Patrick calls about 6, which is right after dinner at Wayside Correctional where the high desert meets the Sierras. he’s finishing up a 6 month stretch for burglary. Patrick is a junkie and a thief, but he only robs his friends, many of whom are wealthy and live in Hollywood and points west. They’re cutting him loose at dawn, the usual time, at New County Jail in downtown LA, a massive block of concrete and steel and polished floors that started sinking into the spongy flood plain that is the LA Basin before the ribbon was cut on opening day. Old County Jail was floors 13 and above of the old County Courts building and could have been used as a set for a movie about some stinking Turkish jail.
I’m supposed to call this B-movie actor friend of his who has a car because Jim Morrison, of the Doors you know, is there and JM worships P so they’ll pick him up. we’re there at dawn in front of the broad concrete slab that rolls from the steely front doors to the cool morning curb. P staggers, saunters out into the gold/gray light, LA blue sky standing up behind him.
he & i have to fit into the back of a late 60’s TransAm. there is no actual back seat; what space there is contains a massive roll bar the size of my thigh. so we’re rumbling off toward Hollywood and stop at a market in Echo Park for a few flats of generic beer. this beer has no brand name, just blue lettering on a white label-BEER. i hated fuckin alcohol in those days, hated narcotics and pills. i was an acid head, a pot smoker and mushroom eater.
Morrison was really getting on my nerves. whiners need to be beaten severely until they improve their attitude. i was not in the mood to fuck with JM, so i found a small hunk of hash in the lint of my pocket and fired it up in this little pipe i always had. it was so cramped i couldn’t even pass the pipe, but this was not a psychedelic crowd anyway. the driver is pouring beer in the general direction of his mouth, but we get to his house in the Hollywood Hills soon enough. he’s got the greatest pool i have ever seen. YOU have never seen a better pool. it’s fuckin huge and is half indoors and half outdoors. one end of it looks off into vast cityscape below, the other end fronts a bar and tv and massive stereo. and a brick of pot. goooood pot and i’m a happy camper.
not really sure of what transpired over the next, i guess 18-20 hours, but there were a lot of people over and contests comparing diving style dropping from the rafters into the pool. and then Morrison, who would not shut the fuck up after too many Seconols and Dexedrine, had to be at LAX for an early morning flight to Miami. on the way, Tom the driver/owner decided we needed to throw all the empty beer cans out in case we got pulled over. something awful happened behind us on the freeway, but it was just dawn and the 405 is still dark.
i was getting a bad feeling about this trip to the airport. you might even call it a feeling of free fall. except free fall feels good in your nuts. dread, not so much. but once you’re on the slide, it’s all relative, energy from void, no gravity. Patrick is weaving a tapestry of self absorption, newly freed from the County Jail, dancing like a marionette missing a few strings, all the way to the gate. i’m busting some walking yoga and our two grim companions are all business about what gate, etc. we find some seats in the early bright morning expanse of the waiting area and Morrison is finally wearing out. except he keeps huffing and barking as he nods off. Tom starts barking back at him. soon they’re barking and howling. this is not good, funny but not good.
wait, it gets worse. a bustling group of nuns appears. that’s called a superfluity. i’m irish, i know these things. so this herd of black&white morning fresh virgins is rustling about and giggling . . . until, well . . . did i mention that Morrison is a real jerk. so he bounds over to the nun-nest on all fours and starts barking and sniffing them and lifting his leg like he’s gonna pee, and his buddy follows . . . so the terrified nuns are rushing about like lambs fleeing rabid herd dogs. they’re screeching horror film classics and one of them is futilely beating on the actor with a magazine. the two of them start growling and snapping like prison guard dogs.
i grab P and drag him outa there, i mean he hasn’t even had his first meet with his parole officer, and his agent called me the other day because he’s got a part in a series he might get . . . like every body else in Hollywood.
my legal status also has some thin spots . . . so we’re the fuck outa there, soon napping on the hood and trunk of the TransAm when Tom shows up, doesn’t say anything. we all get in and he floors it, drives back to Hollywood.
Morrison was on stage in Miami that night or the next and . . . allegedly . . . pissed on the audience.
Curtis McCosco © 2015