The Summer Of Crazy Eddie Appleton

Of all of the summers I have seen, the summer of 1969 remains entrenched in my memory, and I remember it with a fondness that, at times, seems a bit overwhelming. For me it was not the summer of Woodstock, or the summer of  the ‘giant leap for mankind’. It was the summer of Crazy Eddie Appleton.

That summer my family went to the cottage at Jackson’s Point. I spent my days with my summer friends Danny, Rosie, and Misha. From the moment I first met her, I was attracted to Misha. She was an insanely pretty girl, with a tight t shirt, and a pack of Du Maurier stuffed into the back pocket of her cut off denim shorts, with an attitude as contrary and sarcastic as my own. We spent our time at the beach, the arcade, and hanging out behind the old marina where I learnt how to smoke.

Across the road from Rosie’s cottage lived the Appleton’s. We knew nothing about them, but none of us were permitted to go near the place. According to everyone’s mother, Eddie Appleton was a crazy and possibly dangerous man. Other people in the Point seemed to share the same concerns, walking on the other side of the road as they passed by, looking at it as if to catch a glimpse of the crazy and possibly dangerous man in the front window. Crazy Eddie Appleton had become the Boo Radley of Jackson’s Point.

He would usually come out at night, roaming the small, summer town talking to himself, dirty and unkempt, shouting at no one in particular, dressed in an overcoat, hat and gloves despite the sweltering summer heat and an orange florescent vest that could be seen from miles away as if to warn everyone that he was on the loose. One evening, as we sat behind the marina smoking, we saw Crazy Eddie on the beach burying something in the sand. “Probably body parts of some kid he killed.”, Danny reported.

“Maybe its his mother.”, Rosie speculated.

“Why don’t we just call him over and ask him what he’s doing.”, Misha suggested.

“Oh my God. No, don’t!”, Rosie pleaded.

“Well then, why don’t we just wait until he leaves and then go dig up whatever he buried.”, Misha proposed.

“Good plan, Einstein.”, I told her. “I knew I was hanging around you for a reason.” Misha smiled at me,  lit another cigarette and gently placed it in my mouth.  “But we’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.”, I continued. “We’ll meet back here at seven.” On the way home I kept thinking about the way Misha put that cigarette in my mouth, and I was almost certain that her hand brushed my lips. I laid awake all night, wondering, wishing and hoping that she liked me too.

We all met behind the marina as planned. Danny and Rosie brought shovels, and Misha arrived carrying a large thermos which was filled with coffee that she had taken from home. None of us had ever had coffee before, but this seemed like as good a time as any to start. We sat down behind the Marina and smoked a cigarette as we took turns drinking coffee from the little cup that so conveniently came with the thermos. There were a few fisherman milling around, and an old man was roaming the beach with a metal detector. “We need to go now.”, Misha said. “Before it gets too busy.”

Once on the beach we tried to remember exactly where Crazy Eddie had buried the body parts. We dug and dug, but came up with nothing.  The old  man with the metal detector shouted “Hot damn. I found something.” We all ran over, and there in his hand, was a gold ring. “What is it?”, I asked.

“A lady’s wedding ring, I would think.”, the old man said.

“I told you he buried his mother.”, Rosie reminded us. Misha grabbed Rosie’s shovel and she began digging like a dog trying to retrieve the bone it had buried. We took turns with the shovels and dug and dug, but we found nothing except some sand crabs, fish skeletons, and some small turtles. The pier at the beach began filling up with boaters and fishermen getting ready to start another day on the water.

“We should go.”, Misha said. “We’ll have to figure something else out.” Dejected, we headed back to the marina, where we shared a cigarette. We sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, and I suppose each one of us was trying to come up with some way we could find out what Crazy Eddie had buried on the beach that night. “Come with me.”, Misha said as she took my hand and led me to the other side the marina, behind an old Maple tree. The touch of her hand sent shivers through my body, and I knew that I probably would have followed her anywhere, just to stay near her. “You’re the smartest one of us.”, she told me. “What do you think we should do?”

