1985: I wouldn’t know a good nights sleep if it kicked me in the fucking face, and it’s so fucking quiet. What kind of pathetic fuck am I? This fucking Mulholland house, fucking weed, blow, booze, and nameless whores in leather and jean skirts, fuckme heels, big hair, whatever. I hate my fucking life. There just isn’t enough fucking dope…. Fuck everyone, I hate you all.
“Dude what’s up? Come on in man. So what’s up for tonight dude? And who is this?” I told JB. “She came with us to meet you dude.” JB spat in a half fucked-up reply. That better be the fucking response. Come over here without bringing me some kind of starter fuck for the night? “How about some shots? Lets burn one dudes.”
Nice heels, she better fuck hard and she better get mighty fucking dirty. Bitch. I wish someone would love me…
1975: Unit one in the San Bernardino County Juvenile Detention Center was my earliest memory. Unfuckingbelievable, I must have been five years old or something? I remember Chad having matches, and we lit some books on fire. Nowhere to run really, the glass had wire running through it, and no one went anywhere without at least one Sherriff walking you and or others somewhere. That damned Sonitrol was the worst. When someone decided to start a fight, or run, or some bullshit that required the Sheriffs to back each other up, off it went, a loud annoying beep, and off they ran in one direction or the other, depending on what unit they were off to.
1965: My Romani mother was a domestic terrorist I guess is what they called it, even back then. She got wrapped up with some pedophile pervert professor from Berkley, and got knocked up. Of course, because she died on the table having me, and because the child rapist that made her his hole, ran off. That left me sitting at Pomona Valley Community Hospital, a domestic terrorist of sorts I suppose. You see, Los Angeles County had a list of subversives that they claimed never existed, even though later on in time, they destroyed the list that never existed, I ended up on that list, so never being eligible for foster homes, I was simply born a Ward of the Court. My new parent was a Sherriff deputy. A fat fucker with a gun, a badge, and a pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt. Jeans, a t-shirt, and a beat up yellow Toyota truck was the extent of his life. They shipped me to San Bernardino county for some ungodly reason. To avoid me avenging my mothers death, or some silly fucking sixties paranoia.
Going to school in juvenile hall is pretty cool, you actually do get an education, even if it is shoved down your throat. It gets you off the unit, that’s all that matters. Going outside had its perks too. It was cool to watch some fool make a dash for the wall, with no one ever really making it. It was a high jump, then it was that barbed wire, and there was always a gang of sheriffs maybe ten steps behind and closing, but it was always fun to watch.
Life pretty much had little meaning until the day came that I made my way into my first group home. Before that, it was places like Verdemont Boys Ranch, Twin Pines Boys Ranch, and my first stint in Boys Republic. While in Boys Republic, I made my way into the first group home, which was in Santa Ana. Unlike before, when I was going back and forth between juvenile hall, and the latest placement in some work farm. Here I finally made it into a residential neighborhood, with actual people.
It wasn’t all that different a schedule. mostly the same crap, but this time, I get to be amongst non-criminals. fourteen years it took to get out into society, and even though it was still heavily supervised, it was indeed worth the wait.
Boys Republic in Santa Ana was the beginning of it all. It was a two story building on a corner, with maybe a dozen or so kids in it, I really cant remember. There was an “emancipation house” in the back of the property where kids who were going out on their own someday we housed. It was back in the good old days when kids could buy cigarettes at the local liquor store down the street, because you had a Sherriff’s badge imprint on the back of your California ID.
It was sort of a get out of jail free card half the time, then the other half the time, it was a dude you are so fucked when they call your PO. Luckily for me, as a master in the art of fucking up, I knew exactly how to spin that imprint to keep me out of trouble %80 of the time. And for the record, it was also the days when cops were allowed to beat your ass as a punishment, as opposed to arresting you and processing you. It was so cool to have them take your pipe, your weed, and your money, then slap you around a bit as a sentence for the crime, as opposed to being arrested. (As we will soon see later on.)
