Angry White Male

  While Al Boswell and Dan Taylor tried to pry money out of Dallas Green and Haywood Sullivan, their sons continued to play on teams that Summer. Billy toured with USA Baseball across the country and internationally.

  Good college baseball players play in what are known as the collegiate Summer leagues. The top leagues were the Alaskan League, the Jayhawk League, and the Cape Cod League.

  The marquee teams in the Alaskan League were the Alaska Goldpanners, who played in Fairbanks, and the Anchorage Glacier Pilots. Other teams included the North Pole Nicks, who also played in Anchorage; the Kenai Peninsula Oilers; and the Palmer Valley Green Giants.

  The Boulder Collegians were a powerhouse in Colorado, and in the Jayhawk League, top teams played in Liberty and Dodge City, Kansas. Some fast Summer ball was played in the California Collegiate League, too. In Eureka, the Humboldt Crabs were a top program, and at the other end of the state, the San Diego Aztecs had a fine club. At the end of the Summer, winners of leagues and qualifying tournaments met in a 32-team tournament called the National Baseball Congress, held each year in Wichita, Kansas.

  In Canada, various independent teams were formed in Alberta, Saskatchewan and British Columbia. In the early 1980s, Kamloops, B.C., Canada hosted a prestigious tournament, and baseball was so popular in Red Deer, Alberta that when the team played on weekends, the whole town would shut down to attend the games.

  A team was also formed in Prince Georges, B.C. The manager of the team put out a call to American colleges that he had a top team that would play a tough schedule.

  “Send me your young players,” his letter read.

  While Dan was talking to the Red Sox, Stan wanted to play in one of these collegiate leagues. He was lobbying his new coaches at USC to place him in Alaska or Colorado.

  “I got a team for you,” said USC assistant coach Kevin Brown. “Prince Georges, British Columbia. They got a new team up there. You’ll get a lot of innings instead of competing with All-Americans with the ‘Panners or the Collegians.”

  So, Stan found himself on a plane to Seattle, then two more flights before landing in Prince Georges.

  A burly lumberjack with a beard to his chest picked him up at the airport.

  “I’m George,” he said. “Welcome to Western Canada. Ya hungry.”

  “I ate on the plane,” said Stan.

  “You can’t eat the shit they feed you on a plane, eh,” said George.

  George went on about the team. He identified himself as the first baseman. He was about 35 years old.

  “You play on the team?” asked Stan. “I thought you were the manager.”

  “I am, laddie,” said George.

  Stan’s heart sank. Coaches and assistant coaches from American colleges managed good collegiate Summer teams. Their teams were stocked with college players. Sometimes a recent professional who still wanted to play for the scouts would hook up with the teams. They did not have 35-year old local yokels who looked like Rip Van Winkle playing first base.

  “So how many Americans are on the team?” asked Stan, wincing because he suddenly knew the answer.

  “Eh, you’re the first we’ve ever had,” said George. “It’s an honor for us here in Prince Georges, a real baseball player, from California no less.”

  Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh shiiiiiitttt, Stan thought to himself. He just smiled so as not to give away his disappointment to the lumberjack.

  The “collegiate Summer team” that he had been sent to was not even a “semi-pro” outfit. Nobody who ever played pro baseball had ever even been to Prince Georges, much less played on their team. They were a weekend beer league team. They had only converted from softball to hardball two years prior. The “players” were all guys who worked in the local brewery or were lumberjacks who lived in town on weekends. The field had no lights.

  George swung by the “baseball field” from the airport. It was worse than any high school yard Stan had ever played in.

  How in God’s name did I get sent here? Stan thought to himself. I was pitching at Dodger Stadium 10 days ago.

  George was married with three kids. Stan apparently would be living at his home. The family was very nice. His wife was actually kind of pretty. The kids started tugging and pulling at him like he was a piece of taffy.

  Lumberjack’s wife fixed up some tasty stew. As soon as she and the kids left the room, George whispered, “Would’ja care to go out for a beer?”

  “Sure,” blurted Stan. For the first time in his young life, he needed alcohol.

  After dinner, Stan put his bags in the guest room.

  “Stan and I’ll go meet some of the guys,” George told his wife.

  “Okay, honey,” Mrs. Lumberjack said. They kissed, and George gave his kids a hug.

  George drove Stan to a local pub. Three men, all lumberjacks, two with beards and one clean-cut, already were into their third pitcher of Extra Old Stock. Everybody welcomed Stan like he was the Second Coming. Stan was put off at first, but the Extra Old Stock was the best beer he had ever tasted, and the lumberjacks were the four most gregarious, fun loving, wiseacres he had ever met. As the beer took its effect, Stan opened up.

  They were all husky outdoorsmen who worked their rears off all week. By Friday afternoon, they needed to blow it out. The beers were flowing. Stan was feeling no pain. Stan did not spend a red cent that night.

  The guys fought for the privilege of buying the next round. They were a piece of work, three lumberjacks with money in their pockets. They bought Stan beer after beer after beer. Extra Old Stocks, a malty Canadian brew. Anybody who has ever tasted Extra Old Stock fell in love with it.

  After a while, they started powering shots of Canadian Club. Stan joined them on a bar hopping excursion. Prince Georges was like a town in the Old West, with swinging door saloons and lots of wood paneling. The bars were filled with lumberjacks and Canadian Indians. The few women looked like they had hit every branch on the ugly tree. The lumberjacks adopted Stan as their mascot.

  Stan got drunker that night than he ever would in his life. They ended up in a sleazy strip club. It was the first time Stan had ever been in a strip club. Stan was so wasted that he went on the stage and started to gyrate with one of the ugly dancers. All the strippers were ugly. A bouncer removed him from the premises. Stan passed out on the sidewalk outside the club. A local cop was ready to arrest him, but Stan was rescued by one of the lumberjacks at the last minute, who had come to see where he was.

  “We’ll take care of him, officer,” said the lumberjack. “He’s our mascot.”

  “Yer mascot’s had enough,” said the policeman. “Get him to a bed.”

  George gave Stan to a taxi driver with instructions on where to take him. He tipped the cabbie extra to haul Stan out of the car and put him to bed. Stan was driven home. He was completely passed out, and unable to tell him anything. The cabbie took him into the house.

  Stan was put in the rollaway bed in the guest room. He was zonked out. In the morning, the lumberjack’s children came in to view him, like he was an animal their old man had shot and dragged home from a hunting trip. They pawed him and pondered the 18-year Californian. Stan woke, and saw the children. He mumbled something. His head pounded beyond comprehension. He would have gotten up to throw up, but was too destroyed to do that. He just lay there in agony.

  The children were soon whisked off by their mother, who did not want them around Stan or their father’s three buddies, all of whom had crashed in the house and were occupying space like orbiting satellites. Once the missus was gone, the boys were up and about, whooping and hollering and carrying on. God, they were drinking. It was only 10 in the morning. Music went on the record player. Stan was kept awake by all the noise, but was completely unable to move. He was as miserable. George came in to wake him up to go to breakfast with him.

  “The old lady took the kids,” he said. “We’re free men, laddie.”

  “Go away,” is all Stan could muster.

  Try as they might, nobody c
ould move Stan. They kept him awake with their noise. Eventually, Stan got up to throw up. The lumberjacks saw how sick he was, and agreed to let him sleep it off. The lumberjacks left, while Stan kept snoozing. They never turned off the record player.

  Devo’s album featuring “Secret Agent Man” played through, but there was something wrong with the machine. Instead of just ending, the album just started over again. It went on for hours. Stan gave very serious consideration to the possibility that he had died and gone to hell.

  I shoulda been nicer to my parents, he managed to think to himself. I shouldn’t a watched those porn movies. I wish’t I’d gotten laid.

  He got up in the afternoon, threw up, and wandered in to the room where Devo was playing at full blast.

  “Secret Aaagent man…Secret Aaagent man,” Devo was singing.

  Stan was too sick, blurry and stupid to figure out how to turn off the damn record player. He looked for the plug, but it was hooked up behind some kind of entertainment center that would have required breathing and movement for him to find. He gave up, went to the bathroom, threw up again, and went back to bed. He crashed on the disheveled sheets and tasted the rotten bile of his own vomit.

  I am in hell, he thought. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the devil. No devil.

  Still could be, he muttered.

  The lumberjacks came back around three. They had already been to the pub.

  “Wake up, you pussy,” one of them screamed at Stan’s head. “Don’t they teach ya to drink like a man in California, eh?”

  “Aaarrghhrrgh,” said Stan.

  At six, George entered the room.

  “Stan,” he said, “me `n’ the boys’ ’r’ goin’ to the pub, eh. Come along, we’ll getcha somethin’ to eat, eh?”

  “No,” Stan said into his pillow, which had yellow spots of bile on it.

  “”Er, shit, boy,” said George. “C’mon, ya can’t keep layin’ here.”

  “No,” said Stan.

  “Well, the missus is stayin’ at her folks the night with the kids,” said the lumberjack. “There’s some stew left from last night.”

  “Thanks,” said Stan. His eyes never opened.

  Finally, the noise - the voices, Devo, the lumberjacks - was gone. The shades were pulled to provide proper darkness. It would not get dark in this part of the world until almost midnight, and the Northern Lights could be seen on the horizon.

  Stan awoke about 10, and managed to go outside. It was a beautiful June evening. It was still bright out. Stan threw up again. He went back to bed and slept the night. He never ate food.

  The next day, George woke him up.

  “I gotta go,” he said. “The missus is at work, and the kids are at the nursery. There’s eggs in the fridge.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Stan.

  About 10:30, Stan pulled himself out of bed. He was still just as hung over as if he had drank the previous evening. He scowered the kitchen and managed to find some food, which helped. He watched some television. He took his floss, toothbrush, toothpaste and mouth wash into the shower. He scraped and cleaned his mouth until his tongue, teeth and throat were no longer coated with bile. He stood under the water as hot as he could stand it, and slowly revived.

  Stan did not shave. He dried, and dressed himself. He went to the living room and found a phone. He called Braniff Airlines and made reservations to fly to Los Angeles that night. Then he called Walt Coleman, told him the whole story of his soon-to-be aborted trip to Canada, and told him he would treat him to “a meal at Joe’s” if he would pick him up at LAX.

  “My Dan,” said Walt, “consider it done.”

  Stan called a cab, packed, and left the house when the taxi showed up. He left no note. He became a legend in Prince Georges. Nobody ever knew what became of him. One story had him running away with the stripper he had danced with, because she left town, too. Another tale had him killed by a bear that ate him alive when he fell drunk outside George’s house. The lumberjacks even faced loose accusations of killing him in and the stripper in a drinking ritual. The police investigated the latter story but found no evidence. Of course, a few calls to the airlines and taxi companies would have solved the question, but the Prince Georges law authorities were not from Scotland Yard. To this day, a plaque memorializes Stan in the pub where he got so drunk with the lumberjacks.

  “He was a ghost, a waif. The mystery of California Stan,” it reads. “He came, he drank, and he disappeared with the Summer wind.” Prince Georges residents would speak his name and then go “do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-, do do doooo,” like the music from old “Twi-Light Zone” episodes.

