Chapter Two The Sunset Strip. Genocidal, homicidal, generational at times in that time. The time? Bizarre Noir. It was a high crime, Miss DeMnor, to be over 30. Mickey was immersed in a baptismal, a brave new world welcomed him by the simple act of stepping through the looking glass of a broken mirror (seven years bad luck for the superstitious). He greeted himself as he was passing through his own familiar reflected image, emerging into a wondrous mosaic of pink and green neon, city noise, mad hatters and wheels of color spinning like dervish teacups. It was a baton twirler in a cheerleaders borrowed skirt leading the parade, the kaleidescope of humanity in multi-hues and fringed jackets. The coast was clear as the Pacific sun set, "Goddam, I wish to hell Doc was here. It just doesn't feel right," he thought to himself. If ever there was a guardian angel who deserved wings, it was Doc.
Choices were few and further between. So, with nothing better to do or place to go, and being sixteen, and consequently immortal, Mickey dove, dived into it without a life jacket, bobbing in the roiling waters, breaking into his ballet of uncertain bouyancy with the flotsom and jetsom of L.A.s riptide of hookers, hookahs, and hustlers, oh my. Along the street, mas musica and more poured from sinister, darkened doorways, sinister only because they were darkened....with a mixture of music and smoke with a texture as thick as Vermont maple syrup. All up and down the street, voices and more voices, lights flashing, traffic snarling... pretty girls and pretty boys on display, lined up along the Strip...an assembly line from which the luxury elite could pick and choose. They would nod, then disappear into limo's and expensive cars and be driven off to various Xanadu's to dance at the feast for those who would in time devour them.
The whole scene was, well, Sonny and Cher. I-got-you-babe chintz. Deep growling, gutteral Cher with the androgynous, for the times, Bono. The kids on the street donning moptop do's and wet-head don'ts mixed in with buckskin jackets and rabbit skin coats. Redhot hotdogs all dressed up in their Sunday best, disguised as plush puppies on a bun attractively accessorized with catsup and mustard and onions (finely chopped) and pickle relish too. Whirling neon cariacture signs advertin' boppin' record shops where you could go into the jive dives and checkout the vinyl in a soundproof booth all your own, like the scene from an old tv game show, the isolation booth, only here, it was roll and rock finger poppin' time in Old Mandalay. Mickey peered through the door of one stores. Inside inside one of the booths was a mirror image kid, just a little older than Mickey, but wiser looking, as if you could earn a diploma from the alley.
He had raggedy shaggedy hair over the collar length, dirty jeans, worn and frayed, but iceberg cool eyes as he emerged from the sound booth, Mickey watched him stick a record under his thin dark green coat, and popping it into first gear, peeled out of the door of the store. It was a Life mag photo of an East German student trying to escape from the clutches of the East Berlin polizie...leaping to freedom, trying to leap to freedom, get over that goddam concrete wall from a curtain of iron and into the land of Oz, and all he had to do was get over the Yellow Bricked Barbed Wire Wall. Then in a frozen black and white shapshot moment, captured by a Leica lens on grainy high speed film, shot in the back, shot sure as shit dead in the attempt. This time the escapee made good his escape, and in the process, knocked Mickey fully flat on his ass as the impact propelled him backwards in flight in a gravity defying moment in time,lifting him into the air, straight off the sidewalk, off of the curb and into the line of traffic that came to a screeching halt before turning him into L.A.s version of roadkill...humans not excluded. Where was that Soviet trained East Berlin sharpshooter when you needed him most?
His "attacker" rather than running off with the stolen record, instead, instead, get this, he went over to the kid, lying on the pavement, grabbed his hand to lift him up to the sidewalk, and then erupted into a marvelous litany of profanity, all which was aimed at a slighty dazed Mickey with the precise aim and precision of a presidential assassin. "Whatthemotherfuckyoufuckareyou blockingdoorsandshityoufuckin'asshole?!?!" There was only verbal punctuation at the end. It was all one extended word, something he hadn't encountered before. Here for the first time, he encountered a human being who had no use for punctuation in conversation, defied grammer with fist raised high and used words with sacriligious abandon. He had now crossed paths with a true communicado commando, an artist, a cubist, albeit, but an artist nonetheless of articulation as anarchy. Maybe the rain doesn't fall in Spain on the plain, after all, Dr. Higgins. \par Mickey now had proof...
Car horns honked like deranged geese on a flyway. Drivers yelling a "Welcome to California, now get the fuck out of the street" (in a tone that would piss off old Tom Joad) while Mickey looked dazed, and only wanted to do just that, to "literally get the fuck out of the street." The hot vinyl kid hung out a verbal no trespassing sign "Stay the fuck out of my way asshole,"...nuff said, said Mickey as he was given a final shove and the vinyl bandito took off running down the Strip with a record store employee hot in pursuit to recover the grooved loot.
