barf. Regarding me mournfully, he started to rise and I waved him back. “Please don’t get up on my account,” I told him.
Barf broke into a sudden smile. “Thank you. I prefer it here at the bottom of the pool.”
“Mr. Barf is our philosopher,” Sandy explained. “He once tried to drown himself in Walden Pond.”
“Unsuccessfully, I fear,” Barf sighed. “Next time I hope to be more Thoreau about it.”
The wan little man beside him scowled at me. “What did you mean by that ‘on my account’ crack?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Don’t mind Mr. Emia,” Sandy whispered. “He’s very sensitive about such things. He used to be the cashier in a blood-bank, but they fired him for embezzlement.”
Luke Emia glowered at me but accepted my hand in greeting.
Sandy moved with me to a mop-headed young man whose psychedelic jacket was covered with buttons, although he still looked as if he didn’t have all of his own. “Mr. Grafitti,” she announced. “He writes a column for one of the underground newspapers.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“——,” said Grafitti, pleasantly.
Warmed by his greeting, I moved on to the next tenant. This young man, introduced to me simply as Swinger, was so ragged, filthy and unkempt that I automatically pegged him as a musician. Such proved to be the case. He had once been part of a recording group, he told me, until he suffered a nasty shock—when his electronic harmonica had short-circuited on a high note and blown all the caps off his teeth. Since that time, apparently, he’d nursed a grudge against all performers including singers, and carried on an active crusade against them.
“I just got busted,” he concluded mournfully.
“Not again?” Sandy sighed. “What happened?”
“Well, I read where Tony Bennett was opening at a club here in town, and you know what that means. Last night I went down there, and when he came on and started singing I Lost My Heart in San Francisco, I walked up on the stage and handed him one. It was only a beef-heart, of course, but the fuzz hauled me in anyway.”
Shaking her head in commiseration, Sandy led me to the last member of the gathering, a dapper balding man who greeted me with a firm handclasp.
“Kotic’s the name,” he told me. “But you can call me Cy.”
I blinked in sudden recognition. “Not the Drive-In Psychiatrist? The one who used to set up his couch in the parking lot over in Beverly Hills?”
“Five couches,” he announced proudly. “A regular open-air clinic.” His smile faded. “But I got out of the racket. It is a racket, you know. Head-shrinkers don’t do you any good—the thing to do is get your head Sanforized. I retired to work out my new theories.”
During this exchange, Drool had been standing patiently and silently at my side. Now Mr. Kotic eyed him speculatively.
“Who’s your sickie friend?” he inquired.
“He’s not sick,” Sandy declared.
“Well, he’s too short to be the Jolly Green Giant,” Kotic muttered. “And you must admit he is green around the gills. In fact, during my entire professional career I’ve never seen anyone look greener. Ergo, he must be ill. Note the hyperthyroid bulge of his eyes, the reddish pupils, the nasal malformation and the labial deformity. I’ve been a psychiatrist too long not to recognize a real ding-a-ling when I see one.”
I gave Sandy a quick glance and she picked up her cue. “That’s no way to talk about my cousin,” she retorted.
“Cousin?” Barf’s eyebrows rose.
“That’s right. He’s a hippy from San Francisco,” she murmured. “Haight-Ashbury.”
Luke Emia rose and approached him curiously. “What’s your name, man?”
Drool had learned his answers well. “Sneed Hearn,” he said.
“——!” sneered Grafitti.
“You can say that again,” muttered the Swinger. “Like, I mean all us old W.C. Fields fans know that ‘Sneed Hearn’ is a name he made up and used in The Old-Fashioned Way.”
I paled. Stupid of me not to remember that today’s In Group were old-film buffs.
“All right,” Swinger persisted. “Lay it on us, man. Who is this creep?”
Cy Kotic moved closer to the hapless Drool, who shrank from his professional scrutiny. “I can’t identify the syndrome yet,” the psychiatrist muttered. “But I am getting a definite gut reaction from him. That is to say, he’s making me sick at my stomach.”