“Well”, I answered. “Digging up the beach isn’t going to do anything. I think we should follow Crazy Eddie. Maybe we can catch him red handed.”

“That makes sense.”, Misha said, as she leaned in and gave me a kiss on my lips. That brief kiss made me feel indestructible and I kissed her again. We must have been there for about five minutes with our lips pressed together behind that Maple tree. When we started to walk back to our friends, we held hands. “I guess I’m your girlfriend now.”, Misha stated with some certainty as she squeezed my hand.

“I suppose so.”, I answered.  I had never really had a girlfriend before, so I couldn’t be sure.  But either way, I liked it.

Danny and Rosie were too scared to join us in our mission that night, so Misha and I decided that we would do it alone. Just the two of us. Like Jonathan Steed and Emma Peel from The Avengers. We left the marina to plan our mission, but found ourselves making out in the lane way behind the Red and White Grocery Store. It was at that moment that I realized that I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about Crazy Eddie or what he buried at the beach. All I wanted was to keep doing whatever the hell I was doing with Misha. I hoped that she was feeling the same, but I was too damned scared to ask.

That night, we waited in the bushes across the road from Crazy Eddie’s place. I told my parents that I was staying at Danny’s overnight, while Misha told her family that she would be spending the night at Rosie’s. We had a plan, and now we just had to wait for the villain to take the bait.  Eddie Appleton finally came out of his cottage, and headed off towards town. He was carrying a small black bag, and a small shovel, the kind you would use in a flower garden. Visions of Lars Thorwald began playing in my head. Maybe, just maybe Rosie was right. Maybe Crazy Eddie was burying his mother in various places around Jackson’s Point. Misha and I followed him as he rummaged through every garbage can and dumpster he could find. Every now and then he would open the small, black bag and place something in it, or take something out. We couldn’t be sure. We followed him through his journey and to the beach. We watched him dig a small hole, and bury something in the sand. He dug five holes that night, and we memorized the location of each one. When he left, Misha and I went behind the marina and smoked a cigarette. “Well stay here until it gets light. Then we can dig up the holes and see what Crazy Eddie’s been up to.”, I said.

“Okay.”, Misha replied, as she put her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes.

I woke her as soon as it was light, and we walked onto the beach and started digging exactly where Eddie Appleton had dug the night before. We dug up all five of the holes and each one contained the same thing. Fish bones. Numerous, assorted bones from numerous assorted fish. “This is crazy.”, Misha said.

“They don’t call him Crazy Eddie for the hell of it.”, I told her.

“I just don’t get it.”, she continued.

“Maybe you have to be crazy to get it.”, I replied. It was crazy, and I didn’t get it either. It made no sense. The early morning boaters and fishermen started arriving so Misha and I went back behind the marina. “Well”, I said, “the mystery is solved.”

“What a let down.”, Misha replied. “I thought we were onto something big.” I did too, and I was just as disappointed as she was.

That afternoon I saw Crazy Eddie and his mother on my way to Rosie’s. She said hello, and I crossed the road to talk with them. I said hi to Eddie and he merely shrugged. Mrs. Appleton apologized for him, informing me that Eddie had been out very late burying fish skeletons at the beach. I asked her why. She told me that Eddie was trying to give the fish a proper burial and he felt they should be laid to rest near the water. After all, that is where their friends and family were.

I continued to hang out with Misha that summer, hiding behind the marina smoking cigarettes and making out. When it ended we parted ways, writing the customary letters for a while and then, we just lost touch with each other. I haven’t seen Rosie since that summer, and Danny and I connected a couple of times when we were attending the same University. We had grown apart, blazing different trails for our lives. I spent some time with Eddie that summer and I learned that he was not dangerous. He was certainly fucked up,but he was completely harmless, a good soul who I suppose was totally misunderstood. He taught me how to look at the world with hope and patience and I was always amazed at his innocence and kindness. Eddie died many years ago. He was hit by a drunk driver while wandering the streets of a much busier Jackson’s Point wearing his orange fluorescent vest.  Truth be told, I enjoyed every minute we spent together.