  Walt picked Stan up at LAX. They drove straight to Dodger Stadium, and arrived in the fourth inning of a game against the Mets.

  “A meal at Joe’s,” Walt announced after the game.

  At Joe’s, they ordered cheeseburgers, a side of spinach, and Coors. Stan felt old after his crazy weekend. Unshaven, he looked like he had just returned from a special ops mission on the Mekong Delta. The waiter did not question the order for beers.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Walt told Stan when the check came.

  “No, man,” said Stan, “it’s on me.”

  “I’m makin’ cash dollars at Rite-Aid,” Walt announced.

  “Thanks, Walt,” said Stan. “You got enough?”

  Stan walked outside. Walt sprinted out.

  “Hurry,” said Walt.

  He had pulled a “runner.” They got to the car and drove off.

  “Any decision on college?” Stan asked him.

  Stan had been trying to get Walt to go to USC with him. Every week in his senior year, Walt walked up to Stan.

  “Dan,” Walt said. “I shall be matriculating at the University of Hawaii.”

  The next week it was, “Dan, I’m gonna be a Bruin. It’s UCLA for me.”

  Followed by, “Dan, I shall pursue a conservative education at Chapman University, located in that bastion of Republicanism, Orange County.”

  The next week it was San Diego State, “America’s leading party school,” according to Walt.

  “El Camino Junior College,” was Walt’s answer.

  The day after his return from Prince Georges, Stan was on the phone to Coach Brown. He did not tell Brownie about his drinking binge. Neither USC nor the Red Sox would have been happy to hear that their prospect had almost died of alcohol poisoning.

  “Is there still a team you can place me with?” he asked. “I don’t want to play Legion ball or semi-pro this Summer. I need good competition.”

  “There’s one more spot for a pitcher in Kamloops, B.C.,” said Brown.

  “Not Canada again,” said Stan.

  “Trust me,” said Brownie. “This is legit.”

  Stan was sent Kamloops to play on a team of players from various colleges. The team was run by a Seattle Mariners scout and managed by a respected coach from Spokane Junior College. Stan and a shortstop named Danny Camara, whose brother was a wild-armed (and wild-eyed) pitcher in the big leagues, roomed at the home of Kamloops’ richest citizen, the owner of the local brewery and sponsor of the team.

  It was a crazy Summer, filled with more partying and excellent baseball. At 18 he was away from home. Camara seemingly slept with every girl in town. Most of Stan’s teammates were getting laid left and right.

  A black second baseman named Al Timmons was banging every white Canadian woman in sight. Stan was not real happy that everybody was getting so much trim, because he did not get any. Still, he became good friends with Timmons, who had a wining personality.

  Stan read two books that Summer. “No One Here Gets Out Alive” was Danny Sugarman’s biography of Jim Morrison of The Doors. Stan was getting in to their music. He particularly liked Morrison’s lyrics, “An ancient lunatic reigns in the trees of the night.”

  Stan recalled his drunken night in Prince Georges.

  Truer words were never spoken, Stan thought to himself.

  He als
o read “Amityville Horror”. In the final scene, a family on Long Island is confronted by a ghostly specter that points a bony finger at them, directing them out of their dream house. The house Stan stayed in with Camara was on a hill. There were no other homes around. When Stan came home at night, he had to walk down a long driveway, with the trees whistling in the wind. It was spooky. Once inside, he had to cross a big living room. In order not to leave the light on, he had to turn the switch off and cross the room in the dark. After reading “Amityville Horror”, he barely had the courage to sprint across the room.

  Stan was the ace of the team, with a 9-2 record and a 1.93 earned run average. Kamloops had a big ballpark, with lots of foul territory and distant fences. The pitcher’s mound was elevated to the pre-1969 height. In 1969, baseball lowered the height of the mound after the Year of the Pitcher, when Denny McLain won 31 games, and Bob Gibson’s earned run average was 1.12. Stan was unhittable in Kamloops.

  Stan was still a virgin. He thought he was going to break his streak after a game against Walla Walla, Washington. Stan pitched a perfect game, winning 6-0. One of his teammates, a junior college pitcher from Spokane JC, had his girlfriend and her sister visiting him. He invited Stan to go out with them after his great effort.

  The girls were delicious-looking blondes. Stan was flush with success after pitching the game of his life. The girls had seen the game. They were impressed. They went to a local bar. None of them were 21, but nobody ever carded in Kamloops. Stan got good and loose drinking Extra Old Stocks, and cliqued with the girl. Finally, they all went back to the house where the JC pitcher was staying with his host family. The JC kid and his girlfriend went to bed, leaving Stan and his blonde date. The girl took her clothes off. She sat there in her white panties and bra. Stan did not kiss her. He did not make a pass at her.

  “Well, it’s getting late,” he said to her.

  “It was nice meeting you,” said the girl.

  That was it. Stan left. He walked out the door, and immediately identified himself as the dumbest slob that ever lived.

  She was just begging for it, he said to himself. Or was she? Did she take her clothes off because she wanted to have sex with him, or because she was tired and wanted Stan to leave. Stan recalled the words of one of his sex-crazed CYO basketball teammates.

  “When in doubt,” the kid had said, “whip it out.”

  He had flinched. When the pressure was on in a baseball game, he wanted the ball. But here, he hesitated and blew his chance. He knew that wherever Billy Boswell was at that moment, he probably had a friggin’ harem, for Christ sakes. Stan, on the other hand, could not close the deal. He was still almost as helpless as he had been with Staci and Lyndsey.

  Dan wanted reports of all Stan’s games in Kamloops. Stan showered and headed out on the town after games. He was anxious for beer and a chance at broads. It was not on his agenda to recite every detail, and answer pain-staking questions from Dan.

  Stan called him after the first two games, both impressive victories. The calls were pretty easy to make. The third game was on the road, and he had to make the team bus. When he finally got back to the house of the family where he and Camara were staying, it was 4:30 in the morning. A note was on his bed, which read, “Call your father as soon as you get home.”

  Thinking there was an emergency at home, Stan called. The phone was picked up almost before it made a sound.

  “Stan!” came Dan’s urgent voice.

  “Yes,” said Stan. “Are you all right?”

  “How’d you do?” said Dan. “How come you didn’t call?”

  Stan just stared into the phone. Camara, his roomie, just smiled as if to say, “Aren’t you the lucky one.” He had heard several weeks of “Dan stories.”

  “Stan, are you there?” asked Dan. “Answer me.”

  Stan recited his performance. Seven innings, three hits, one run (earned), one walk, and eight strikeouts. He got credit for the victory over a team from Vancouver, 5-2.

  “How come you didn’t call me from a pay phone?” asked Dan. “I’ve just been sitting here stewing.”

  “We were pretty rushed, Dad,” said Stan.

  Dan asked a few more questions. It was now after five in the morning.

  “Can we cut this one short, Dad?” asked Stan. “I’m pretty bushed.”

  In the other bed, Camara just laughed. After Stan finally hung up, he started talking about his own father. Camara’s dad had been born in Mexico. He had worked the fields and now he was the manager of a produce market in Salinas, California. He put in 14-hours, six days a week, and never missed church on Sunday. The Camara’s were devout Catholics. Camara was devoted to his wife, who Danny said was the best cook in the world. The old man was strict with his kids, and accepted no crap. His two wild boys kept his hands full.

  “One time I had this broad,” recalled Danny. “We had no place else to go, so I chanced it. We couldn’t go to my bedroom because it was right next to my parents and they’d hear me, so I banged her on the couch in the dark. When I was done I drove her home. Then I came back and went to sleep, figuring I was so smart, I’d pulled one over on `em, you know?

  “In the morning, I’m sound asleep and my old man’s standing over me. `Come with me, Danny,’ he says. I’m thinking, `Oh, shit.’

  “He leads me - I’m in my underwear - to my mother’s favorite couch. Now it’s light and I see this huge cumstain on it.

  “‘What’s this, Danny,’” Camara imitated his dad.

  “‘Uh, nothin.’

  “‘Bullshit, Danny.’”

  Camara and Stan would stay in touch with each other for years. “Bullshit Danny” was their standard greeting. Camara liked Stan. He knew the guy was not getting girls, while he seemed to have a surplus of them. He did not judge Stan on his lack of success. Stan was embarrassed by his failures, and Danny did not press the subject. Stan did not admit he was a virgin. He intimated without getting into specifics that he had been with girls. He stretched and expanded his descriptions of the potential Staci/Lyndsey ménage a trois, and his Kimberly Biagini episode. He hated to lie, but if somebody asked him if he had ever been with a chick, he did not come right out and admit that he had never had intercourse.

  The Kamloops team traveled to Edmonton play a tournament. In the title game, Stan started against a club from Santa Clara, California. His undefeated record was broken, and he was beaten badly. Santa Clara had a first baseman from San Jose State named Greg Rosales. He gave Stan a particularly hard ribbing. Rounding third and heading for home after Stan had yielded a double, Rosales yelled, “Tits lit, tits lit,” at Stan.

  “You’re going down, Rosales,” Stan yelled.

  Stan kept getting hit. The manager was ready to pull him, but he talked his way into staying in the game long enough to face Rosales again. The bases were loaded. That did not stop Stan from firing a 90-mile per hour fastball directly into Rosales’ ribs.

  A huge brawl ensued. Stan found himself swinging at anybody wearing a Santa Clara uniform. Rosales sustained some severe bruising from the bean ball, but nobody was hurt in the fight. Few injuries materialize from baseball fights. Stan was thrown out of the game.

  Stan called his old man from the hotel.

  “I got hit pretty hard,” he told Dan.

  The silence at the end of the line was deafening.

  “Did you take the loss?” Dan asked, the way a man might ask, “How many times did you rape her?”

  “Yes,” mumbled Stan.

  On these occasions, Dan did not yell. He swore under his breath. He was disappointed. It was agony for Stan to endure. Dan wanted all the gory statistics. How many innings? Were all the runs earned? Any home runs? Giving up long balls was a particularly egregious sin.

  Stan finally ended the call. He had no chance of recovering and enjoying the rest of the day. Playing for Kamloops was serious stuff, but it was still Summer ball. The kids were supposed to have fun. Baseball was not fun for Stan. It
was business, and it had been since he was 10 years old.

  “Shit, I need a drink,” he said to no one out loud.

  In Los Angeles, Dan negotiated with the Red Sox throughout July and August. The club had until the first day of school to sign him. If not, he would be ineligible for the draft until his junior year. If he signed while there was still time, the Red Sox would ship him to their rookie league affiliate.

  Dan got the Bosox to $35,000. He told Stan he should sign. Dan said they had to get to $45,000.

  “Don’t be greedy,” Dan told Stan.

  The season ended with the Kamloops International Tournament. For three days, teams played to capacity crowds. Stan won the opener, 6-1, pitching a one-hitter. He started the championship game, too. USC’s coaches and the Red Sox were furious that their prospect was used so much. Stan lost the title game to a strong North Pole Nicks squad. They were composed mainly of players from Pepperdine, UCLA and Cal-Berkeley. He pitched well, though. All four runs he gave up were unearned, and he was rewarded with the Top Pitcher award.