“——?” Grafitti inquired.
“A good question.” Barf joined the group clustered around Drool and nodded philosophically.
Sandy gave me a helpless look, and I stepped forward.
“All right,” I said. “Guess there’s no sense trying to conceal the truth from you. It would have to come out sooner or later.”
“Joe!” Sandy’s voice sounded an alarm.
“I know what I’m doing,” I assured her. “Come on, everybody drink up and I’ll plug you in.”
And that, of course, was exactly the procedure. They passed the drinks, and I passed the word.
Half an hour later they were falling out of their trees as Drool’s open mouth emitted a stereophonic version of the latest protest-song recorded by that group of militant young rebels known as Tarzan and All the Apes.
By the time he closed his mouth, theirs were hanging open.
“Well?” I murmured. “How did that grab you? Think he can conquer the world now?”
“——!” said Grafitti.
Which just about summed it up.
V
Sandy sent out for some Chinese food from Pu King’s, and we huddled over the meal discussing the deal.
Grafitti’s reaction was shared by most of the others. Only Barf seemed to have reservations.
“I don’t know,” he mused. “This may not be the most propitious time for such a project. After all, Mars is in conjunction with Uranus—”
“Watch your language,” Sandy cautioned him. Then to me: “Mr. Barf is not only a philosopher, he’s an astrologer.”
“That’s his problem,” I told her. “My horoscope tells me not to put any faith in astrology.”
“I don’t know anything about astrology,” declared Swinger, his words filtering through a mouthful of fried rice. “But with that voice, we can’t miss. And the way he does all of that instrumental accompaniment too—man, it’s something else!”
Drool blushed a deeper shade of viridian at the compliment and lowered his head modestly over the sweet-and-sour pork.
I waved a forkful of chow-mein at the gathering. “The way I see it, we’ve got a winning team. As Swinger says, Drool has a voice that doesn’t quit. He can sing anything, in any style, imitating any group and any orchestration or accompaniment. But he’s got something else that’s equally important.”
“And what’s that?” Luke Emia inquired. “What else has he got?”
“The uglies.” I jabbed my fork in Drool’s direction. “Look at him—did you ever see a more repulsive, disgusting specimen in your life?”
Drool popped his eyes at me, and I quickly shook my head. “I’m not putting you down,” I said, hastily. “This is your most important asset.”
“I don’t get it,” Sandy said.
“You will, if you stop and think. What makes one hard-rock group more popular than another today? It can’t be the difference in musical arrangements, because they all use the same beat or off-beat revved up to Total Sound, or Total Sound Effects. It can’t be variations in singing style, because they all have the same delivery—nobody understands the words. Even the soloist soul-singers and the protest groups sound basically alike, snarling about love or crooning about hate. So what’s that extra ingredient which makes a star?”
“Appearance?” Swinger ventured.
I swallowed my chow-mein and nodded. “Exactly! Years ago it was enough for a nice-looking kid to come out on the stage and make anguished fa
ces while he sang. Then it became necessary for him to contort his body in spastic spasms in order to make a pleasing impression on the audience—since he sounded as if he was having a fit, he might as well look like he was, too.
“But as audiences grew more sophisticated, that wasn’t enough any more. Singers started to dress in weirdo outfits. Wild colors and sequins at one extreme, rags and blue-jeans at the other—it didn’t matter which, as long as the pants were tight enough.
“Then came the real revolution. Not just the change in clothes but the change in bodies. First we had sideburns, then long hair, then the bushy mop. The beards and mustaches followed—mostly amongst the males. Now we have dark glasses, granny glasses, tattooing, psychedelic makeup, the works. The ugliest-looking singers, making the ugliest sounds and using the ugliest words, make the most beautiful dollars.”