 

 

 

Solomon Tate’s Lesbian

by Fielding Goodfellow

Tate had no idea how he got there, waking up on Kew Beach, nestled against Jessica with a mouth full of sand. The last thing he remembered was leaving The Roxy Theater, totally messed up on peyote, after being immersed in the tragedy of Michael J. Pollard’s ‘Dirty Little Billy’.  This was certainly not the first time he found himself face down on the ground with no idea of how the fuck he wound up that way.

So, here’s what happened. In the mid 1970s, Tate was living in a second floor walk up that overlooked the park in a trendy, artsy neighborhood  filled with writers, painters, and musicians, where their very existence was celebrated our existence with one party after another, fueled by copious amounts of hallucinogenics and beer amid the constant challenge of keeping the flying lizards and leprechauns at bey. That summer, as Frampton came alive and The Eagles checked into the Hotel California, Jessica Emery settled into this little piece of psychedelic paradise and moved into the apartment directly across the hall from Tate.

The world was scared shitless of homosexuals back then, and the fear that their very presence would turn the universe gay and ultimately bring about the demise of the human race was widespread. It was pretty fucked up just how much time and effort went into stopping the gay scourge then, when there were men in overalls dining on squirrel stew and drinking a gallon or two of corn mash whiskey, and then going out to the barn to bang the shit out of their livestock without anyone raising an eyebrow, or a shotgun. Jennifer was gay, a lesbian  from Beaumont, Texas and was often subjected to ridicule and taunting from some of the community assholes who felt the urge to state the obvious in an attempt to display some sense of superiority based entirely on their sexuality.  “She’s a lesbian.”, was often whispered with scorn and disdain.

Sometime in August Tate and Jessica were sitting on her sofa listening to Spirit, and getting messed up on mushrooms. Jennifer, like everyone else Tate involved himself with, was a writer.  She had a weakness for the absurd, and was quite fond of Ionesco, Kafka, and Beckett. There was a wall in her living room filled with caricatures of Kafka, Oscar Wilde, Salinger, and Vonnegut. She was wonderfully beautiful, and was several years older than Tate. He thought she was the one of the coolest people he knew, and watching her move around the flat that day, braless, in a skin tight t shirt and short shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, he believed  that she was one of the sexiest. All the while Tate had pornography playing in his head. It was in slow motion, always in slow motion. There was something insanely hot about girl on girl sex, well, not something, Tate felt that everything about it was insanely hot, and despite the fact that he was sure he would never be able to take that trip up her thighs to get to the magic kingdom. he was more than a little interested in at least getting a ticket to the show.

The inside of her apartment was as cool as she was, with a wall dedicated entirely to caricatures of writers including Kafka, Oscar Wilde, Salinger and Vonnegut. There were plants growing in every room, and a fish tank hummed loudly atop a large coffee table in the middle of the living room. They ate dinner together, and then  headed down to The Roxy for the Friday night movie marathon  to catch ‘Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory’ , John Waters’ ‘Pink Flamingos’, ‘Dawn Of The Dead’, and ‘Dirty Little Billy’. All the way to the theater Tate wondered what the hell he should talk about. There was a series of random questions, covering topics that ranged from the fall of the Mayan empire to “So, how long have you been a lesbian?”

“Since I was a Freshman in college.” Jessica responded. “Up til then, I always  had boyfriends. But in my freshman year”, she continued, “my boyfriend and I were watching porn and everything became clear. It was an Epiphany. A life altering moment.” Jessica stopped and sighed heavily.  “The first time I saw that pussy up close, I knew I was really into girls. I never really thought much about  dick, but I couldn’t stop thinking about pussy. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate dick or anything like that. I’ve got a bunch of fake ones stashed in a drawer. But just the idea of pussy gets me hot.”