  The last night in Canada, Stan and his mates went to Champions, a sports bar they frequented. Stan met a beautiful blonde fitness trainer named Jan. She was 21, and thought herself “too old” for Stan, but Stan was on her like white on rice. They spent most of the night kissing passionately. Stan tried everything he could think of to get her to go to bed with him.

  “It’s my last night in Canada,” Stan begged her, as if he was a flyboy going up against a squadron of Messerschmidts the next day. “Give me something to remember.”

  “I don’t sleep around,” Jan said. “Although you are awfully cute.”

  Almost everybody else on the team was paired up with a girl. In the end, Stan had to go home frustrated.

  “What about me?” he moaned.

  If he could have stayed in Kamloops longer, he might have turned Jan into his girlfriend. It was just his luck that he met her his on last night before going back to California. Stan and Jan exchanged phone numbers. Her heart-shaped lips, framed by a pretty face with long, silky blonde hair, would only be a sweet memory.

  Stan was not greedy. He did not really want to sign a pro baseball contract. He wanted to go to USC. He felt that life at the University of Southern California offered golden promises that he needed to experience. It was not just the academics. He wanted the imprimatur of “college man” on his resume. He pictured himself being a golden boy, a Big Man On Campus. He had heard all the stories. His grandfather had gone there, as had his uncle, his dad, everybody. All those SC sorority girls were waiting for him.

  Billy turned down the money, too. The Cubs came after him hard. They met Al’s $1 million demand, so Al upped it to $1.5 million. They met that, too. But Billy would not sign. When UCLA began Fall classes, the Cubs were out of the running. Billy was playing football for coach Terry Donahue no matter what, since the NCAA had made athletes eligible to play one sport even if they were pros in another.

  When it was announced that Boswell was indeed accepting his full ride baseball scholarship to UCLA, the Chicago papers went crazy. Cubs’ management was blamed, but so was Billy. He was viewed as greedy and dishonest in his dealings. Dallas Green was furious at both Billy and Al.

  The media said it was just another example of Cub bungling. No wonder they had not won the World Series since 1908. How could they waste the first pick in the draft on a high school player they could not sign? One Windy City columnist quoted Sun-Tsu’s “The Art of War”, which emphasizes knowledge of how the battle will play out before it is fought. The Cubs had entered into the Billy Boswell sweepstakes “flying blind,” wrote Hall of Fame scribe Jerome Holtzman.

  At UCLA, Billy played on the football team his freshman year. He started three games and demonstrated great potential. In the Spring, he was a First Team All-American center fielder in baseball.

  Stan moved into a student apartment called the Regal Trojan Arms, on West Adams Boulevard, near the USC campus. His roommate was a junior college transfer from a working class family in Syracuse, New York named Mark Terry. Terry was tall, ruggedly handsome, and smart as a whip.

  Terry had never been to California. The previous day, he had arrived at L.A. International Airport. It was 107 degrees. He hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to USC. The driver took the Baldwin Hills route, instead of the crowded rush hour freeways. Terry looked out his window and saw ghetto neighborhoods, filled with inner city blacks and Mexican immigrants selling fruit on street corners. He saw cars with no tires, broken windows, boarded-up houses and burned-out business. The neighborhoods got worse and worse. He thought he was descending into a nightmare.

  “Is this L.A. or Beirut?” Terry asked the cabbie.

  The cabbie was from Beirut.

  “Beirut much better,” he said.

  After what seemed like two hours, he saw the looming presence of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, which made him a feel a little better. Then he glanced at a liquor store being held up on Vermont Street. The cab drove past the campus, which looked nice. The surrounding neighborhood was a disaster area, though.

  He had thought that USC was in Malibu, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He was looking for blonde Amazon girls and surfer dudes with dark brown tans. He saw something else. Terry was unaware that people could be so black. They were loitering in the streets of a burned-out urban core. Terry was a tough Irish kid, but he felt fear. He had been to Yankee Stadium, located in one of the worst neighborhoods in The Bronx. Terry’s first instinct was that this place was much rougher. He was not safe and he knew it. The cab dropped him at the Regal Trojan Arms. The ride cost $75. Terry had $100 in his wallet.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered while handing his dough to the cabbie. The temperature had gone from 107 at the airport to 111 in South Central L.A. Terry hauled his bags up to the apartment. His roommate had not yet moved in. Terry had seen a grocery store on his way in, called the 32nd Street Market.

  He put his stuff away, and knew he needed to get some food. He walked in the scorching heat, past homeless bums, Mexican familias, black street people, wealthy fratties, uppity college chicks, and the brutal fumes of dilapidated Los Angeles busses, to the 32nd Street Market.

  Knowing he would need money after buying groceries, he cashed a check at a window located at the front of the store. It cost him $7 to get $50. He bought essential groceries, and exited the store holding heavy plastic bags in both hands. He started walking in the scorching heat, past the same homeless bums, Mexican familias, black street people, wealthy fratties, uppity college chicks, and the brutal fumes of dilapidated Los Angeles busses.

  He walked for 15 minutes. Then he stopped.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Every street looked identical. The houses in this neighborhood were all the same. It had been a good neighborhood when Stan Taylor’s great-great-grandfather attended USC in the 1880s. That was then. This was now.

  Terry saw the Mexicans, the black street folk and the dilapidated busses, but suddenly the wealthy fratties and uppity college girls had vanished. He was west of Ellendale, which was tantamount to being a Protestant waving the Union Jack in the Catholic section of Belfast.

  He tried to ask some people where West Adams Boulevard was. The Regal Trojan Arms?

  “No se,” was the best he could get.

  For two hours, sweat poured through pores in his body that Mark Terry did not know he had. He fumbled and swore his way through the mean streets of South Central. Terry was a Catholic. He had gone to Mass every Sunday growing up. He called on his personal Lord and Savior for help in his time of need. He normally tried to reserve his prayers to the Almighty for times of real need. An illness to his little sister. A friend in a coma who had been run down by a car. The Red Sox against Cincinnati in the ’75 Fall Classic.

  “Dear Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,” Terry recited the Lord’s Prayer. “Thine Kingdome come, thine will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our
daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And deliver us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the Kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen”

  Not satisfied that he had enough spiritual power working for him, he went into the Nicene Creed. Then he recited some rosaries. He dropped his bags and blessed the sign of the cross. He put in a fresh dip of Copenhagen.

  He needed fluids and was getting dehydrated. He told God he was sorry he had not gone to Notre Dame, or stayed near home and gone to Boston College.

  “No, I had to come to California and look for pussy,” he scolded himself. “This is not real. It’s an Eagles song.”

  Another half hour in Hotel California yielded no good results. Terry was almost ready to just give up. He figured the cops would find him eventually. He had morally and physically given up when he saw the Regal Trojan Arms.

  In later years, Terry became a captain of industry. Rich, powerful and respected. When he felt the need to feel humble, he always reminded himself that he had actually given up that day in Los Angeles. He viewed all his days thereafter as Redemption.

  Terry was a devoted Boston Red Sox fan who could talk baseball and baseball history with Stan, nose to nose. He was addicted to chewing tobacco, and offered Stan a pinch between his cheek and gum.

  “Sure,” said Stan, who had never tried tobacco products, smokeless or otherwise. He had seen teammates pack a dip, though, and executed his first one flawlessly. It felt good at first. After about three minutes, his head started to spin. He felt as if Terry had given him LSD instead of Copenhagen. He wanted to vomit. He did not want to make an ass out of himself within five minutes of meeting his new roommate. He held the line. He worked through the spins. He refused to give in. It was a battle of life and death. Stan won it.

  After about three minutes of crisis, the spins started to go away. A few minutes passed, and while he was still weak, he felt good. He had survived his initiation into chewing tobacco. He was hooked, and would remain hooked until 1996.

  “Wanna go to a frat party?” asked Terry. “Gotta be a lotta hot chicks.”

  “Y-yyyyes,” said Stan.

  Stan and Terry got a bite to eat, showered and dolled up. They strolled over to frat row. Parties were going on everywhere, and gorgeous SC girls roamed the warm the August night.

  They all looked tanned, sexy and rich. Stan and Terry drank as many beers as they could pour down their gullets. Stan was unbelievably excited to be there. He kept pinching himself and saying, “I can’t believe I’m a Trojan. My dad wanted me to sign. I’m so frickin’ glad I didn’t. This is awesome.”

  He and Terry immediately discovered they had the same offbeat sense of humor. They had a wry way of looking at others and finding something funny. Terry was an extension of Brad Cooper and Walt Coleman. They both rushed the Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity. The frat president was Brad’s brother, Jeff, who was already a legend at USC because he got as many girls there as he had at Rolling Hills High School. They were both accepted. Rush was not hard. Stan was hoping he would have to have sex with a hooker or some easy sorority sister in order to get in, but no such luck.

  Stan and Terry took an oceanography class. Stan studied very hard. He felt that now that he was in college, he owed it to himself to get the most out of his education. Terry rarely went to the class, and never even bought the assigned texts, much less studied them. Terry got a better grade on the final than Stan. They both pulled Ds, and that was only because the instructor, Dr. Bernard Pipkin, was a big sports fan. The best part of the class was taking a boat trip off of the Palos Verdes Peninsula to study marine life. Stan got a kick out of seeing his house from the boat.

  “This ought to teach you a lesson,” said Terry after they both received the same grade in oceanography. “Don’t waste valuable party time studying for a class you’re gonna get a D in anyway.”

  Terry had a point. Stan was willing to put in the time, but he lacked good reading comprehension. If he read something that did not interest him, or he lacked a frame of reference for, he failed to retain the information. He had labored under the illusion that he could remember what he read, because he recalled baseball stories so well. But oceanography was different from the 1927 Yankees.

  In Fall ball, which ran from September to Thanksgiving, Stan met his match. He was a prized recruit, and counted on to contribute as a freshman. But he was facing top college competition, and he had his hands full.

  Stan faced some problems among his new teammates. He came in with some attitude. He knew he was good. He had gotten a lot of publicity, and his peers sized him up. He had a big ego. Stan was smiling, full of jokes, and a prankster. Everybody did not understand his personality. Mark Terry understood him perfectly. They became inseparable friends. But he was in the minority. It had always been that way.

  Still, Stan took to college life. High school had been better than junior high, and college was better than high school. He felt some resentment and jealousy, but overall he was accepted.

  His vision of SC had been some kind of jock paradise, in which he could pick and choose from among a coterie of gorgeous coeds. He was going to parties, socializing, and no longer felt restricted. He was free. Girls did not throw themselves at him, however.

  Dan was still an ever-present part of his life. His office was just a few minutes from the USC campus. He swung by practice all the time. Stan would be in his apartment, and there would be a knock on the door.

  “Maybe it’s women inviting us to have sex,” Terry would call out.

  Stan answered. It was his old man letting himself in. This engendered a mini-panic to remove any pornography, contraband or other like items of an incriminating nature.

  Drugs had been plentiful at Rolling Hills High, with all the rich kids, surfers and rockers. Walt was into smoking weed. Stan had puffed on a few joints. He never took to it. To say that alcohol “helped” Stan is dangerous territory. In one year, he had gone from getting intoxicated and trying to break into Kimberly Biagini’s house, to coming perilously close to succumbing to alcohol poisoning with the lumber jacks in Northern Canada. Now, he was regularly drinking with Mark Terry at USC.