Life started out well enough. We walked to and from school in a supervised group, which of course got the attention of the girls at the high school, which made us bad boy pussy magnets, and damn did it ever! As soon as they found out I was the new bad boy in the group, and got to hear the sixty second synopsis of my back story, the panties slid to the floor like magic. Oh god it was indescribable how the pussy lined up, but anyways.
Weed was readily available behind the Albertsons grocery store, next door to the liquor store where we got cigarettes. Nickel and dime bags all day from the Mexicans that hung out in the alley. It was seedy and stemmy at times, but you crush the seeds, and chop up the stems, and throw it in the pipe with the weed, and fire it up dude. It works.
The good thing about Boys Republic, is that when you fuck up, they try and keep you in their system, and simply move you around to another spot.
I worked at Pioneer Chicken at night because I owed restitution to Bank of America for some scams, and there just happened to be a Wienerschnitzel next door, that had a female night manager, who was obsessed with bad boys. Yes, I went AWOL on a Friday night, yes I stayed out all night with her, and yes she got fucked into infinity. So when I arrived back at the group home at a little after 7:30 am that Saturday, they promptly called my PO. Do you want to know the crappiest part? (see, I refrained and didn’t say shitty) When I told the workers at the home who it was, they laughed, and said she had lured at least 4 other boys into an all night sexfest in the past, and that I was lucky number five that was sent back to juvenile hall because of her! Damn, sloppy seconds and dirty thirds are one thing, but I got dripping and stenching fifths from this bitch?
Five weeks I spent in unit 13 in the hall, and then the day came that my PO returned to let me know that I was on my way to Boys Republic Silverlake, which as we will soon see, was the beginning of the end of my illustrious career.
I got the standard lecture. Stay away from the drug dealers and hookers on the strip, or I will be sent back to the hall. Can you guess where my first stop was? Yes. The drug dealers and the hookers, why wouldn’t I? Everyone else did!
Time had moved forward, and by this time I was 15 going on 16, and had secured myself a few part-time busser/bar back jobs at night. The good thing about owing a bank restitution, is that the facility had no choice but to allow me to work at night, because the county demanded that payments be made in a timely manner, or the fat man with a gun and badge came over threatening them to keep their distance from my freedom to generate restitution. Fucking BofA was god when it came to criminals owing them money.
I worked WH and RX on the weekends, and TRB and RBB during the week, which of course got me mixed up with whatever, and whichever band was trying to turn a couple of hundred bucks or so that particular night. Which… Because I happened to be a professional fuckup, with hooker and drug dealer associates, it made me quite the “go-to guy” for up and coming musicians, who wanted to live the rock and roll lifestyle on a “below the poverty line” budget.
For instance… It actually all began when I was smoking a pretty big roach outside after dragging out a bunch of trash from stocking beers, and these clowns roll up asking if I can help them out. “Hey, dude, do me a favor, and carry this end for me.” I looked at this clown and furrowed my eyebrows, as I pursed my lips replying… “Fuck off dimwit, I don’t get paid to heft your shit around. I’m the nigger that does all the clubs dirtywork, not yours.”
“Wow, your really a fucking jackoff huh?” The clown replied. “Besides, who has fucking money? But if you stop being a dick long enough, and use your shitty job to your advantage, you might just get to fuck some sluts tonight.” he continued to babble as I stopped for a split second and paid attention. You know, drugs and money are easy to come by, but pussy takes the use of both, and something to seal the deal with, they are musicians, maybe there are some whores involved. “I don’t see any sluts dude, just you fuckers” I said, hoping to try and back out of being a dick, and maybe wheedle my way into some panties. “What all do I really have to do to get this magic fucking pussy of yours?” Which was the first time I realized where the front door was into these musicians lives.