“Me too.”, Tate told her.”

“I’m sure it does.”, Jessica laughed. ” More than anything, at that moment, Tate wanted her. The film in his head began playing again Tate knocks on Jessica’s door and she invites him in. She’s wearing a robe, and as she invites Tate to sit on the couch, she goes to get him a beer from the kitchen. The Beatles are playing in the background, Revolver, side 1, when a completely naked woman comes out of the bedroom. Jessica appears with the beer and without the towel. The two lesbians lead Tate into the bedroom. With each screening, the script became more and more detailed, but that didn’t really matter. What was important here is that there was always a happy ending.

Nothing unusual happened at The Roxy. They sat in the last row, as Tate always did, aisle seat,  did some more peyote and  watched the films. By the time Willy Wonka was over, they were totally messed up and Tate was lost in the world of Dirty Little Billy. He had once said “You can get lost in your own mind, but don’t worry about it. The journey back will surprise the fuck out of you.”, and for Tate, it always did. After the screenings Jessica wanted to watch the sun come up at the beach, so they headed off to Kew Beach with a little time to spare.  They walked along the shore line, chasing the waves and finishing off the peyote.  They took their clothes off, and went into the water, splashing around like a couple of seals in heat. When Jessica ran up the beach, Tate chased her, and tripping on a piece of driftwood knocked himself out cold. He didn’t see the sun come up. When he woke, he found himself and Jessica laying on the beach naked and apparently spooning. He tried to get up, but his arm was trapped under her head,. The movement stirred her awake. “Any idea what the hell went on here?”, he asked her.

“I suppose that you took advantage of me.”, she said.

“No.”, Tate said. “I’m sure I’d remember that.”

“Well, then”, Jessica answered, “Maybe I took advantage of you.”

Really?”, he asked. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember that too.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”, she told him. “Shit like that happens.” But Tate did worry about it. For days he tried desperately to locate that information locked somewhere in his mind, underneath all of the drugs and alcohol, but he couldn’t find a thing. Not even a trace. That movie kept playing in his head, over and over again, as Jessica ran naked along the beach with Tate in pursuit. But that’s where it stopped. There was nothing more. About a week or so later,  Jessica arrived at his door, braless in a skin tight t shirt and short shorts that left nothing to the imagination.  Tate stood at the door following the curves of her body with his eyes. He followed her legs up to her thighs, and lingered there for a moment, and then moved up to the outer gates of the secret garden she seemed to be taunting him with. “Nothing happened at the beach.”, she told him. “I wanted it to, but you got hurt, and so, nothing happened.”  She took him by the hand and led him to her flat. “Have a seat.”, she said. “I’ll get you a beer.”

Tate watched her head into the kitchen, mesmerized by the movement of her hips as she walked. The Beatles were playing in the background, Revolver, side 1. A naked woman emerged from the bedroom, just as Jessica returned with a beer and nothing else. She was totally naked. The two women kissed, and Tate felt the massive hard on that has developed in his pants. It all seemed to be in slow motion. The two lesbians led him into the bedroom, and from what we gather, there was a happy ending for all. This arrangement lasted just over a year, about the time Ramona moved in with Tate, and Jessica found herself in love with Stacey Hollis. Sometime in the late winter, Jessica moved out of her flat, and Tate never heard from her again. But that didn’t really matter anyway. What was important here is that there is always a happy ending.