Traffic undulated it's asphalt and concrete hips, a topless dancer sliding up and down a pole on a stage, big chrome Dagmars bouncing cheerfully, dripping with glistening sweat, as sweet as sugar to the tongue. It was a dance, a dance of a slow hissing snake threading it's way down the Strip, a needle and thread mending denim miners pants. Cars and posers, cruisin' and juicin' on a piece of ass Friday night was a real feasty sexual smorgasbord, with platters loaded with second helpings and all you can eat. Mickey watched the invasion of the vinyl snatcher from the very beginning, and now watched as the thief of Bagdad disappear around a corner, store clerk raising his own roostertail in his own relentless retaliatory wake to right the wrong done to his employer. Traffic keeps moving, moving on, snarling and growling, a rabid dog in heat. Perfect time to light up a smoke. "Here, try one of these," There's a friendly voice, he thought, first friendly one today as a matter of factoid, as he pulled a pack of Chesterfields from his own pocket. "Thanks. Don't mind if I do. Getting short on smokes myself, thanks again." He took one the guy offered, and son of a bitch if he didn't hold out a lighter to light it for him too, a perfect gentleman. Almost too perfect, Mickey thought. Sure are friendly here, in a strange kind of way. It had been already more than a mere bad hair day.
"You're new here aren't you?" stating the obvious in the form of a question. A real Monte Rock III knock-off, although Mickey didn't know who Rock Three was at the time. "Yeah, just got in today. Staying up the road in a motel. Piece o' shit place, but only until I can get settled and all. I'll get squared away in a week or so," he lied. The stranger introduced himself, "Roy." He was no longer a namesless stranger, just strange. but not nameless. His smile showcased pearly angel white bright teeth that seemed to throw a spotlight onta a patch of rouge to the cheeks that Mickey now noticed, and the hair! A bit too blonde to be natural, for anybody. It had the color of a legal pad, that kind of yellow, bizarre yellow, for hair anyway, and on a guy. Thin fingers,small hands, delicate, piano player hands, almost too delicate Mickey thought. Pretty sure he ain't no autoworker at the Ford Rouge Plant or lumberjack back in Oscoda, Michigan.
The rogue in red rouge, not from the Plant Rouge, went on. "Not safe out here the later it gets. Trust me. Tell you what, until you get settled in and into the swing of things here, you might want to think about staying at my place awhile, until that is, you get accustomed to the area, and it's, uh, dangers..stuff like that. I have plenty of room, some extra clothes that might fit you, and plenty of cigarettes," he laughed. "Drink much? Probably not, you're just a kid. Well, I also have plenty of booze and you're welcome to that too." Now this guy was a freakin' piece of work of art. He's gotta work for the Sunset Strip Chamber of Commerce. Meeting and greeting the new arrivals and all, like that. "I have nice big couch too you can sleep on, until you get situated that is. You can pay me back later, we'll work something out," he offered in an almost pleading on the knees voice. Mickey said he'd think about it, but for now was settled into the motel for a week, but maybe after that. Hell, he seemed like such a great guy, so giving of himself and all. He put his hand on Mickeys shoulder, "Good, good. That would be wonderful," then handed him a scrap of paper with his number on it. "Give me a call if you need anything, anything at all, and I'll make sure you're taken care of. You seem like a nice kid and I just want to help out, ok? Good."...end of conversation...both wolked off in different directions, norte y sur, Mr. Rouge to the adult peep show across the street with half the marquee bulbs burnt out from too much masturbation, ducking into a quarter booth, shutting the rickety door behind him. Mickey on the other hand, walked down the street in the direction of the disc booster. "Wow," he thought, as things became clearer to him, "This is one fucked up town."
Rounding the corner where earlier, the record robber had vanished in a puff of smoke, Mickey collided with Tommie Lahser, yes, the vinyl villain himself, as both went sprawling backwards in opposite action-reaction directions. Mickey recognized him immeidiately and not wanting to be outdone or outgunned, began his own speaking in tongues harangue to beat, gunfight style, this bastard to the linguistic six-shooter punch. "Goddamnyoumotherfuckeryourealwaysinthewayandthatsuckandsodoyousofuckoffeatmydickshitface," Mickey sputtered. Damn. He couldn't believe it...he somehow absorbed the artful form of speaking perfectly punctuationless, and with only one lesson, no tutoring. He did it, he did it. No spacing, preparatory prepositions, no active verbs, nor lazy ones either, or rigid rules that define by encasing ones native language placing it in a cage, behind bars in a zoo for wild words that had been captured in large nets by men on safari with big guns, then tamed and domesticated to be put on display in books and magazines and newspapers and manifestos.
He too was now an anarchist and assassin of the English language. The dazed Tommie opened his eyes wide, and his mouth stayed shut during the barking barrage. Then, he broke into a laugh when Mickey was done mouthing off. "Shit, you scared me coming around the corner so fast," he said, only this time with punctuation and spacing. He couldn't stop the smile in his voice either and doubled over in a laughing fit that would break him in two if he leaned forward any further.
