For a period of 7 years or so, sometime between the mid 1960’s and the mid 1970’s, I lived with Miss Adrianne Bond. Adrianne was her given name, but friends, family, and even her mother, called her – Tooty. Her dad’s pet name for her mother was “Toots”. After Adrianne was born, he started calling her “ Toots”, too. This quickly became confusing, so he switched to Tooty, and the name stuck.)
In the winter of 1969 Tooty and I took a month-long vacation and went on a rambling tour of the Great American West. We had no real itinerary for the trip, although we did have a few planned stops. One of which was to visit Tooty’s cousin, Les – in Los Angeles. Les was living with his mom at the time. Prior to that he had been living at a California state prison, but shortly before our arrival he had finally made parole. I’m not sure what crime he had been convicted of. It might have been drug related, or possibly armed robbery, or something along those lines. I just don’t remember. In any case, Tooty had written to him faithfully while he was doing his time. No one else in his family (except for his mother) had written to him. In fact, no one else in his family was still speaking to him. Les was very grateful to Tooty. Tooty felt she had to stop by and say hello.
We rolled into L.A. in the early afternoon of Christmas Eve.
Les and his mother lived in North Hollywood, in one of those stucco, Spanish-style, single-story bungalows that seem to have all been built in the 1930’s. His mom greeted us at the door. Les was out back, in the garage, working on his “scooter” – a vintage Harley that had been chopped and chromed to a turn. (Les was a member of the Hell’s Angels, L.A. chapter.)
Of course, he was delighted to see his saint-like cousin, Tooty. He quickly rolled a joint and got us all a beer. This would be the first of many mind-altering substances we would ingest that day.
Les was eager to introduce his “righteous” cousin – who had stood by him when others in the family had let him down – to all his friends. (In the argot of the Angels, “righteous” is praise of the highest order. It’s reserved for only those who have demonstrated great loyalty, courage, etc. – usually just fellow Angels.) Anyway, with beers in hand, we set off to meet Les’s friends.
I don’t recall how many people we met that evening, but each and every one of them offered us dope & booze, and each and every one of them was a professional criminal. We really couldn’t refuse their hospitality. That would have been ungracious, uncool... and possibly dangerous.
The first place we went to was a nearby topless bar where several of Les’s cronies usually hung out. They were there, as expected. So were the topless dancers, though not as expected.
At least not by me. Cleveland didn’t have any topless bars as yet so I imagined this would be a riveting experience. Reality proved less interesting than imagination. The girls seemed a little detached – maybe bored describes it better. So were the five or six patrons, none of whom even looked at the girls. Pretty soon, I wasn’t looking at them either. It’s curious how so many forbidden pleasures pall when they’re no longer forbidden. Anyway, Les introduced us. We consumed more of the proffered alcohol & dope. Then the talk turned to current events.
Sharon Tate and her friends had been murdered just weeks earlier. No one knew who had done the deed – not even these folks who were usually first to hear the rumors. The event, and more so, the lack of information had them spooked. All around the city, hardened killers were looking sideways at each other – and wondering. You can imagine how the regular citizens felt. Somehow, in the midst of this talk, Les remembered that he had forgotten to get a Christmas present for his mom. We left the bar to search for one. It seemed a little darker outside than before; the sun was lower in the sky, but I don’t think that was the only reason for the effect.
Les finally decided on a bottle of wine as his Christmas gift. I don’t know how good the wine was, but the bottle was spectacular. It had a spherical base about the size of a basketball, topped by a 3” diameter neck that rose to a height of 3-1/2 ft. Or more. Whether it was a hit with his mom, or not, I can’t say; she was gone when we returned to the house. Les tied a red ribbon around the neck of the bottle and set it in the middle of the living room. Then we left to meet more of Les’s friends.
I can’t remember more than bits and pieces of the rest of the evening because the drugs and booze were starting to kick in pretty good. Of course that didn’t stop us from having more. We went to various apartments, houses, and bars all around the city and met who knows how many nefarious characters. Oddly enough, although all the people we met were criminals they were, without exception, very courteous. I guess when you live outside the law you must be polite. We had a whirlwind tour of L.A. that I can now recall only as hazy snap-shot pictures.
I remember a glimpse of Sunset Strip, I remember a beach somewhere, and I remember lots of freeways, and lots of alleys. I do have one vivid impression of the interior of a bar in Venice. That place stands out in memory because it was so brightly lit – a tacky little bar with glaring lights. The patrons were glaring, too. Apparently, while Les was away this bar had become a hang-out for a rival biker gang. We left soon after entering.
Everywhere we went the conversation turned, sooner or later, to the Sharon Tate murders. That, and our ongoing, unremitting exposure to the underbelly of L.A. society, added a jagged edge to our mad dark trip around the city. And, of course, all the drugs and alcohol we consumed just made the threat hanging in the air that much more intense.
So it went, on and on, long into the night. We didn’t succeed in meeting all of Les’s friends though. Several had died violently during Les’s prison stint, several more were now themselves behind bars. Overall it seemed to me that this was one group of pals that wouldn’t be having many reunions.