 

 

 

From Here To Uncertainty

 

by Solomon Tate

In the film, ‘Prozac Nation’,  the character Elizabeth Wurtzel states “You wake up one morning afraid you’re going to live.” And that’s exactly what it was like. For 2 years my life was no longer in my control as I spent my days consumed with overwhelming dread, and my nights, which seemed to go on forever, in horror that I was going to have to make it through another day. It settled in like a New England fog, without warning,  but with a darkness that was frightfully unsettling, leaving me cold and alone, until it had totally enveloped me. It occupied all of my waking hours, with relief found only in sleep. I was swallowed by an all encompassing fear that had settled in my head like an unwanted house guest that just never seemed to leave. With every passing moment the walls moved in closer and closer, encasing me in a prison that I couldn’t seem to escape.

Its easy to look back and try to sort it all out, but at that time, when I lived my life in quiet desperation, wallowing in the anguish that filled my thoughts, it was impossible to tell the difference between light and dark, although it really didn’t matter. I felt detached from the universe, a singular being drifting through time and space, battling demons that brought me to the brink of a madness that I both detested and feared. Most of all, I was afraid of being afraid. It was completely paralyzing, bringing only a constant, heightened sense of total and complete helplessness. Not knowing what the hell was going on, but certain that absolutely nothing could save me, I wandered around the house hoping to find something I could hold on to before I was swept away by the fear. It wasn’t always like this, though. As far as I remember my childhood was relatively normal, as I lived my typically suburban, middle class life filled with assorted superheros and nondescript cowboys. Outside of the crazy, old woman who lived across the street and threatened to have us arrested every time we played ball hockey on the road, nothing really bothered me. And yet, there I was, almost 20 years later, showing up at Emergency rooms,  on a revolving basis, at every hospital in the downtown core, and each time, sent home in perfect health. Even that never provided any reassurance. The feeling of impending doom that hung over me like a black cloud, continued to tighten its grip on my life. I shut off from the rest of the world, disappearing into my torment. I stopped eating and I stopped working, uncertain how much longer I would be able or willing to carry this burden, often staying in bed for days afraid to get up lest the terror should find me.

In the impending madness I discovered, contrary to popular belief, that it was not darkest before the dawn. It was darkest at twilight, when the fear & loathing ran rampant through my mind, dancing around my head, sending me spiraling down the rabbit hole of despair, knowing that I would have to relive this again tomorrow. It was like living a nightmare, the kind that seems so real. A constant, chronic nightmare with all of the scariest shit right there when I was awake. Every moment of every day I felt the hot, sticky breath of disaster on my neck. I was so aware of it, so tuned in that it became a part of me. At times it felt like I was the only one on the planet who had been doomed to live in this hell on earth, and I was certain that everyone could tell. I excommunicated myself from everyone, embarrassed and ashamed of what I was sure was weakness and failure. The isolation compounded the incessant fear and dread, driving me further and further into the abyss that had taken up permanent residency in my mind.

When I was finally diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, I felt a sense of relief. It was recommended that I get my hands on the book ‘Hope & Help For Your Nerves’ by Claire Weekes. I read this over and over again, looking for something, anything that I could hang on to in order to deal with the panic that had taken over my life. Over the next few weeks, the clouds began to dissipate, allowing me to see the sunlight for the first time in 2 years. I learned how to deal with the worry and the panic. I learned how to stop fighting the dread that was trying to consume me, how to accept it and to let it run its course until, much to my surprise and delight, it just simply went away. I found myself back in control of what was going on in my head. I learned that I was not alone in the darkness and that there was indeed hope and help. I learned that fear can be all consuming if it is allowed to. It thrives on the fight, growing stronger each time it is challenged. It cannot beaten in combat, but dies when offered acceptance and a willingness to let it pass on its own. I learned to ‘float’ through it, to sail along with it like a boat in the waves, and to live in the present, and stay the hell out of the future.

