B.J. THOMPSON
At ten minutes past the witching hour of October 4th, these words were spoken...
“Peggy, give me a hit, man. The session was good, but tough; I gotta come down.”
“No. You're clean. Don't screw it up.”
“Listen, I know where you got it and who you got it from. I can do the same thing you did.”
“Then do it. It's not coming from me.”
Slam went the door of Room 103 at the Landmark Hotel, Hollywood. Minutes later, bang went the back passenger door of a limo, its tires squealing onto Franklin Avenue, the black beast headed for the corner of North Sycamore and Hollywood Boulevard. The land-yacht parked just shy of the intersection, the passenger forced to get out and walk, for there could be no overt meeting, no limos, and no celebrity scene of any kind, if the deal was to go down.
Feet from the Bougainvillea bushes and wild ivy where the dealer stood, pacing back and forth, he himself jonesin' for a fix, a marketer's cart stood on the sidewalk, a pleasant-looking obstacle situated between reality and chemical escape.
Stopping in her tracks, as if she wasn’t in a complete hurry, the bubbly chick lowered her rose-colored shades and said, “Hey, man, what you sellin'?”
The marketer, sporting a white cap and a blue-and-white striped apron, looked up, smiled and said, “Pies, miss. I sell pies.”
A flip-top head laugh erupted. “Here? You sell pies here? You get a lot of pie biz on the Boulevard?”
“Many people who get high, ponder pie, yes. I do a decent biz. Would you like one of my pies to take home with you?”
“Oh, hey, I ain't out here for no pie. I'm here for another treat,” laughing, winking, with a childlike grin. The rock star started off, pondered the possibility, and returned to the cart. “Do you have peach pies? My mom used to make a mean one back in Port Arthur. Man, do I miss my mom.”
“I'm fresh out of peach, but I do have this lovely cream pie — fresh coconut, real whipped cream, with a dash of Eternal Youth spice.”
“Eternal Youth!” said the 27 year-old woman, a big belly laugh this time, her long, wild hair flicking, her beaded necklaces jangling, her movements always hyper when sobriety sat too long and the need was there.
“That pie got a name? Is it popular?”
“Monterey Pop Pie. I only offer it to special customers.”
“Oh, like who? Anybody I'd know?”
“Well, recently, Rudy Lewis from The Drifters and Frankie Lymon from The Teenagers.”
“Hey, they’re all musicians, man, and they copped it from heroin OD.”
“Yes, that's correct.”
“So, your Eternal Youth pie didn't work. It ain't worth shit.”
“Oh, it would have worked, had they accepted my offer. So, can I tempt you?”
“Uh, no way, man, why do I want to be young forever? I've lived a thousand lifetimes already, and most of them looking through the bottom of a bourbon bottle.”
“Suit yourself,” the marketer said, shrugging his shoulders and throwing a wink to the amused but confused woman who bedecked in tie-dye as a living. and, Breathing kaleidoscope, she sauntered down the street in search of her dealer.
The marketer drew down the blinds on his stall, the cart rhythmically squeaking as it rolled out of sight.
~~~
“Hey, what's with all the lights and sirens?” said a man, dressed in a white cap and striped apron, standing on the sidewalk at 7047 Franklin.
“Overdose, groupies are saying. Some say it's Room 105. That's where she was stayin', man.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah, man, Janis. Stone cold dead.”
“Hey, kid, you a rocker?
“Yeah, my name's Brian, Brian Cole, from The Association. Me and my guys just got back from a gig up at Monterey.”
“Do you feel like pie?”
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