Les planned to cap off the evening by introducing us to his most prestigious friend, Crazy Chuck. He phoned, first. Crazy Chuck was the only person Les phoned in advance of visiting. This was done less for reasons of courtesy than for reasons of safety. Crazy Chuck had somehow managed to get on the wrong side of the Angels as well as The Man. Both the L.A.P.D., and Chuck’s former brothers in the L.A. Hell’s Angels, were earnestly looking to contact him as soon as possible. All of this attention had put Chuck a bit on edge. He was less out-going than he had been in former times, and unexpected visits sometimes made him very cross. Considering all this, and the fact that Chuck was heavily armed, Les thought it best to call ahead – even though he and Crazy Chuck were best friends. Les explained all this to us during the drive to CC’s hideout.
Chuck met us at the door. At first, I thought he was blind, then I realized that he only looked that way because the pupils of his eyes had been reduced to such tiny black dots.
We later discovered that he had eaten more drugs that day than
we had. He couldn’t recall, exactly, the order of consumption, or the quantity, but he did have some left – which he graciously offered us.
Of course, we accepted his hospitality, although I had really been hoping to taper off for the rest of the night.
Crazy Chuck introduced us to his “Old Lady”, a pretty girl who didn’t seem much more than a teenager – despite her slightly worn appearance. On any other evening we might not have met her. Chuck usually had her out working the streets, but this was Christmas Eve; There wouldn’t be enough customers to make the effort worthwhile,
and, a lot of people knew that she and CC were an item. They might follow her home to find him. Besides that, Chuck explained, her mom was coming over for a holiday get-together on the morrow, so he had granted her the evening off.
I don’t remember the name of Chuck’s girlfriend, or the names
of any of the few other people who were there that night, but I do recall that they spent a lot of time making long-distance calls – to New Orleans, South America, maybe Europe, too. I thought they must be running up
a very large phone bill, but they didn’t seem at all concerned. Neither
did Chuck.
I learned, later, that they didn’t care because they didn’t plan on paying. It wasn’t their phone – or house. They were just taking advantage of some unfortunate family that had made the innocent error of taking
a vacation at exactly the wrong time. By tomorrow, or the next day, CC and his friends would move on to another place. Apparently, they had been doing this since Chuck had begun his reclusion.
Anyway, while his friends were making their sport phone calls, Chuck regaled us with many tales of his adventures, most of which decency forbids me to retell – even in expurgated form. He did have one story though, different from the others, that’s worth relating.
Sometime earlier, I believe in the same year, Look magazine commissioned a famous photographer to do a “portrait” series on various California lifestyles. I don’t remember who the photographer was, It might have been Irving Penn, but I’m not really sure of that. Neither can I remember how many photos were in the series, or who was featured in all of them.
I think the rock scene was represented by Big Brother & the Holding Company – with Janis Joplin. The hippie movement was represented by anonymous characters plucked from the streets of Haight-Ashbury, and so on. It was a well done job, beautifully rendered in first-rate black & white photography. But the important part, for this tale, is that the star of the L.A. Biker “portrait” was none other than Crazy Chuck.
Right there in the center of the frame was CC himself, with hair to his shoulders, and beard to mid-chest, slouching on his “scooter”, surrounded by some fellow Angels, and a bevy of biker cuties. National fame was his. I was impressed. So was Chuck. He had about 50 copies of the magazine – lest anyone forget. I can’t say I blame him. It’s tough getting noticed in a nation of 250 million people.
Well, that was the highlight to end the evening, or so I thought.
I was tired. So was Tooty. I suggested it was time for us to find a motel and get a little sleep, since we intended to drive on to San Francisco in the morning (actually, at daybreak, since it was already morning). Chuck, ever the thoughtful host, would have none of it. “No need to rush off. You can crash here,” he said. After a little back and forth, we gave in, accepted a pallet on the floor, and called it a night.
I don’t know about Tooty, but I was wide awake. Nonetheless I did what I could to at least rest. It was dark and quiet for a while, for maybe an hour, or so... and then I thought I heard a sound outside. It wasn’t loud, not much more than a muffled sort of thump. Suddenly every light in the house came on. All around the room I could hear the snicker & clack of full clips being slammed into automatic weapons and live rounds being chambered.
And then – nothing.
It was a false alarm, but it was alarming enough for me. This time I insisted on leaving.
A little shame-faced, Chuck agreed, but I could see that he felt bad about it. His feelings were hurt. Somehow, he had let Les down; maybe embarrassed him in front of his righteous cousin, Tooty. And, ridiculous as it sounds, I felt bad for him. However, enough was enough. We said our goodbyes, and headed for the car. Les decided to stay.
The car would not start. My trusty old Volkswagen, probably the most reliable car I have ever owned, picked this particular time and place to fail me. I had to go back inside, hat-in-hand, and ask for help. Chuck and Les gave us a push start.
We made it to a motel, checked in, and hit the bed fully clothed, grateful for the possibility of safe, uncomplicated sleep. Our L.A. adventure was over – almost.
A few hours later, as we got ready to leave for San Francisco, I discovered I had left my watch at Chuck’s. We returned for the watch, turned down an offer to stay for breakfast – and finally made our getaway.
We took Highway-l up to San Francisco. Highway-1 is a wonderful road that winds all along the Pacific coast. The sun was shining; the world seemed brighter and cleaner than before; we were alive and whole; the drug haze was lifting, and the miasma of evil that shrouds L.A. more densely than smog was receding at a comfortable 65 mph.
I haven’t been back since.
Crazy Chuck’s Look Magazine portrait. He was identified in the magazine as, “Doug”.
I think he probably had many names - A.K.A. as needed.
Epilogue: Ms. Bond tells me her cousin, Les, died of a drug overdose about two years after the events described above.