Decades have passed since those years of emotional insanity, and I continue to float through the eddies and currents of whatever life brings. I gave up the shame of being unwell, and wear my disorder with pride in the knowledge that I have not just survived, but have won the battle for control of my life. It is said that what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, and I suspect that the strength I developed all of those years ago prepared me for the trials and tribulations that I have subsequently had to deal with. In the end though, the years have brought me peace and happiness, and that is really what life is about.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Search Of Spock

 

by Solomon Tate

There was a guy busking near Yonge & Dundas at a time when the city frowned upon such artistic endeavors, and I stopped to listen with Farberman and Goodfellow. “He’s actually pretty good.”, I said.

“Not bad.”, Goodfellow agreed. “But what the hell is he singing about? Its inane and cursory, not to mention somewhat derivative.”

“Why do you always have to do that?”, Farberman asked Goodfellow. “Why do you always have to fling words around that no regular person ever says?”

“Because”, Goodfellow replied. “I am not regular.” It was true, Goodfellow always enjoyed speaking as if he were a Rhodes Scholar. The truth is, he barely squeaked through University. But to his credit, he was an exceptionally perceptive writer.

“You’re not normal, either.”, Farberman quipped.

Goodfellow was right though, the lyric and concept of the songs were flat and uninspiring. There were times when I missed playing. I hadn’t been involved in a project since the demise of The Habits, and I had this recurring sense that my existence had become something like Canadian Whiskey with the alcohol removed. Goodfellow, Farberman and I headed off for a night of degradation and debauchery that only the mind of Fielding Goodfellow could envision. We hit Filmore’s and The Brass Rail, notable titty bars, and wound up at Larry’s, a dive bar that catered to the disreputable, dissatisfied, and disenfranchised pseudo anarchists that had sprung up across the city like weeds in a garden. Some all girl punk band, Pussy Riot, who Goodfellow seemed to know were playing, and he guaranteed a good time for all.

Fielding Goodfellow was many things, but he was never ever wrong about what constituted a good time. We wound up partying with the band through most of the night, getting wasted and getting laid. Even Farberman seemed to enjoy himself, although there were several occasions in which he freaked out over the giant ducks doing calisthenics in the room.  Farberman hated ducks, although we once shared the Peking Duck at Szechuan Palace, and he seemed to like it.

A few days later, after returning from one of  Goodfellow’s peyote induced parallel universes filled with Spanish speaking lizard people, Farberman’s dog went missing. This was really nothing new, I mean every year we went through the same thing. The dog somehow got out of the yard and went out looking for a canine call girl. Farberman searched frantically for the animal, and each year he returned unsuccessful to find Spock, the Labrador, laying across the front porch of his parents’ house, smoking a cigarette. But this time Farberman said it was different. All of Spock’s toys, his water and food bowls and his leash were gone as well. “Are you suggesting that your dog has run away from home?”, Goodfellow asked with his patented brand of psycho-sarcasm.

“All of the evidence seems to support that theory.”, Farberman replied.

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”, Goodfellow told him. I was siding with Goodfellow on this one. It seemed unlikely that the dog could have packed up all of his belongings and hit the road.

“What would he need the leash for?”, I asked.

“I have to try to find him.”, Farberman said. And with that, Goodfellow, Farberman and I set off in search of Spock. We started at the Farberman house, and found that indeed all of the dog’s belongings were gone, from the bowls to the food and even the toys. All of it was gone. It was as if there had never been a dog here. Goodfellow proposed a theory that Spock was a victim of alien abduction, which Farberman quickly refuted as unfounded and obtuse. So, we wandered the neighborhood, checking backyards, alleyways, and the ravine that ran through the area, without any measure of success, and wound up sitting down in the middle of a park that Spock was particularly fond of.

“Have you asked your parents anything about this?”, I asked.

“They’re the ones who told me that Spock was gone.”, Farberman replied.

“Maybe they meant that he had died.”, Goodfellow blurted out as he and I dropped a hit of purple haze. Farberman sat motionless, deep in thought.