Cy Kotic nodded in emphatic agreement. “He tells it like it is,” he declared. “Today’s singing star must give the audience the whole sado-masochistic mystique, and no mistake. Oral aggression in the words, revolt against the Establishment in the clothing—that takes care of the latent hostility. And for the self-pitying component, that finds its expression in the downbeat, beat-up look.
“I see great possibilities here. Because our little friend is probably the weirdest-looking freak-out yet. Consider his assets! He’s noseless, almost bald, built like a one-man disaster area, and best of all, he’s green!” Cy Kotic smiled at Drool admiringly. “I don’t want you to get a big head over this, but as a practicing psychiatrist it is my professional opinion that you’re the most miserable-looking yutz I’ve ever encountered.”
It was my turn to rise and step forward. “You see? With Drool’s natural gifts of voice and appearance he can’t miss. All he needs is the proper management team behind him. And that’s where we all come in.”
“We do?” Luke Emia muttered.
“Of course. Every star must have an entourage, and we’re it. Sandy, here, will handle the secretarial duties. Mr. Emia, with his banking experience, is a natural for treasurer. Swinger, we’ll need you for music and arrangements.”
Grafitti cleared his throat. “——?” he ventured.
“Songs are no good without lyrics,” I reminded him. “And with your background in the underground press, you know all the right wrong words. Consider yourself a lyricist.”
“——,” said Grafitti, gratefully.
I turned my attention to Cy Kotic. “You, of course, will be invaluable as our psychological consultant in public relations. Handle our ads, our presentation format. And I, naturally, am going to function as agent and business manager. And that’s the wrap-up, kiddies.”
Mr. Barf cleared his throat timidly. “What about me?”
“Well,” I hedged. “Maybe we can use some astrological predictions along the way. Advice from the stars to a star, that sort of thing.”
“I’ve got another suggestion.” Surprisingly enough, it was Sandy who spoke. “Mr. Barf here knows a great deal about the world and its ways. After all, he’s a philosopher.”
Barf nodded. “That’s why I tried to kill myself,” he agreed.
Sandy moved to Drool and placed her hand on his shoulder. “You say all you know about earth is what you learned from listening to the radio and reading comic books.”
“Right,” Drool conceded.
“Then there you have it,” Sandy told me. “Mr. Barf can be Drool’s teacher. Let him educate Drool, broaden his knowledge, expand his horizons—”
“Okay,” I said. “Just as long as he doesn’t teach him so much that he’ll want to drown himself.”
“Have no fear,” Barf said. “The swimming pool is empty.”
And it was, because we all climbed up and crowded our way into the hall, glasses held high. Sandy refilled them quickly.
“A toast, then,” I proposed. “A toast to that new singing sensation of the nation—that multivoiced marvel, star of radio, television, motion pictures, recording artiste and just plain little old multi-millionaire—Sneed Hearn!”
We gulped our drinks. “That does it,” I declared. “And now, beddy-bye for everybody. Got a big day scheduled for tomorrow.”
Drool glanced at me. “Where are we going?”
“To launch your career,” I answered. “Bright and early, we’re off to Groovyland.”
VI
It was early when we started, but not bright.
As the car rolled down the ramp and inched itself into the morning traffic on the freeway, I switched on the fog-lights. It was the only way to go, here in the yellowish, billowing murk that shrouded our bumper-to-bumper crawl.
Drool sat beside me. I glanced past him at Sandy. She sat utterly still, eyes closed in concentration.
“Something wrong?”
Sandy shook her head. “Just doing my yoga. The stop-breathing exercises. It’s the only way to cope with the smog.”
Drool took a deep breath. “I like this air,” he announced. “It reminds me of home. The—what do you call it?—smog is very nourishing.”
“That reminds me of something,” I said. “You didn’t touch your food last night.”
“I don’t have to eat,” Drool announced. “All I need is this.” And he took another deep breath.
“Well, I do.” Sandy glanced at the torturous tangle of the interchange. “When we get out of this mess, let’s have some breakfast.”