So I was more important than I knew! I could stand out front on a smoke break, and get the people waiting to come in, to use the band’s tickets to get in, and buy the two drink cover. What they wanted was not me really helping them heft their shit, they wanted a guy on the inside who could manipulate the patrons, and the second I figured that out, I ran with it. That’s right, switch out tickets, tell people who and who not to cheer, tell them whatever lies I could think of, to get the bands popularity pumped for the night.
That night, I ended up at Denny’s, meeting up with the band, who knew about the grooves in the tables, and were there using them. You see, restaurants always had the favorite tables where you knew the grooves were dug into, and it made doing blow a lot easier, and much more organized in a low key disillusionment.
I scooted into the booth where TL was waiting, getting a handjob, while trying to eat his eggs over my hammy. The key was that the girls paid for everything! They paid for the food, the drinks, and subsequently the motel room where the “low budget after party” took place. “This is my buddy from the club, he totally gets us the VIP setup, this fucker rules.” TL told the big haired blonde, whose age I really did not have any interest in asking about. “You guys rock dude, your album will be the shit.” I piped in with, quickly seeing that adding some bullshit to the group will work out for me in the long run. “That’s right man, and your there as we all ride to the top man.” sealed the deal as the big haired blonde put her hand on my leg, her head on my shoulder, and began kissing the back of my neck.
I remember that particular scene so vividly, because in one night, I learned everything there was to learn about the entertainment industry, and the climb to the heights of it. Hell ya, this was what I wanted to do the rest of my life, get drunk, get high, impress and fuck girls. But I wanted to be above the entertainment industry, and to do that, I needed to be needed, that was the key. They need me, more than I will eventually need them.
Working 4 venues as a background peon gave me the perfect position to begin my rise to debaucherous underground fame. I quickly put together a universal scam for all bands. “Dude, your fucking so-called management can’t do anything for you, but I can.” Would be my opening line as they would roll in, and start chatting. “What you guys need is a fucker that can build the crowd, raise your rep, and get you out of “pay to play” status.” always got their attention… “The after party is the key bro’s to getting people to show up the next time, to get them to buy your tapes, and to get them fucking and sucking until dawn. I can arrange the goods, and the night if you can get the bitches to pony up the cash.” Sealed the deal %100 percent of the time. Everything was me being the pimp of the night, and that is when I started to call myself a “Producer”. I mean, that is kinda what a Producer does? Arranges shit, takes control of shit, sees that everything is done on the budget right? Hell ya, I was off and running. The key was to stay employed, and begin building a second life.
Being satisfied with being small time was really hard, but as long as these guys stayed small time, so would I. How can I get them to move up in life, yet assure myself that they don’t leave me behind with all the other little people. The key has to be to remain unique, and that was a problem on the strip. There were a lot of fools trying to make their way to the top, and unless they were the people I was running interference for, they were a problem, and one that would need solving. I needed a reputation, but I needed it to stay underground.
What makes pimps powerful? What makes some dealers a better person to deal with? Why are some hookers more popular with other hookers? What do they all have in common? Damnit, there must be an answer, what the fuck is it? Once again, I was out back during a shift at one of my “Gigs” i started calling my jobs. Smoking my usual roach, most times with a longneck beer in my hand. Why is it so easy to do this I asked myself as I looked at people coming and going across the street as I looked down and out over there. What am I missing? Where do I start? Dude, it has to be at my own square one, it can’t be anywhere else that I jump off from.
C’mon dude, think… I work 4 different jobs, 4 different clubs, all 20 hour work weeks, all paid in cash, no job app filled out, no social security number on file, cash tips from SOME of the waitresses, free booze or stolen booze, smoke cigarettes and weed anywhere, do whatever I am told without question, even things that employees should not be doing legally, people know me, people trust me, and people listen to me. I need to figure out not only how to exploit this, but to twist it into a measure of control, a way to start getting shit on people, a way to make them have no choice to to stay in my circle, or else.