“I have to go talk to my parents.”, he stated, as he got up and headed out of the park. Goodfellow and I remained at the park for a while, waiting for the longest train we had ever seen pass by. When we caught up with Farberman, he was quite distraught. Spock was gone. Really gone. He had died. He was old, and well, shit happens. It was sad though, I mean, he had that dog for 18 years, that’s like 126 in Spock years. Farberman just wanted to be alone, so Goodfellow and I, still reeling from the haze, went back to the park with the train.

It was Goodfellow, surprisingly enough who came up with the plan for the memorial service. He thought that it might make Farberman feel better. “Put some closure to it.”, he said. With the help of Farberman’s parents, we tracked down Spock’s body at the Veterinarian, and recovered it for burial. Even though the Farbermans had paid for cremation, Goodfellow secured the remains by trading some of his sacred hallucinogenics with a veterinarian assistant. “It seems like the least we can do for the scientist. He’s not a bad guy.”, Goodfellow said. “He just needs to loosen the fuck up.” This too was true. Farberman was without a doubt the most sober, solemn and resolute person I knew.

Goodfellow went all out for the service. he had invited several people to attend, and participate. He managed to obtain a small, headstone prop from a theatre company, and had SPOCK carved into it. We arrived at the park the deceased loved so much. Farberman was in awe of what he was witnessing. The girls from Pussy Galore were there, singing a somewhat punked up version of The Beach Boys ‘Forever’,  but it was nicely done. Spock was laid to rest in his favorite park, with a headstone to mark his final resting place. Goodfellow had retrieved his leash from the vet as well, and gave this to Farberman, as balloons were released into a clear blue sky. I swear I saw Farberman cry, but I suppose he needed to. When the service was over, everyone left, leaving me and Goodfellow to stand silently with our friend. Goodfellow had outdone himself, and I was surprised at just how thoughtful this usually arrogant ass was. It seemed that he was not as big of a prick as he wanted us to believe. He did indeed have feelings, and he cared. I never really looked at him in quite the same way. We stayed friends for many years, until our paths veered off in different directions. He still writes, ventures through time and space, and occasionally sends me coded messages of his whereabouts, which I have never been able to decipher. I am certain however, that he is totally wasted at the time, and most likely sitting in his living room. Farberman went on to work in government supported research, until his disappearance years later. And me, well, I wrote some books, some short stories, and taught creative writing. That singular event brought the three of us closer than we had ever been. Even Farberman and Goodfellow developed a new found respect for each other. And I have decided that when my time comes, I would like to go out like Spock. Old and tired, with friends singing on a clear, sunny day. Just be sure that Goodfellow doesn’t bring any lizards or ducks. It will scare the crap out of Farberman.

 

 

 

 

 

Joey

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

It was 1978. I found myself sitting at Fran’s, following a  screening of The Planet Of The Apes while on peyote. I was unable to sleep, confused by what was merely a by product of the hallucinogenic, and what was not. Giant apes that spoke and rode on horses was a little too much for my friend Tate, and he had been taken to hospital and held  for what they suspected was a psychotic break, but turned out to be nothing more than a bad trip. I had just taken a seat as 10cc’s  ‘Dreadlock Holiday’ began playing on the radio. Joey  was on the other side of the counter. I had known her for almost 3 years. She was insanely beautiful, with dark eyes and a Joan Jett haircut. As she gyrated to the rhythm I sat there mesmerized, watching her move her hips.  She was a part time waitress, an aspiring photographer, and she fronted a local, all female rock band called Pussy Galore. Judging by what her spandex tights were revealing, I could see that it made perfect sense.

I felt kind of bad for Tate, freaking himself out like that, but mind was on Joey. I thought about jumping over the counter and taking her right there and then more than once. She told me that her band had a gig coming up, and asked if I would come down and see them play and write an article for them. Pussy Galore was in need of a publicist, and seeing this as an opportunity to get into Joey’s spandex tights, I accepted the invitation. The show was at Larry’s Hideaway, a downtown bar one step below skid row where, for a two dollar cover charge, you could get cheap watered down beer, and a chance at contracting any one of the myriad of  diseases that were living on the tables and chairs. Still, it was one of my favorite places in the city. In a world filled with socio-political unrest, it was a haven for the freaks and the outsiders.