  Stan was a young man battling the demons and dangers of alcohol. He had yet to learn his tolerance level. The only way to do that was through the experience of making mistakes. He went from feeling great to throwing up and always kicked himself for crossing that unpleasant line. But it was a social lubricant. When he drank, his personality flexed his verbal muscles. He learned to refine his humor for public consumption. Whereas only he and Brad understood their old “skits,” now Stan regaled an audience into laughter. Stan enjoyed getting a reaction.

  He also developed a tremendous love of rock music. He owned three records when he entered USC. These included a Beach Boys greatest hits album, Boston’s first album, and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “One More From the Road”.

  After reading “No One Here Gets Out Alive”, he picked up The Doors’ important albums. He went through musical discovery. He understood what Greg Grillo had tried to teach him between the sixth and seventh grades. Stan started to drive a car in his last “wonder year” of high school. Listening to music on the radio had whetted his appetite. Now, he bought magazines and read up on music of the present and, most particularly, the past. He was as much in awe of music in the 1960s as he had been with baseball history.

  Within a very short time, he became an expert on The Doors, The Who, Credence Clearwater Revival, The Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, and many other rock groups. He knew the names of the band members. He knew the lyrics to their songs. He knew the years their hit albums came out. He got to the point where he could recite rock “stats” the way he could with baseball.

  Sure, Ty Cobb hit .420 in 1912, but “Shoeless Joe” Jackson was nipping at his heels with a .408 mark. Rogers Hornsby hit .424 in 1924. Jack Chesbro had 41 victories for the
1904 New York Highlanders. He now also knew that The Doors’ first album, called simply, The Doors, had lit up the music world in 1967. Jim Morrison had gone to UCLA Film School with Francis Ford Coppola. Most of the group Boston had been brilliant students from MIT, which explained their revolutionary use of synthesizers. Pete Townsend of The Who was the “thinking man” of rock ’n’ roll. Mick Jagger had attended the London School of Economics before becoming a Rolling Stone.

  Stan also became a film buff. He entered USC as a communications major, but took History of American Film. He thought it would be easy. All he had to do was watch movies on Monday nights.

  The professor, Caspar McAndrews, was a flaming homosexual who would say things like, “Out of this wasteland of ‘40s noir, financed by the fantasies of men-children such as Howard Hughes, an entire new wave hit Hollywood, and this wave was a phenomenon that manifested itself in a tits ’n’ ass syndrome that was…Marilyn Monroe.” McAndrew would finish his sentences in a flourish of speed words, as if he had to say it before somebody unplugged his microphone.

  Athletes at SC were routinely kept eligible if they showed some effort and a little bit of interest. Stan was looking for a “courtesy B” in History of American Film. There was just one problem. History of American Film was part of the School of Cinema-Television. Stan did not know much about the School of Cinema-Television, more commonly referred to as the film school. He did not know that George Lucas went there, or that the school had turned down Steven Spielberg. He figured it was like a bunch of kids watching movies at the Cineplex on a Saturday night.

  He was wrong. The class was made up mostly of freshmen, but they were unlike the other freshmen at the University of Southern California. Many of them were older people who had spent several years making independent student films, and writing scripts, in order to impress the entrance committee at the film school. Rather than get on with their college careers at some other school, they had chosen to build up their “resumes” in order to get into one of only four film school that counted. In addition to USC, the others were UCLA, Columbia, and NYU. Everything else was the minor leagues.

  The freshmen that came straight from high school were a whole new breed of cat. They hailed from Massachusetts, Colorado, Spain, Mexico and other places. They were not the folks sitting in the Coliseum rooting section at football games. The girls were a trip. Many of them were lesbian. They all disdained the Newport/San Marino “I love daddy” blondes who made up such a visual presence at SC. They had glasses, with clipped hair, wore heavy coats on hot days, smoked cigarettes, and swore profusely.

  “Kubrick is a fucking genius.” “Oh, Goddard, now there’s a fucking genius.”

  They used terms like noir, mosaic, motif and genre. Stan had no clue what the hell they were talking about. The very first night, McAndrew screened “Apocalypse Now”.

  “This is one of the most important films of all time,” he announced, to applause.

  What the hell is he talking about? Stan thought to himself.

  He had gone to see “Apocalypse Now” with Brad Cooper in December of 1979. He knew the main actor, Marlon Brando, and remembered having seen Brando, fat and bald, in a People magazine pictorial. He knew Francis Ford Coppola, and had enjoyed “The Godfather”. He expected big things out of this over-hyped movie that had taken five years to make.

  When he and Brad went to see it, for some reason they had gotten into the theatre early. It was playing on several screens at the Cineplex. While waiting for seating to open up, they snuck in to see the ending of “Apocalypse”. There was an unrecognizable guy, covered in some kind of goop, making his way through what looked like a bunch of Aborigines or something. The music was intense. Stan had never heard Dolby stereo before.

  What the hell is this? he thought.

  When he sat and watched it from the beginning, it still confused him.

  “I’m here a week now,” says Martin Sheen, playing Captain Willard, “waiting for a mission, and for my sins, they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service.”

  A mission? thought Stan. Is this guy a missionary, a religious guy or something?

  Stan managed to figure out the first half, especially the Colonel Kilgore character, played by Robert Duvall, and the surfing scenes. Blowing up the Viet Cong village seemed an especially John Wayne moment, which was okay by him. Then the movie seemed to sink of its own weight. It got dark, literally and figuratively. The final scenes, with Brando in shadows quoting poets Stan had never heard of, was just a waste. Killing the cow was sick. At the end, Stan could not tell what the hell had happened.

  “Did Sheen kill Brando?” he asked Brad. “Did they blow up the village in the credits?”

  Years later, Brad would tell anybody who listened that he understood the film’s classic sensibilities from the get-go.

  “I have no fucking clue,” he told Stan in December, 1979.

  Now, sitting in a darkened classroom at USC, Stan watched it again. He had become a big Doors fan, so the opening scene using “The End” was splendid. The film played itself out, and Stan was transformed by it. Everything he did not grasp the first time, he now understood. That which repulsed him in 1979, was awe-inspiring in 1982. Brando’s method acting no longer looked like a joke.

  “He’s a poet-warrior in the classic sense,” says photojournalist Dennis Hopper, who seems to be almost an apparition. Stan realized now what Brando’s Colonel Kurtz was trying to say. His reading of “Heart of Darkness” came back to him, and he saw the battle between good and evil that raged in his mind. Kurtz was a man who could not separate his humanity from his vision of military necessity. The unresolved conflict resulted in madness, which he justifies when the native villagers make him pagan idol.

  Robert Duvall was a tour de force. Sheen bore his soul on camera. When the lights finally came on amid thunderous applause, Stan knew he had seen one of the greatest films of all time. He also was beginning to feel like a USC film student.

  He bought the required texts, and started reading them. The history and politics of movies. The Black List of the McCarthy Era, which never really ended until Kirk Douglas had the balls to give Dalton Trumbo a screen credit for “Spartacus” in 1960. How “The Manchurian Candidate” was shelved after the Kennedy assassination because it hit too close to home.

  Stan had to write a report on “Apocalypse”. He put great thought into it, studied the texts, used sources and quoted them intelligently. McAndrew gave him an A-. He started hanging out with other students, talking about film. He no longer called them movies. Stan made a few mistakes, but learned quickly. McAndrew gave him an A- on his final. That was his final class grade.

  Stan could always do accents. By now, he was perfecting them. His friends were becoming mature enough to appreciate his “talent.” He would regale people with perfect imitations of Ronald Reagan (“Wellll, there ya go again”) and Winston Churchill (“Never, in the course of human events, have so many, owed so much, to so few…This is England’s finest hour.”)

  He could do Kennedy and Richard Nixon. He could imitate actors. He memorized sayings from movies and could repeat them verbatim.

  “That’s a helluva lot a money for a nigger boy from Philadelphia to be carryin’ in his pocket,” he said in a perfect Rod Steiger rendition from “The Heat of the Night”. He uncannily captured Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech. Black players on his own team raised their eyebrows when they heard it, but admitted, “white boy does sound like Dr. King.” He repeated phrases from “Apocalypse Now”.

  “Do you smell that?” he said, sounding more like Duvall than Duvall. “That’s napalm, son. Nothing else in the world smells like that. One time we had a hail-bomb. The whole hill. When it was all over, I walked up. I couldn’t find one of `em. Not one stinkin’ dink body. But the smell, the gasoline smell. It smells like…victory.”

  He spontaneously broke into, “I coulda been a Governor Corleone. I coulda been a Senator Corleone…”and “Bar
zini, dead. Tattaglia, dead,” and “I’m gonna blame some of the people in this room,” and other memorable “Godfather” moments. People told him he should pursue acting.

  Walking on campus he came upon a ROTC unit in formation, standing at attention. From the side, Stan perched himself on a bench.

  “No bastard ever won a war, by dieing for his country,” he announced in a loud George Patton spectacle that had heads turning every which way. “He won it, by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.”

  Later, the ROTC boys told him it was one of the best things they had ever heard. Stan walked up to teammates and whispered in their ear, “All glory is fleeting.”

  “What the hell,” the teammates said. “Oh, Taylor, it’s you. You’re a weird dude, man.”

  “Thank you,” Stan replied.

  Stan became notorious for “mooching” chewing tobacco from his teammates. When he ran out of Copenhagen, he bummed it off others. He rotated his mooching so as not to get the same guy over and over. It became a running joke, with Stan resorting to obsequiousness to get his fix taken care of.

  “Hey man,” he said to teammates, in a squeaky voice. “Man, you’re a cool dude…you’re a good-lookin’ guy…I bet the chick’s dig ya. You’re a baaad duuude. Gimme a chew!”

  There were not a lot of black players on USC’s baseball team, but there were plenty on the football and basketball squads. Stan got to know a lot of them. Some came from the ghettos. He had never been around a lot of blacks, but he liked it. He enjoyed the diversity. He liked being a fellow blue chip athlete. There was an easy camaraderie and respect that athletes accord each other, and he was happy to be a part of it.

  Stan made good friends with Jack Oliver, a black outfielder from Lancaster. Lancaster is in the high desert, where Edwards Air Force Base is located. Edwards was the home of the great test pilots who made up the U.S. Space program in the 1960s. Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier there in 1947. Oliver was known as “Black Jack” behind his back. Oliver called everybody by single initials.

  “Whas’sup, T?” “Hey Mr. M.”

  Oliver was a junior who hit left-handed but threw right-handed. He had transferred to USC from Barstow Junior College after his freshman year, but was disappointed with his playing time. He was the kind of hitter who could wake up at midnight on New Year’s Eve and hit line drives to hang clothes on, but he had brutal defensive skills.

  “Clang,” his teammates said when he bungled balls hit to him in left field. Consequently, he was used as a designated hitter

  Oliver had played high school ball with a guy who was now with the Oakland A’s. He talked about him constantly. Most of his teammates were sick about hearing “Murph this and Murph that,” but Stan enjoyed the stories. Once Jack realized he had found a friendly ear, he gravitated to Stan. They began to hang out together. Oliver had a cocaine habit. He knew Stan was not into it, so he kept it hidden from him. They did enjoy drinking together, though.