That question was answered when TL and those fools finally hit. I happened to be sitting in my brown Camaro, listening to KMET 94.7, burning a bone, down the road from Gazarri’s, waiting to see how I could advance my own BS. I kept watching the other bands walking up and down the street, trying to hype their shit for the night. That was it! I needed to control the sidewalk. Not competing with the hookers and pimps, not moving in on the street dealers, but controlling everything else on the strip that didn’t have to do with the current crime already in place.
TL rolled up on my drivers side, scared the shit out of me, placing both hands on the door with the window rolled down that I was leaning out of, thinking of the pussy walking across the street, back and forth. “I got real money man, we all do” he shouted in my ear, as if it was the best thing to happen to him since the invention of hairspray. We are throwing a real party tonight, to kick off a return, and we need help, c’mon dude, lets roll” he babbled as he ran around the front of the car, and jumped inside.
“Long time no see whore.” I told him as I did my signature eyebrow furrow, and lip pursing. “I have no time for you acting like a snatch with a skinned knee, can we just kiss and fucking makeup? Let me hit that.” he said as I pulled out. “What are we doing dude, lets get something accomplished.” I asked as he laid a handful of cash on my leg, and started coughing out the hit he was holding. “Fuc Fuc Fuckinggg blow doo oo ood.” he said whilst spitting on my arm. Well elbow, because I lifted up my arm to block the spittle. “So what the fuck is this?” as I tried to one handedly thumb through it, and keep my eyes on the road during the busiest business time for crime… “Sunset on Sunset.”
“Three grand slut.” TL said with a smile on his face that let me know he was pretty fucking pleased with himself. “I can’t take you with me dude, I will have to drop you off somewhere, and come back with the shit.” Where the hell am I going to get this from? 20 some 8balls, then empty them all into one sandwich baggie? “Where are we going? I will come back.” but he had already goten the jist of what had to happen, and was one step ahead of me. “Flip a bitch, Sunset Tower.”
After dropping him off, I had to think fast. I had a bunch of friends about 40 miles to the southeast in Chino Hills, but that was an hour each way, then fucking around for a couple of hours having to travel to Ontario to get more weight than the 10 some 8balls I knew my buddy there had on hand.
That’s when I remembered that Mexican, his name was some common thing, Jose, Mario, Pinche Vato, something or another, but I remember he told me once when I went to score some moderate light weight, that if I ever wanted smack by the trunk load, he could get a white boy started in the business. What the hell, if he had H on hand, he might actually have blow, he did have a lot of weed to drop off the day I was there, and he did tell me how to get in contact with him.
Yup, I found him, and here is the hard part. I was already in the shit for not being at work when I was supposed to, but I can fix that if I bring back dope. The neighborhood I was in was heavily brown, and I was obviously white. I had 30 one hundred dollar bills, and for some stupid reason, I was throwing the small time reputation I had on the line for some short and skinny guy that could have been just as full of shit as I was, and simply just posing during a weed recop to impress some whiteboy.
Wronnnnng. The stars must have all been in alignment, because the guy was actually sitting in the front yard of the place I was hoping was at least close to where he described. It was in a row of houses, most with fences around them, and I parked right out front, got out, and went right up to the driveway gate. “It’s the whiteboy freaking rock and roll jotos pelo.” The little mexican shouted with a longneck Bud in one hand, and the other hand shaking his cock at me from the green and white lawn chair he was sitting in. “C’mon in cabron” he told me as he waved to some vato to open the gate for me.
“Lets go inside whiteboy. This is my sister, but don fuck around cabron, I cut you fucking huevos off Maricon.” Was the narrative as we went through the front door, passing this 15 year old latina that was as hot as fuck. (Later down the road, we will see that I did indeed do just that.) “Sit down cabron, some pinche caballo por you? I toll you the shit is the way to go.” in the broken english, half spanglish dribble that this short man complex freaking mojado was trademarked for in all of my future short termed dealings.