We were well past Pomona before the traffic thinned and we pulled off onto the highway leading to our destination.
“Breakfast it is,” I said. “Let’s try this place.”
The El Ulcero was a typical roadside restaurant, very spic and Spanish. As Sandy concluded ordering, I whispered to the waiter, “Where’s the Juan?”
Drool accompanied me, although he had no need to. I eyed him curiously. He didn’t eat and last night he hadn’t slept—just sat beside me as I curled up in the sleeping bag Sandy gave me. Apparently his physiological needs were different from ours. But at the moment it was the difference in his appearance that worried me. The waiter had stared at him suspiciously, and I began to wish that I’d told Drool to stay in the car.
But I couldn’t hide him away forever, and we rejoined Sandy at the table.
Immediately the waiter was at our side. “The leetle boy,” he murmured. “He ees not eating.”
“Not hungry,” I said, curtly.
“Mus’ be seeck,” the waiter observed. “Behold of the face. Ees very green, no?”
“Yes,” I challenged. “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen a green face before?”
“Only after eating here,” the waiter shrugged.
He stepped up to Drool.
“Observe of the hands. They also are green.”
“Of course,” I told him. “The kid’s a natural-born gardener. Haven’t you heard of a green thumb?”
Nudging Sandy, I whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
We rose, paid the check and fled. The waiter stared after us, muttering to himself.
“Got to watch it,” I told my companions as we climbed back into the car. “Remember, when we get to Groovyland, I do all the talking.”
“What is this Groovyland?” Drool demanded.
“You’ll see.”
We moved through the tourist traffic and approached the glittering gates at a brisk crawl while I pondered his question.
Once upon a time we were a nation of happy voyeurs. Visually-oriented by the theatre, motion pictures and television, we were content to move through life as spectators, even at sporting events. We went to zoos, museums, aquariums.
But the more we saw, the more jaded we became, and the more we resented the barriers. The foot-lights barred us from the stage, movies and television separated us from events by a screen, the bars kept us from the zoo animals, the museum exhibits and the fish in the aquariums were under glass, and the sporting events took place in stadia a half-mile away from our reserved seats.
Everyone wants a
seat on the fifty-yard line. At a parade, the biggest thrill is to be up close.
As we got up-tighter in our daily lives, the need to get up closer in our entertainment-escapes increased.
Came colonial Williamsburg, where you can actually walk down the reconstructed street of a pre-Revolutionary village. Came planetariums where the stars are still an illusion—but they surround you on all sides. Came Marineland where the fish leap out of the water and the seals and dolphins perform close enough to splash you. Came Disneyland, with its trips and happenings.
Trips and happenings. Perhaps that’s the answer. The need to see combined with the need to be. To make viewing a personal experience, to momentarily enjoy a feeling of actual participation. In this regimented, automated, digit-dialling, zip-coded impersonal world where the tedium is the message, we’re cut off from close contact with reality. So out of artifice, we construct our own.
Drugs for trips, happenings for audience involvement. But drugs are dangerous and happenings demanding.
Hence Disneyland, with its safe and easy surrogates—synthetic trips to synthetic worlds, happenings where nothing really happens. That’s a lot.
But Groovyland is the most.
“The most!” I repeated to Drool, guiding him through the turnstile and laying out $22.50 for three admissions.
“Why lay out all the loot?” Sandy asked.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be rolling in it right after we set our deal here. But first I want to show Drool around a little. He ought to know what he’s getting into—it’s part of his education.”
We got into plenty, but I don’t know how educational it was to our green-faced guest.
Psycholand he didn’t dig at all. The idea of entering a fake mental hospital as a make-believe patient and getting a free personality-profile and a ten-minute analysis from a plastic psychiatrist while lying on a plastic couch just didn’t do anything for him. He wouldn’t try on a straitjacket or take an I.Q. test, nor was he interested in the computerized dating-rating.
Sandy tried her best. “Why don’t you sit down and fill out the questions on this card?” she coaxed.