Tommy, or Tommie as he preferred, yes, of the i"e" clan, was a Brit, which gave him access to Canada, where he had left his parents when they ventured across the pond to visit Vancouver. Tommie broke loose from the parental leash, and made his way down the coast to L.A. much as a migrating whale would with mitigating circumstances. Tommie was the quintesential bad seed and ran with a rough crowd back in Jolly Olde working-class middle-class England..."UK to you, mate," he would say when introduced, and sometimes a simple "Fuck U, mate" would do too.
His accent was thick, though not as thick as the southern fried cowboy kid from Texas, Tommie would introduce Mickey to later as his hustling partner in crime. Some people suffer from a hairlip, or a stammering stutter. Not this kid from Texas, no, he just had that "why howdy," Ma'am, ya'll drawl. "Mighty fine lookin' daugher ya'll got there. Why I could knock her up and be proud to be her husband," and other insults like that, back and forth, ping and pong, badminton, and tennis style with Momma, just a eatin' it up and falling for that southern cowboy charm. "Oh young man, that is sweet of you and would be glad if you'd knock my only baby up. Maybe when you're done, well, you could give me a go round too, eh, what say?" Ya'll drawl, ya'll drawl. It even worked on them queers too according to Tommie. "Shit, he don't mind goin' to bed with them. He's fuckin' nuts, does it for fun, I jes' do it for the money. Blank out until it's over. Boom, jes' like that," Tommie would brag.
Just like those invisible pirates of childhood back home in whitewashed alleys, on the eastside of Detroit, they now took shape, three-dimensions, human flesh, bone and blood, and it was the "great recard store heist" that fueled the wind in the sails of their piratical friendship from then on. Tommie, wasn't but a year older than Mickey, but had been on the streets of Los Angeles long enough to know his way around. A hustling Vasco de Gama rounding the Cape or the Horn or whatever it was to establish a trail of missions in heathen lands. Tommie lived by his wits, mostly on the streets boosting merchandise, but his main forte was hustling the gay cabellero's that rode the cattle drive trail of the Strip on weekends. "Pretty good money in it, and you can roll these fucks, take 'em for money, watches, jewelry, all that shit. Hell, they ain't gonna call no cops, now are they? Hell, no," he answered himself as he did more often than not. He'd posed a question to any within earshot, with the answer already fully loaded in his hip pocket ready to fire off to any and all who would listen.
"C'mon, lets go get something to eat, also you gotta meet Ray. A real jukebox cowboy from Texas. He's a little older than us, so he knows his way around. Got a place too, this guy puts him up, pays the bills and cops a feel every now and then. Right now he's over at my old girlfriends place. Well, not really a girlfriend but we lived together for awhile. On yeah, got any money on you? Could rally use a dog and fries, know what I mean. Shit, sorry man, names Tommie." Now, Mickey was getting hustled, but in a way that made him like this strange character, a mud spattered Billy Halop of sorts. "Yeah," he smiled, "Let's go grab something. I got a little bit on me." As they walked across the street, Mickey noticed the string of traffic, the fag jam as Tommie later referred to it. Winding and whining down the Strip, fancy cars, chrome chariots of the gods looking for pleasure with mere mortals.
Mickey lit up the one joint he had on him that one of the hookers had given him earlier in the day. She was a sweet woman-child, old-thinking beyond her years of 17 or 18 or so, but kind, gentle, and sad at the same time, that he wished he could wrap her up and protect her. He offered Tommie a hit and he took it, holding it in long, languarously, and exhaling with a sigh. Mickey took another hit and the hooker appeared in his mind, smiling, sadly. She offered her hand to Mickey and he took it and together they flew away...far away and high above to the silence, away from the noisy reality of the streets below.
There was no escaping the reality in reality, and besides, he just paid for two dogs with onions and mustard, one bag of chips and a flat soda to share with Tommie. The joint gave the pop some much needed fizz, like inflating a flat tire, and the hotdogs tasted like filet mignons. They ate as they walked to where Ray was at in a downstairs, backalley, down the stairs by the trash cans dive with an out of place streetcar named desire filigree railing. They could hear music inside, loud, so they knocked hard. You could hear Ray already. "Hot damn, dangit, comin', comin'" and then opened the door. "Hotdamn. Tommie! Been waitin' to see ya. Hoped you show up back here, we missed ya. Damn, good to see you again, what a week or what? Damn, come on in ya'll. And shit, looky this. New meat! Good to meet ya, new meat. Well, I be damned, sit, sit, sit." He never stopped talking, staccato rapid fire.
Mickey wasn't sure what the future would bring. All he knew is ...his flying hooker angel had just dropped him off into a rodeo, and it would be more than an 8 second ride.