  When Christmas vacation rolled around, Stan found out that Jack’s father, who was in the air force, had been transferred to Wiesbaden Air Force Base in West Germany. Jack’s family was no longer in Lancaster, and he was faced with spending the holidays alone. Stan invited him to stay with his family. Jack spent two weeks with the Taylor’s in Palos Verdes Estates. Dan thoroughly enjoyed his company.

  The guys liked to hang out at the California Pizza & Pasta Company, but everybody called it the 502 Club. Presumably, that was because a drunk driving charge could be found in Section 502 of the California Penal Code.

  Carl, an amiable guy in his late 30s, ran the 502 Club. Carl’s father had been a screenwriter who was beaten down by the blacklist. That turned off Carl from going into show biz. He ran the place as part restaurant/bar, part drug distribution center, and part whorehouse.

  Carl was a good-looking guy who resembled rock impresario Bill Graham. He wore his shirts with the first six buttons undone, exposing his hairy chest. He was and always would be a terminal bachelor.

  The 502 Club was different from the other campus drinking establishments. The 901 Club, on Figueroa, was strictly a frat bar. The 32nd Street Café and Saloon had live bands and a yuppie feel to it. Julie’s, near the Coliseum, was just for football coaches and alumni.

  The Five-Oh, as it was called, had personality. The students who drank there tended to be less arrogant than the average rich USC student. Most important, the Five-oh was the one place where locals from the surrounding neighborhood hung out. They were an eclectic mix of hangers-on, losers, gamblers, pensioners, hustlers, out-of-work actors, hookers, elderly gay black gentlemen, crazed Vietnam vets who tended to have flashbacks, and college students. The place attracted SC’s many star athletes, some of whom were celebrities in their own right. The girls who hung out there tended to be a little looser than most USC coeds. The athletes liked to party there because they usually hooked up with these females.

  Stan fell in love with the place immediately. Nobody ever carded him, even though he was 18 when he first walked into its dark, dank environs. There were two bartenders. Antonio was a handsome, hail-fellow-well-met guy from El Salvador. He had a big, bushy moustache, a ready smile, and a pitcher of cold brew at the offing. He had come to America as an illegal alien. He had gotten a green card and hoped to become a citizen. He was married with five kids and owned a house in Bloomington, which was a brutal, 50-mile commute that kept him on Interstate-10 for four hours a day.

  Bernie, the other bartender, was Jewish and from Chicago. He lived with an ugly woman in the Fairfax District and hated his life. Mostly, he hated serving alcohol to arrogant college students and neighborhood losers all day.

  Fans had long come to the Five-oh from the Coliseum after SC, UCLA, Ram and now Raider games. Many of the players came in after these games. The cheerleaders were there, too. After a big game or event, the place had as many celebrities and Beautiful People as any establishment in Beverly Hills. Bernie could care less if O.J. Simpson and his blonde bombshell of a wife, Nicole, were standing in front of him, acting bored and pissed. Actors like Robert Conrad, James Garner or James Woods meant nothing to him. Lee Majors and Farrah Fawcett were just high-maintenance drunks, as far as he was concerned.

  Anthony Davis came in to the Five-oh after an SC game. Davis was a Trojan legend. In 1972, he had scored six touchdowns to lead SC to a resounding victory over Notre Dame. In 1974, SC trailed 24-0, when Davis, known as A.D., took over. He scored four touchdowns. USC powered 55 straight points in 17 minutes. Those who were there that day (including Stan and Dan) say it was the greatest sporting event they had ever attended. Davis was accorded god-like status at SC. He could drive his sports car up to the steps of Heritage Hall and park without getting a ticket. He was A.D.

  Davis played a few undistinguished years of pro football, which included a stint with the Southern California Sun of the now-defunct World Football League. He was retired now, but still totally into himself.

  “Pitcher,” he brusquely told Bernie.

  He had a couple of hotties waiting for him.

  “That’ll be two-fifty,” surly Bernie told him.

  Davis looked at Bernie as if he was from Mars.

  “I’m A.D.,” he said.

  “I don’t care if you’re Jesus Christ Himself,” Bernie deadpanned. “That’ll be two-fifty.”

  For some reason, Carl took to Terry and Stan. They would come in and order pitchers of beer, meatball sandwiches, and carrot cake for desert. Several pitchers of brew quashed it all down. Pretty soon, Carl told his pretty waitress, Lisa, not to charge “the boys.”

  “I like those kids,” he said.

  “On the house,” Lisa said to them.

  Stan and Terry would never pay for food or alcohol at the Five-oh. They would call the beer the “endless pitcher.”

  “Bar wench,” they would call out like Henry VIII, “endless pitcher.”

  “Coming, m’lord,” said Lisa.

  They had a re
gular crowd of friends. Bruno pitched on the junior varsity baseball team, the Spartans. Everybody called them the “Spartoonies.”

  One-Armed Bob was always sweating.

  “That guys always looks like he just got caught jacking off,” was Terry’s description of him.

  Pit Boston was an intellectual alcoholic from Las Vegas who had grown up Catholic. Pit had seen too many Mob movies. His older brother was a labor lawyer, so Pit exaggerated descriptions of his “family connections.” He was a devoted liberal and held many political arguments with Terry and Stan, both conservatives. The jousting was of excellent value to Stan, who had yet to earn his chops as an advocate or debater, but showed promise.

  Some of the locals included “Green Bay Ray”, a bookie of questionable moral turpitude, and his dull-looking girlfriend, Laura. Ray had lost his ability to function sexually. He said it had happened in Vietnam, but it had happened courtesy of Jack Daniels. Laura liked to screw guys she picked up on at the Five-oh, while Ray would sit in the shadows and watch.

  Otis was in his late 60s and apparently wealthy. He was also black and gay. Otis enjoyed preying on young athletes. Somehow he seemed to know who was susceptible. He had quite a bit of influence at USC as a community leader who could rally support for various causes associated with the school. He never thought about making a pass at Stan or Terry.

  Eric was a young black man from suburban New Jersey who was studying accounting at USC. He had a new conspiracy theory for every day of the week. He was convinced The White House was called that because it was “white people who lived there.” He also had a heart of gold and was given to sentimentality. He and Stan did not communicate very much when they were sober. Once they were in their cups, they became best friends. Their conversations centered on racial questions. Eric told Stan that America would never elect a black President. Stan told Eric that America would elect a black President, but only from the Republican Party.

  “Would you vote for a black man?” asked Eric.

  “If he were a conservative Republican,” answered Stan, “all else being equal, I’d vote for the black candidate because I think it would be good for the country.”

  A tear came to Eric’s eye, and he toasted Stan. He teared up at the drop of a hat.

  “Big D” was a black guy in his late 40s. An ex-boxer, he was from Oakland but could not go back there because he owed too many people money. Big D operated a bookie operation out of the 502 Club, and had a lot of access to Trojan football players. He was close with a big-time construction magnate who had USC and Raider season tickets, and was known as a heavy bettor. A few years later, legend had it that he fixed the 1989 USC-Notre Dame game by getting quarterback Todd Marinovich and cornerback Cleveland Coulter to throw the game.

  “Woofer T” was from Williamsport, Pennsylvania. This was a source of discussion with Stan, who had enjoyed his great little league triumph in Williamsport. Woofer T worked for L.A. County, but was in the 502 Club at all hours of the day or night, drinking beer. He often took over the bartending duties. Students who attended USC for four years never knew he was not an actual bartender there. He weighed 265 pounds, had a long beard, looked like a Hell’s Angel, and had a deep baritone laugh. Woofer went to all the SC football and baseball games. He had a wife and lived in Hermosa Beach. Nobody ever saw his wife or knew how he managed to negotiate the drive to the South Bay after drinking all those beers.

  Rich Lighter also made the daily drunken drive from the Five-oh. He never attended USC but loved the school as much as any alum. He was in his 50s and coached SC’s rugby team without pay. Rugby was not an official NCAA sport at USC. It was a club sport, and Lighter did not just coach, he played. He had the machismo of a Green Beret. Rich had finally married after a lifetime of bachelorhood. His wife was a Republican Japanese-American Superior Court judge. The couple had no kids. Rich considered athletes at USC to be his children. Rich’s politics were right wing. He was a probation officer for L.A. County. He and his wife lived in Palos Verdes Estates on the strength of her earnings in the legal profession. Like Woofer T, nobody ever saw his wife. It was rumored that Rich’s contacts with law enforcement, and his marriage to a judge, saved him from DUIs when he made the drive to the peninsula, particularly the final shark-infested trek up Crenshaw Boulevard.

  While Stan enjoyed being around the eclectic people who frequented the 502 Club, along with his new freedoms at SC, he never strayed from his dedication to baseball. He pitched effectively in a series of games against other local college teams in the Fall, and continued to hit the weights hard. He had lifted in the basement of the millionaire’s house in Kamloops, and by New Years Day, 1983, he was up to 225 pounds. He could bench press almost 300 pounds, and his fastball was in the low 90s.

  Stan also became more aware of religion in his life. He had long conversations about the “meaning of life” with Terry, Pit Boston, Eric and the other barroom philosophers of the 502 Club. His “chance encounter” with the young Christian who proselytized him in high school had opened his mind to the after life, and what being Christian is.

  Stan was concerned with complicated theological questions. He worried about his parents. Shirley had gone to church growing up in Orange County, but Dan had never been religious. Outside of getting married and baptizing their son in the Episcopalian Church, the tradition for both families, they had veered away from religion.

  Stan had not told his parents he had accepted Christ. He feared ridicule from Dan. Both his parents showed open contempt for organized religion or any concept of judgment, particularly the prospect that hell existed.

  “Bible thumpers,” Dan called anybody who brought up the subject.

  Stan thought it was interesting, however, that Dan and Shirley regularly used phrases like “My God,” “Dear God,” “God in Heaven,” and of course his father’s old favorite, “Goddammit.”

  Stan’s understanding of good and evil was that if there is absolute good, there is absolute evil. He accepted the concept of Heaven and hell. He had “found God,” and with that surrendered some of his self-centered side. He was still competitive, and therefore vulnerable to the sins of jealousy, vanity and pride. While he had become more respectful of his parents, he no longer took their criticisms of him as hard. This was a positive step.

  Stan was confounded by the new dualities that tugged at him. When he had been a teeanage agnostic, he had lived like a monk. Soon after “seeing the light,” he found himself engaging in hedonistic pleasures. He feared the devil.

  If I die and ascend to Heaven, Stan wondered, but those I love the most - say my mother and father - did not believe in God and therefore are denied Heaven - how can Heaven really be Heaven? How could a soul be truly content if the people he loves the most are doomed to eternal damnation?

  His was a benevolent Christianity that gave him hope that Jews, Muslims, Hindus, even non-believers, could be saved. What about unborn children? The unbaptized? Natives born in the jungle? He felt that if somebody lived a good life with love in his heart, a God would reward him or her. Stan prayed every night for the souls of his parents, his deceased relatives, and for friends and relatives who “may not believe in you as I do.”