There was a small crowd at the club that night, with a handful of failed AA members, and a small group of punkers who had recently shared both a needle and the lone girl in their group. I spotted Joey off to the side of the stage, and headed over. “Let me take you backstage and introduce you to the other Pussys.”, she said.

“Well”, I replied. “I’d certainly like to meet as many as I can.” When I got backstage, I found 4 women of incredible beauty in various states of undress, clarifying beyond a shadow of a doubt why this band had chosen the name Pussy Galore.

Their performance was inspired. They appeared on stage braless, in see through tops, and g strings and, despite their lack of any real talent, they had driven the crowd into a frenzy.   When Joey removed her top and squeezed her tits as the Pussys banged out ‘Suck On These’, mayhem erupted. Tables and chairs were kicked over, and glasses were thrown at the walls. I was pretty sure it was due to Joey’s boobs and not the music, but the Pussys certainly had the attention of the audience. I sat with the girls in the dressing room following the show, discussing what I would write as we got wasted on peyote.  I tried desperately to look at their faces while we spoke, but I was unsuccessful. We agreed to meet at Joey’s apartment in a few days to map out a promotional strategy for the band.

In the days before the band meeting I went to check on Tate. I found him with Farberman, a science nerd who had been Tate’s college roommate. Farberman was an ass, a narrow minded little man with aspirations of changing the world one experiment at a time. Tate was doing better, a little disoriented, but generally well. I liked Tate. He just needed to have that stick up his ass surgically removed, but he was alright. It was good to hear, as I suspected that world could always use another mediocre writer who was hanging from the edge so precariously.

The meeting with the band went as well as could be expected, and we agreed to move forward with a plan to promote and exploit their sexuality. Perhaps it was the drugs, but the girls had no problem with posing nude, and I had no problem with accepting the job of taking the photos, after all, I was the official publicist. When these 4 women were completely naked together and started posing, their inner bi-sexuality was simultaneously triggered. I found myself shooting various shots of girl on girl action that would have caused a lesser man’s brain to explode and ooze out of his ears. There I was, with a camera in my hand, and an erection in my pants, and all I could think about was banging Joey as I watched her become more and more aroused by the drummer’s touch. When the girls were done and, I assume, the effects of the drugs had worn off, they wanted to go get something to at. three of them dressed, while Joey and I stayed behind. “So do you think you’ll be able to help us?”, she asked, still naked.

“Well, I certainly like trying.”, I replied.

“Let’s see if I can help you with your problem.”, she said as she took my hand and led me into the bedroom. Shortly after, Pussy Galore disbanded. The guitarist and bass player took off to some island in the Caribbean after discovering that they were in love with each other. I have no idea what became of the drummer, but I heard that she had joined a metal band who went on to have a moderately successful career. Joey continued to work at Fran’s for about another year or so, and finished her photography course. She moved to England and failed in her attempts at achieving her dreams. She died of a drug overdose in a hotel room occupied by a member of a semi-famous rock star. It was sad , really.

Larry’s Hideaway was torn down to expand Allen’s Gardens, a favorite for dog owners who refuse to clean up after their animal, the homeless, and other marginalized members of the community. Farberman went on to work for the government in a top secret installation that was involved in experimenting with weird ass weapons systems. And Tate, well he became a writer and a college professor of creative writing, as well as an alcoholic. I have heard that he has been clean for many, many years now. Every now and then I look back at those days, hanging out a Fran’s with Joey, getting wasted with Tate, and hanging out at the Roxy for the Friday midnight movie madness with fondness and hilarity.

 

 

 

 

and other than Carl The Crasher, who had earned his name by attending every Bar Mitzvah in the city since 1968  without every being invited, no one ,  else was around