“I don’t sell no fucking dimes and shit holmes.” was so disappointing to hear after he had told me, “Cocaina? You want the fucking mayates shit?”
Black people were never an issue on the strip, the place was rockin, rapin, roll, and various other forms of white debauchery in the 80’s, so that told me immediately that there was a corner on that market if I could wrangle it. “Pinche Cocaina is big on the strip with gabachos.” got his attention quickly enough. “I got some companeros always got that shit, gave me some I don fucking want last week, and those fucking mayates are ladrones, they don pay nothing, and nobody trust those fucking changos.” So what is this guy getting to? I told myself as I was trying to figure out what to do since my pitiful three grand meant nothing to this conversation.
“Two point two pounds cabron, por thirty thousand. You got a week.” he spoke as I damned near shit myself having the kilo put into both hands that he pulled out of a closet. No threats, no nothing. What was to stop me from fucking this guy? But wait, why? What in the hell am I thinking? I’, not screwing this guy over, what if this just keeps getting better? “You buy it with money up front, you get two point two pounds por twenty thousand. You got money, you pay fucking lot less.” Holy Shit! JackFuckingPot! This guy better not be jerking my dick, just to put a bullet in the back of my head as I walk out of here. He picked up a t-shirt and wrapped it around the block, and handed it back. I didn’t say shit, it had to be blow, why would he lie? Just be cool man, walk out, head back to the car calmly, don’t blow this man.
Back to his chair he went, and out to the car I went. It was so smooth, so sweet, I wanted to just sit in the car and cry tears of joy, it was like god has blessed me with the most wonderful barrio fucker on earth. All that needed to happen was to get the hell out of here, get back to the strip, get to a head shop to get a scale and ziplocks, get to some hotel room somewhere, sit and do a line, do the mental math on what three grand gets him, drop it off, go and break it down at work, and figure out how the hell to manage this and the cash, while living in a group home. The owner of the club will be down, I got him 8balls before down the street from the strip joint, so if I play this just right, tell him I was a bigshot, and had to go cop, do some lines, throw some free blow at him, break it down, and stuff it in my coat the rest of the night, it should be fine. I had three thousand to work with, because he never asked for, or about it, so the hotel room would be a temporary safe place for storage and logistics.
I hate having all this blow on me, just waiting to get popped, then this dude will be pissed, and his mexican mafia buddies will cut me up like ceviche in lockup.
The elevator door opened, and down the hall I went, scared shitless. It was easy to play the big shot around teen girls and unbathed metal band members, but actually being one wasn’t as glamorous as I thought it would be. Damn, this is hard, you gotta carry drug weight, cash. Holy shit, I don’t even have a gun! And if I had one, that would just be another charge. My PO would be pissed beyond all measure if I got popped, coming down to the city or Sherriff lockup? He would kill me himself before the mexicans could.
Be cool dude, this is just in and out, get to work, deal with the owner, get this broke down into more manageable weight.
“Hey hey, here is my man!” TL said as he opened the door, which he must have been impatiently waiting to open ever since I dropped him off. “Pipe down dude, we need an empty room.” I said while looking partially at the floor, and him. “I got that, but I need to roll, gotta get to work, got issues, got shit to do, busy man.” softly spoken as I put my hand on his lower back to get him moving. “Ok man no problem, back here…”
Luckily this bedroom, or whatever it was, (and how the hell could they afford a room that had a bedroom attached?) was empty. I locked the door and stood by it, dropping a packed full ziplock in his hands. “Holy shit man, this is so fucking great, if I would have known real money bought real blow, I would have been on this shit a lot quicker” he whispered. I guess I must have set the tone, and grateful I did at this point. “Gotta go, times have changed, nickles and dimes are old news, ohzers and up, that’s two ohzers dude, one time deal, right place, right time, never expect it again, don’t even dare ask, fifteen hundred an ohz from here on out, you owe me mega pussy for the free ohz…”