  The Athletes in Action basketball team came to play USC at the Sports Arena. At halftime, the AIC players spoke to the crowd about their personal relations with Christ. Listening to the young Christian athletes, Stan felt something profound happen to him. After that, he went to church with Terry a few times.

  Terry attended a gorgeous old Catholic Church at the corner of West Adams and Figueroa. Most of the parishioners were local Mexicans. USC had a Catholic Church for students, but it lacked the grandiosity that Terry had grown up with on the East Coast. Stan learned how to make the sign of the cross and was fascinated by Catholic rituals. Terry, immersed in Catholicism since birth, had grown bored with it. He questioned religion. Stan enthusiastically espoused his new belief in Christ. He made Terry answer his many Biblical questions, wh
ich were new and exciting to Stan. Through this process, Terry was able to keep the faith.

  Stan wondered why he had never found love with a woman. He began to think that prayer was the answer. He went to the old Catholic Church on West Adams and asked God to help him find love. God works in mysterious ways. She had the appropriately religious name of Rebecca. She was a fallen angel.

  It was the Spring of 1983. Stan hung out with Mike Hoffmeister, a 6-5 right-handed pitcher from Redwood High in Marin County. The Los Angeles Times called Hoffmeister the “enigma.” In 1979, he had beaten out Granada Hills’ John Elway and Palisades’ Jay Schroeder, and was voted Prep Sports magazine’s National High School Athlete of the Year. He had won 40 games in four years at Redwood, and was considered the best high school pitcher in the country. Drafted by Boston, Hoffmeister accepted a scholarship to USC instead. He had dominated the Pacific-10 Conference his sophomore year. As a junior he tailed off badly, prompting the “enigma” moniker. He was not even drafted after that season. In 1983, Mike was still in SC’s starting rotation. This was his last chance at continuing on the glory road that seemed to have been paved with gold just a few short years before.

  Mike was a character of the first order. He was everything that Stan was not. Mike had thrown harder than Stan, but he never lifted weights. Stan worked at building his strength, and his velocity was catching up to him.

  Everything always came easy for Mike. Stan was driven by his work ethic. Stan was happy to be at SC, and eager to make himself a better student than he had been in high school. He wanted to make use of his opportunities at USC. Mike could care less. He had a genius IQ and was almost a straight-A student in high school. He had accomplished this without ever picking up a book. He charmed teachers, BS’ing his way through. He was a mathematical prodigy with a calculator for a mind. Instead of taking his talent into the field of science, physics, or geometry, however, he simply used it as an unfair advantage on trips to Vegas, or to cheat unsuspecting opponents in poker.

  Mike was too damned good looking for his own good. He was the kind of guy women wanted to be with, and men wanted to be like him until they saw through him. He lied, cheating at cards or any other endeavor that could win him money. He was quickly found out because he did not seem to care about being exposed. “Lies, Lies, Lies” by the Thompson Twins became known as “Mick’s Ballad” at SC.

  Mike had many women at USC, but this did not stop him from lying about having sex with girls he had not yet been with. One of those was Lisa, Carl’s carefree, vivacious waitress at the 502 Club.

  “I’d love to tag on that,” said one of Mike’s sycophants.

  “Been there,” Mike said casually.

  “You screwed her?” Mike’s friend asked.

  “Shit, I had to tell her to leave after a while, “ Mike said. “I had to get some sleep. As Jagger says, ‘Hey, I ain’t got that much jam.’”

  “Well, awlright,” the other guy said in mock Jagger-speak.

  When Mike and his friends took over a booth at the Five-oh, Lisa came over, smiling at the guys. She knew who they were, and was naturally flirty. She loved athletes, and had slept with her share of them. She and Mike had chemistry, but no specific communication occurred. It seemed perfectly natural that they had slept together. Lisa had gotten wind of Mike’s claims. She reached her hand out to Mike, shaking it.

  “Hi, Mike,” she said cheerfully. “My name’s Lisa. I thought we should be formally introduced, being as how we’ve been sleeping together.”

  “Hey, how are ya?” Mike replied casually. “Coupla pitchers.”

  Hoffmeister was cocky and handled situations easily. Everybody knew he lied, but his lies seemed more like stories. It was his world and he lived in it. If you wanted to be part of that world, you took him with a grain of salt. Even girls like Lisa could not help but smile. He was raffish and a rapscallion, a modern Rhett Butler. Mike was incorrigible, and he charmed everybody’s pants off.

  Mike had given up on getting an education. He had never really declared a major and would never graduate. He showed up at class the first day, never bought the books, and found smart, cute girls to help him cheat. He was just successful enough to stay eligible for baseball every year. He had lost a considerable amount of juice off his fastball over the years, but still harbored the illusion that the riches of big league glory awaited him. Mike had partied so much that his great body and athletic skills had withered since high school, though.

  He partied by night and slept in all day, missing all classes except for tests. He would stop for lunch in the University Village, play some pinball or Pac-Man, then meander on over to practice.

  Mike needed partners to go drinking with. He found them among the freshmen and junior college transfers, who were mesmerized by the senior. He liked the younger players. The older guys had seen his act over four years and it had worn pretty thin. The younger players were impressed by his handsome looks and fun-loving persona. He was a self-promoter who painted a vivid description of himself as God’s gift to women and the second coming of Nolan Ryan.

  He took to Stan right away. They ventured to parties, bars and other places where Mike pursued alcohol and women on weeknights. Stan quickly realized he could not burn both ends of the candle. A few had tried to hang with Mike and were burned, seeing their grades drop, their eligibility lost, their college opportunity wasted or placed in jeopardy. Stan tried to pick his spots but fell for Hoffmeister’s siren song a few times. Mike inferred that he would pass his women on after he was done. “Left overs,” he called them.

  Mike and Stan were standing together in the middle of the 502 Club. Stan had just finished a beer. He had a plastic cup in his hands, which he had stuffed with paper towels. He took a can of Copenhagen out of his back pocket, and expertly packed it. He opened it, grabbed the pungent-smelling black tobacco using three fingers, and applied a “fatty” between his cheek and gum. He worked the snuff into the most comfortable place under his lip, then expectorated brown tobacco juice into the “spit cup.” Bernie had learned to stock his bar with these paper cups. Then he looked up and saw her.

  Rebecca was 17 years old. She looked like a young Linda Carter of “Wonder Woman” fame. She had long, jet-black hair, which fell to her shoulders. Her cheeks had adorable dimples. Her mouth was shaped like a heart, accentuated by red lipstick. Her eyes were penetrating and exciting. The look on her face was youthful and enthusiastic. Stan had never seen such vivaciousness. She was a combination of sexual abandon and fresh-scrubbed good cheer.

  Rebecca had a long neck that resembled a swan. She was six feet tall, and had an athlete’s build. She had run track at San Marino High School and was on the women’s track team at USC. She had full, pear shaped breasts that seemed to heave with every breath she took. Rebecca’s skin was as smooth as butterscotch ice cream. She looked delicious. Every man in the Five-oh wanted to eat her with a spoon.

  The kicker was her dress, a little black cocktail number straight out of an Audrey Hepburn movie. It hugged her hips and held her heaving breasts. Little spaghetti straps were all that kept her breasts from rising like a volcano out of the dress. The small of her back was a sensuous mystery.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said Mike Hoffmeister.

  “Delivereth me not into temptation,” Stan muttered… “Oh, shit, look, she’s comin’.”

  Rebecca moved from the front area of the Five-oh, where the open front door revealed the last vestiges of dusk. A weird light bathed her as she parted a Red Sea of drunks, athletes, the bartender, Carl, and Lisa. She proceeded straight to Stan.

  Stan was not looking at a human being. She was the cover of Elle or Vogue.

  “What the fuck does she want with me?” he thought to himself.

  “Can I bum a dip,” she said to him.

  “Uhhh…sure,” said Stan.

  He handed her the can of Copenhagen. She packed it and pinched a big fatty in between her fingers. He fingernails were adorned with red polish. S
he popped a dip in between her cheek and gum.

  “Thanks,” she said. There was an insouciant, eager quality to her young voice, but it trailed into a knowing, sexy sort of laugh. Her words were slightly slurred, but it did not seem that she was drunk. Rather, her words had a pleasant kind of charm, loaded with erotic double entendres.

  “I’m Rebecca,” she offered. She might just as easily have said, “I want you to fuck me hard.”

  “I’m Stan,” she said. “This is Mike.”

  “I know who you are,” she said to Mike, who for the first time in his life was speechless.

  “I’ve never seen you before,” said Mike.

  “But we’ve seen you,” she replied. “Girls talk, you know. Women’s track. Heritage Hall. Taping.” What she really meant was, “I know you fuck everything that walks, you sexy motherfucker.”

  “You’ve been found out,” Stan said to Mike. “You seen me around?”

  “Never seen you in my life,” was her answer.

  The three of them stood there for about five minutes trading sexual innuendos. Stan ordered a round of drinks. She and Rebecca both got rid of their dips.

  “I’ve never seen a girl chew tobacco before,” said Stan.

  “I’m originally from North Carolina,” Rebecca said, as if that explained everything.

  Suddenly Rebecca’s eyes were diverted to the mirror behind Stan. She was casually alarmed.

  “Come with me,” she said to Stan.

  Just like that, she grabbed Stan by the arm and led him away from the gaping Hoffmeister, into the kitchen. They walked past assorted El Salvadoran cooks, busboys and waiters.

  “Ola, ola,” said Rebecca. The Spanish-speaking help stared at her lustily. They knew her. Rebecca led Stan past the hot stoves and the spray of the dishwasher, all the while cheerfully jawing with the help in perfect Spanish, which overjoyed them. She had the confidence of a politician working a crowd. They left the kitchen and entered the staircase. Stan said nothing. Rebecca knew the territory. She opened an unlocked door at the top of the stairs.

  “We’re in,” she said.

  She flipped the night switch, and before them was an unkempt room with a bed and a bathroom area. It had a toilet, sink, and shower stall, with various toiletries and towels on the floor.

  Rebecca plopped herself on the bed. Stan stood over her, looking at her. Rebecca’s eyes were mischievous, her face aglow with wonder and awe. Life had infinite possibilities.

  “Weeeell,” she said, laughing uncontrollably, “here we are.”

  Stan had no response.

  “I saw my date,” she said matter-of-factly. “I just wanted him to come in a few minutes later than he did. Now, let’s see what we have here.”

  With that, she reached over and grabbed Stan by the balls. He took a step and a half towards her. She quickly undid his belt and zipper, slipping his pants to his ankles, and Rebecca was met by boxer underwear covering a hard-on that could have been made out of titanium.

  “Hmmmm,” she hummed.

  Off came the shorts, and Stan’s enraged male manhood defied all the laws of gravity.

  “I do appreciate a man who can get it up in time,” she said, and her sweet, huge laughter filled the room. She was the most thoroughly alive human being Stan had ever seen.

  Her mouth surrounded his member, and her hands skillfully manipulated his balls, his ass, and his buttocks. Her tongue felt like velvet, but her mouth worked ravenously, swiftly, and with purpose.

