Monday, April 6, 2015

Part One: Scramble and Hustle


So how did I end up living in a punk rock nightclub?  Lemme tell ya....
     First, I was laid off from the car wash in Oakland I worked at because it was winter.  My roommates, having been in the same boat, demonstrated their compassion by promptly giving me the boot.  (A couple years later, I was comforted to find a couple of them living in a tenement on Pill Hill, and others having moved back home.... In their mid-twenties.  Fill in Simpsons "Nelson" laugh here.)  A friend down in San Jose was able to help me out by letting me sleep in the garage of the house she was living in.  There was just one tiny problem: the guy who she was renting a room from couldn't know I was there, so I had to sneak in the house around six in the morning and hide under her bed until he left for work.  I'd built a small cave to live and sleep in in the rafters, and the guy never went in the garage past seven p.m.  I just had to sneak in the side door after seven and stay quiet.  I did plenty of laps around the block until the lights at the side of the house went off, the signal the coast was clear.

Part Two: My Life As A Non-Pimp

     At that point, circa 1990, there were quite a few hookers working San Pablo Ave. around Gilman St.; they've since moved south to Alcatraz and the Oakland city limits. They migrated.  All the working girls moved south to Oakland, and I'm not sure why.  I'd rather get arrested in Berkeley --- for anything --- than in Oakland.

Part Three: The Haunted Nightclub

     I am not a superstitious person.  I don't throw salt over my shoulder, I don't walk around poles (although there were a few Hungarians I avoided), tarot reading is nothing more than entertainment, psychics are lying swindlers, those that claim to be in contact with the dead are cruel shysters who deserve jail time, and Uri Geller is a fraud, and not a very good one.

     But I'll be damned if 924 wasn't haunted.  Anyone who has spent the night there alone will back me up on this.

The People From LA (Part 11)

     I would like to report that everything want smoothly in Chatsworth.  The equipment was retrieved, Todd was conciliatory, and Rick returned to the fold of Inana Productions, Inc.

     Yes, that's what I'd like to report.  Unfortunately, I can't.  Perhaps describing a crappy day should start at the beginning.

The People From LA (Part 12)

     I stopped Angel at the door.  "You know that in two days he's gonna be a complete basket case, right?"

The People From LA (Part 13)

Six months later....

     I proposed to Bekka yesterday.  She said she'd think about it.

     Three months ago I sold my last bag of speed.  There were a lot of people disappointed with my decision, because they greatly relied on me for their income.  I assured them they wouldn't be out of business for long: there was sure to be plenty of others who would take my place.  Besides, my day job at Inana Productions was taking up too much of my time, and you didn't want me to be even less reliable than I've been, right?
     Boss was certainly disappointed.  I had been worth ten to twenty thousand dollars a week to him.  "If ya wanna jump back in, say the word an' I'll set you up," he told me.  I explained to him, as I'd explained to my clients, that I was making decent money, legally, and my only interest in the chemical compounds I had been selling was as a consumer.  Boss wouldn't sell me less than an ounce at a time, and even that was a favor, so I kept Inana stocked up like usual.  Boss and I still hang out together over a few beers.  We're no longer in business together, but we remain friends.