  Rebecca did not just give head with her mouth. She used her whole body. Her face seemed to swivel as she moved up and down the shaft. Her hands worked furiously over the sensitive areas. She shuddered, spun and swayed, her back arched. She positively quivered. Rebecca was the girl in every sexually charged rock tune ever written, from Lou Reed to AC/DC.

  Rebecca devoured him, deep throated him, spat on him and rubbed him. She masturbated him and the spit dripped off Stan, on to her hands, and got all over her mouth, which was slimy and shiny, smearing her face and her lipstick. Rebecca could not care less. She made purring kitten noises, interrupted by great gusts of laughter. Humor emanated from her.

  Stan did not much enjoy it so much as he was shocked by it. It represented nothing that he could hold on to in his memory banks. It was too sudden, too unexpected and monumental. He was like a soldier in combat. He knew the facts, but it was all a blur.

  The lioness Rebecca, having brought Stan to full girth, suddenly and rapturously threw herself on to the makeshift bed, which was where Carl had taken floozies for lo these many years. She thrust her ass up at him. Stan ended the final, official status of his virginity by plunging himself past her thong panties. She moaned, panted and laughed, having immediate, wet orgasms that filled the room.

  Stan felt as if he was 12 feet long and could arch his back and lift her off the ground. He was in complete control, not a whimpering, prematurely ejaculating teenager, but rather the full measure of a man. He reached over, grabbed her breasts, and mushed them out of her dress, holding them and fondling them violently. Rebecca loved it. They kissed, for the first time. It was all tongues, lipstick and wet saliva.

  “I love you,” said Stan. He had fallen totally for his vision. Suddenly, she was off of him.

  Her mouth devoured Stan like a suction cup. Stan thought he was in control. Suddenly he was not. It was Rebecca’s game. She eyed him while sucking him off, and laughed. The laughter caused vibrations in Stan, and more saliva came out of her mouth. She used her hand to jack him off, and pecked at the long strands of spit, her face smeared in sweat and fluids.

  She suck-jerked him, and Stan erupted, an enormous load of jizz. Rebecca took it all in her mouth. She swallowed the first gulp, but had never gotten anything quite like it. Stan came like a geyser. Rebecca could not swallow it all. Jizz spurted out of her mouth, all over her lips and hands, and immediately landed in great gobs on her breasts, smearing her black dress. Cum dripped in thick, glazed white globs off her lips.

  “Guess whose coming to dinner?” Rebecca said, and laughed as if she had told a great joke.

  Stan suddenly started to laugh. He was still hard and coated with white cum.

  “Clean up operations,” she said. Rebecca licked, drooled and swallowed all the remainders off Stan, licking her fingers.

  “Finger lickin’ good,” she said.

  “Let me guess,” said Stan. “You like sucking cock.”

  Rebecca just roared in laughter.

  Stan collapsed on the bed. Rebecca tried to touch herself up, but she was too flighty and carefree to care that much.

  “God, I need a drink,” she said.

  Her hair was askew. Her lipstick was smeared. Her face glistened. Her black dress had white splotches on it. It was on her shoulders, she smelled like a tuna boat. That was what she looked and smelled like when she and Stan emerged from the kitchen. Carl stood right there.

  “Jesus,” he said, knowingly.

  Then Stan emerged.

  “Staaaannn!” he said, proudly. “I see you’ve met Rebecca.”

  “Met her?” he said. “Inhaled by her, is more like it.”

  Carl directed his attention to Rebecca.

  “He’s here,” he said. “You’re a disaster.”

  “I’m a disaster,” Rebecca said to Stan, in a knowing, funny way, smiling, then laughing again. Stan had never met a girl who laughed so much.

  Suddenly Rebecca’s date showed up. Dr. Harold Weitzman, Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, about 45 years old and graying, was dressed casually but expensively for a night of dining and pleasure with this 17-year old Vogue cover model-type.

  It immediately struck Stan what the situation was. It was not the incongruity of the April/August “relationship,” and the pertinent question of whether the good doctor was paying Rebecca, or maybe Carl, for her time. Rather, what occurred to Stan was that whenever Weitzman put his hand on Rebecca, or kissed her, or went down on her, or had intercourse with her, he
would be in territory that Stan Taylor had rent asunder just a few minutes before. This was a very good thing.

  “Uh, Rebecca,” said the doctor. “Are you…alright?”

  “Just great, doc,” she replied without batting an eyelash.

  “You look…flushed,” he remarked.

  “I feel great,” she said. “Hey Carl, can you get me a Cuba libre for the road.”

  “Of course, madam,” said Carl, mocking an English butler.

  “We’ve got dinner reservations,” said Weitzman, “In Beverly Hills in 10 minutes.”

  “We’ll get there, Doc,” said Rebecca. “Drive fast.”

  She winked at Stan. Weitzman stared at Stan. Weitzman sensed that his million dollars and his thriving medical practice, in which he was perfecting the recent art of breast enhancement for the betterment of Western society, was not worth a tenth of what this kid had right now.

  Stan had lost his virginity in the most spectacular way imaginable, in the most glorious of tawdry circumstance. Half his team had watched him leave and now they were gathering about. Everybody knew what had happened. He was a hero, a stud, and man’s man. The experience was priceless.

  It was the final, official, nail in the coffin of the “old Stan,” the one who got picked on in junior high and razzed and attacked by Rich Lopez in high school. All of that was a distant memory now.

  Hoffmeister started it, and his other mates picked up on the theme. They all clapped for him, and for Rebecca. Rebecca acknowledged their ovation with a huge Marilyn Monroe-style kiss and a wave good-bye, all while holding Dr. Weitzman’s arm. Weitzman just tried to scurry out of there before further damage could be done to his reputation, psyche or date.

  “For parting is such sweet sorrow,” Rebecca cheerfully addressed Stan, and out the door she went. The baseball players all ran to the door, to watch every single gallop she took to the car. She walked like a wild animal.

  Stan did not join them. He meandered on up to the bar. Antonio was working today, and he just smiled at the young man.

  “A beer, for my man Stan,” he said in broken, joyful English.

  Carl showed up.

  “Stan,” he announced, “you’re getting your picture on my wall.”

  Carl gestured to the wall above the bar, where various caricatures of famous Five-oh patrons - athletes, coaches, semi-celebs - hung in glass-encased frames.

  “So, uh, ya liked Rebecca?” Carl asked lasciviously.

  “Jesus, man,” replied Stan, “what’s not to like? I didn’t know they made women like that.”

  “They make women like that,” said Carl, as if he was telling some Universal Truth, “for guys like us.”

  They toasted each other.

  “Guys like us,” thought Stan. He was in. He was now officially a guy like Carl, and at age 19, what could be better?

  A month later, the artist did Stan’s caricature, and his cartoon hung on the Five-oh wall until the place closed in the mid-1990s. A legend was born.

  There was still baseball to be played. As a freshman, Stan made a nice contribution to the USC varsity. He started non-conference games during the week, and was used as a middle reliever in Pac-10 games. He started one Pac-10 contest, against Stanford, leaving with the score tied, 2-2, after six innings. Over all, he compiled a 4-1 record with a 4.17 earned run average. The team was talented but failed to live up to their potential. They had some pretty good players, among them an All-American first baseman named Mark McGwire and a 6-10 fireballing lefty named Randy Johnson.

  Coach Rod Dedeaux was on his last legs, however. He had been wildly successful for years, winning 10 National Championships (including five in a row from 1970-74), but he no longer had the fire necessary to push and prod a college program to the highest echelons of achievement.

  Dan was not satisfied with Stan’s pitching time. Another freshman, right-hander Curt Bankhead out of Crawford High in San Diego, was used more. Dan approached one of the coaches to complain. The coach told Dan that he thought Bankhead was “awesome.” That infuriated Dan, who complained to Stan, as if it was Stan’s fault. He walked around muttering, “Awesome…what a load of shit.” Stan despised stuff like that.

  Stan’s manliness was still tested. His public stud show with Rebecca had elevated his status, but people were still out to bring him down. His real nemesis that freshman season was not Bankhead, but was a junior college transfer named John Dinuba.

  Dinuba was, like Stan, a right-handed pitcher. The song “Backstabbers” was written about him. His smile was faked. He recognized that Stan was his competition. USC had a lot of good pitchers and only so many innings with which to use them. Dinuba had been drafted out of Merced Junior College, but did not sign. He was no student, but had accepted a ride to USC because he hoped to parlay that into a higher draft pick and some decent bonus money. The pressure was on to secure a position on the staff where he could pitch enough to impress the scouts. Unlike Stan, his time was now or never.

  Dinuba was a born liar and white trash with no sense of loyalty to anyone or anything, unlike Mike Hoffmeister. Mike had problems with the truth, but he was not malicious and would give his friends the shirt off his back. Dinuba loved hard rock music, and under this guise pretended to be Stan’s friend. They listened to AC/DC and Van Halen. Dinuba approved of some of Stan’s favorites, especially The Who and The Doors.

  Dinuba was ugly and women avoided him. Supposedly he had a wife and kid in some hick town in Central California, but nobody ever saw her, heard him talk to her on the phone, or saw a picture of her. Stan pictured her as truly unattractive.

  When Fall ball was over, Dinuba was disappointed that he had not made the starting rotation. He was in the bullpen, competing for innings with Stan. Stan could not figure him out. He was not like Lopez, who never hid his feelings for him. Dinuba was a snake. He would have private conversations with Stan, acting like they were buddies. When others were around, Dinuba cut him to pieces. He hated Stan, the son of a lawyer and nephew of the Secretary of Defense; the rich boy from Palos Verdes with all the advantages. Dinuba felt that guys like Stan should know their place. Sports were for hardscrabble guys like him. Let Stan be a frat boy and a Yuppie in a pinstriped suit. It was not fair that a guy have all the advantages Stan had and still be an excellent baseball player.

  “You’re gonna have to kick that asshole’s butt,” an outfielder named Danny Ferrara told Stan. He befriended him and saw through Dinuba.

  “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” was Stan’s answer.

  “So am I,” said Ferrara, who was popular with the ladies but adept with his fists, “but sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. A lotta guys think you don’t have the guts because you’re a rich kid.”

  It came to a head on a road trip to Hawaii. Stan returned to his room and found his bed overturned, and his stuff scattered all around the room.

  “Who did this?” he asked his roommate.

  “I don’t know,” he replied.

  “Dinuba?” asked Stan.

  “He’s your enemy, not mine,” the roommate replied. It was Stan’s bed that had been overturned, not the roomie’s. It was Stan’s stuff that was a mess, not the roomie’s. Stan marched down the hall. A bunch of players were playing cards and drinking beer. Dinuba was holding his cards.

  “Who fucked up my room?” Stan asked, a general question not aimed at any one person.

  “Fuck you,” someone said.

  Stan walked up to Dinuba.

  “Was it you?” he asked.

  “I didn’t do shit,” Dinuba said indignantly. “‘Five- fifteeeoin.’” He mocked the words to The Who’s classic “5:15” from the Quadrophenia album, one of Stan’s favorites. Stan liked to sing the lyrics, and Dinuba made fun of his pronunciation of the words.

  “Hey Dinuba,” Stan said calmly, “do you still suck as much cock as you always have?”

  Dinuba was a farm boy who had been beaten by a vicious, alcoholic father.
He was a mean cur, but not really a fighter. He was formidable, though. He had size and strength. He intimidated Stan, in part because Stan did think of himself as the rich kid from Palos Verdes Estates, while Dinuba was the tougher, harder breed.

  “That’s a bold motherfucker of a statement,” said Dinuba.

  “Hey, man,” said Stan, “so you suck tons of cocks. Some people are cocksuckers. You’re one of `em.”

  Everybody stared at Dinuba.

  There were general guffaws, and laughter. Dinuba looked awkward. Stan’s back was up, the way it had been when he kicked some butt in junior high school. The fear of fighting was gone, replaced by the exhilaration.

  “Who did it, cocksucker?” Stan asked.

  Dinuba tried to ignore him.

  “Okay, then,” said Stan, “this is your unlucky day.”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about?” asked Dinuba.

  “So you didn’t fuck up my bed,” Stan said calmly. “Unfortunately for you, I’ve made a decision. The decision is that you did. Maybe you didn’t, but I say you did. That means your shit outta luck.”

  “Go spin,” said Dinuba.

  “Naw,” said Stan, the calm before the storm. “I’ve decided I want you to take some pain tonight.”

  “Whose gonna -.”

  “Shut up,” said Stan. “I’ve just decided, because I want you to feel some pain, that you’re gonna feel pain.”

  Now everybody was watching him. They were all seeing a new side to him.

  “You want it outside or you want it in here?” asked Stan.

  “Yeah, John,” somebody said.

  Dinuba just turned his head and dealt a card.

  “Okay,” said Stan, “here goes. Five, four, three, two, one…”

  Stan punched John Dinuba smack in the face. Dinuba fell right into the card table, sending cards, beers and spit cups everywhere. He lay there, looking up at Stan, but not fighting back.

  “Now,” said Stan, “it looks like you’re done. Now, John, you feel that stinging sensation in your vortex or whatever it is doctors call it. That’s courtesy of me. You feel that because I just choose for you to feel it. And you wanna know what?”

  “What?” asked Dinuba.

  “I want you to feel some more,” said Stan. “Therefore, because I want you to feel some more pain, you’re gonna feel some more. Courtesy of me.”

  Stan punched him again, even though he was down and in no position to defend himself. Stan then just walked out of the room. Dinuba never bothered him again. Mainly, he kissed his ass. Stan pretended to be his friend.

  After an uneventful season, in which the innings Dinuba needed were assigned to Stan, he was not drafted. He had not attended classes in the Spring semester and had little chance of getting eligibility for a senior year. A Yankee scout signed him for a pair of spikes and tin of Copenhagen. He was sent to Paintsville of the Appalachian League. He pitched one year of pro ball, was released, and six years later was sent to jail for beating his ugly wife.

  Stan had not gotten a phone number for Rebecca. He wanted to make her his girlfriend. She occupied his mind constantly after that amazing night. Stan returned to the Five-oh hoping to find her. Carl did not have her number.

  “She just comes and she goes,” he said.

  She had intimated to Hoffmeister that she was involved in women’s sports at SC, which seemed utterly incongruous to Stan. He could not picture a girl that beautiful and that wild running track. He spent time spying around the women’s track team, but did not see her. He was careful not to be too conspicuous. He especially did not want to arouse suspicions that he was trying to watch the girls dress in their locker room.

  A few weeks passed. Stan was in the Five-of with One-Armed Bob and Brad Cooper. Brad was playing baseball at El Camino JC, but visited his buddy regularly at SC. Something amazing had happened to him in a space of about eight months.

  Whereas Brad’s brother, Jeff, had always been very handsome, Brad had been small, and his face was undeveloped. Suddenly, he had grown to six feet tall and the muscles in his face seemed to tighten up, raising his high cheekbones, and seemingly out of nowhere he looked like a young Robert Redford.

  The SC girls went crazy for him. With his newfound looks came confidence. Brad was as smooth as James Bond. Stan, Brad and One-Armed Bob were drinking, chewing and BS’ing when she walked in. This time, Rebecca looked like she had just finished riding horses. She wore form-fitting jeans that hugged her never-ending legs (“Six feet of legs and a pussy,” was Hoffmeister’s assessment). She wore a tight T-shirt with no bra. Her breasts were perfect. The nipples poked against the cloth.

  “Oh, he’s recovered,” she said when she walked in and saw Stan.

  “Dear God,” was all Stan could say.

  “Is that her?” One-Armed Bob mumbled.

  “Is that her?” Brad mumbled.

  Rebecca entered the room like a whirlwind. It was as if life just surrounded her. She strode like a colt now, laughing loudly at her own words, smiling and giving off great vibes to any and all who admired her. She was the happiest person Stan had ever seen. She was perfect.

  “Ooh,” Rebecca said, and she just summed Brad up from head to toe. She had him screwed, fellated and spent in one wildly obvious sexual stare.

  “And who is your friend?” she inquired of Stan.

  “Brad, Rebecca,” Stan said. “This is Bob.”

  Rebecca worked Brad over with her eyes, then looked at the sweating Bob. She saw that he had no left arm.

  “What’s up, Lefty?” she smiled, offering a long, distended handshake.

  What happened next further added to the legend. They drank, they chewed tobacco, and they drank some more. They played golden oldies on the good ol’ Five-oh jukebox. They got smashed. It was one of those hot Southern California nights. They danced, flirted and touched. Rebecca was totally infatuated with Brad. There was no doubt that they would end up in bed together.

  Stan enjoyed himself, but he had to play second fiddle to Brad. His previous sexual encounter with Rebecca seemed to have made him old hat already. One-Armed Bob was the third wheel, but Rebecca was so sexual that he held out hope.

  The three of them partied wildly until the 502 Club closed down. Then they made it to Benjie’s Liquors just in time to pick up a couple of six-packs, and headed to Stan’s apartment. They entered the place at 2:00 a.m., making slightly less noise than the Allied armada at Normandy. They played The Doors, The Who, Credence, and The Stones, loudly. They yelled and stomped and drank. Three times the security guard had to come up, all to no avail.

  Finally, Rebecca took Brad by the arm and led him into the bedroom. Terry had a girlfriend by now, and he was staying there most nights by this time. His bed was unoccupied. Rebecca ravaged Brad with kisses and a blowjob and everything in between.

  In the front room, Stan sat with One-Armed Bob, listening to tunes and drinking beer. Finally, Stan got up and said, “I’m going to bed.” He did not offer any explanation to One-Armed Bob, who was sweating profusely. It was still hot as hell.

  Brad had Rebecca in Stan’s bedroom, and since he had been with Rebecca before, he was not shy about entering the room. One-Armed Bob followed. Brad had mounted Rebecca and was giving her the high, hard one.

  “Hi fellas,” Rebecca said cheerily.

  Stan just stood there and watched his friend have sex with this her.

  “What is that?” Stan asked. “It’s translucent in substance.”

  “It’s…it’s…it’s sperm,” said Brad, mocking their high school skit.

  “Umm, I hope so,” Rebecca said.

  One-Armed Bob edged closer. Rebecca’s tanned breasts were standing at attention right before him. Brad had edged off to the side to accommodate the sidetrack discussion. Then One-Armed Bob reached with his one hand and touched Rebecca’s breast. He was desperate for sex. Rebecca was the kind of girl who would have sex at the drop of a hat. She would have sex with more than one guy. However, she only
had sex with guys she was attracted to. She was not attracted to One-Armed Bob.

  “Please stop that,” she said politely to One-Armed Bob. She did not want to hurt his feelings, but she definitely did not want to have anything to do with him.

  “Bob,” said Brad.

  One-Armed Bob kept fondling her.

  “Bob!” exclaimed Brad in the manner of an English schoolteacher. “Say Bob.”

  Bob just removed his hand and left the room.

  “See ya later, Bob,” Stan called out. They all heard the front door shut. One-Armed Bob went to his apartment, broke out his impressive porno collection, and masturbated himself into a frenzy for several hours.

  Stan did not hesitate to unzip his pants, pull his shorts down, and put his throbbing erection in Rebecca’s mouth.

  “Why hello, old friend,” she said before blowing him.

  Brad and Stan tag teamed Rebecca until the sun rose. She suggested “double penetration,” but neither guy was sure of this act, which required sodomy. They were depraved, but depraved enough.

  Rebecca was an animal, devouring everything they had. There was no place her tongue did not travel. She had no fear of any of their bodily fluids. Finally, Stan, sated, left her in bed with Brad, where she fell asleep in his arms. Stan crashed in his own bed, and drifted happily to sleep.

  The next morning, Stan woke up to bright sunshine. It was the beginning of another 100-degree day. Brad was still snoozing in the other bed, but Rebecca was not there. Stan pulled his hung over self out of the rack and headed into the front room. There, he saw Rebecca, standing and holding the phone in her hands.

  She was wearing his USC Baseball T-shirt, which hung halfway covering her pubic hair. Her tanned, lithe legs and butt poked out of the T-shirt. Stan immediately discovered that he had another hard-on.

  “Number One is up,” Rebecca said to somebody on the phone.

  Stan grabbed her and started kissing, fingering and fondling her while she tried to carry on a conversation on the phone.

  Then Brad entered the room.

  “Number Two is up,” she announced to her phone friend, laughing. “Yeah, I was a bad girl last night. What else is new? I don’t think these guys will be getting over me for a while. It could be another case of the Rebecca Syndrome.”

  Rebecca gave some more graphic descriptions to her phone mate, and then hung up. Brad just slumped on the couch and turned on the TV. Stan was ready for more. He chased Rebecca around, stopping her, alternately entering her, getting some head, entering her again, and kissing her. Finally, Rebecca just got on her knees and started giving him a blowjob in earnest.

  “I better slow you up, big guy,” she said, “or you’ll be in a straight-jacket by evening.”

  Rebecca blew him, and within two minutes Stan came in her mouth.

  “It was either that or the doctor’d have to lance it,” she told Brad, who just stared in semi-amazement. Rebecca then went about making breakfast for the boys, all the while wearing just the T-shirt, and revealing everything below.

  The door was open, and the drapes open, too. Stan and Terry had accumulated a pyramid of empty Copenhagen cans on the windowsill, but it was not yet high enough to blot out the view. People were walking by. There were students who lived in the complex, but also parents.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” asked Stan.

  It turned out that it was some kind of special “parents day” that Stan had not heard about. All the rich USC moms and dads were traipsing by, and getting an eyeful when they looked into Stan’s apartment.

  Is that Linda Carter prancing around half-naked? the dads wondered. God I wish I were younger.

  Stan and Brad sipped coffee and tried to recover from the previous evening’s festivities, but the excitement of the whole night was overwhelming. They had sealed their friendship beyond anything they had ever known in high school. Sharing a girl and high-fiving each other over her back was better than waking up some Chinaman with their high beams. Rebecca, they decided, was a national treasure.

  When Stan went outside to pick up the L.A. Times, Rebecca was holding on to him, grabbing his manhood, and asking for another helping. Stan was laughing like crazy. Then he looked up to the floor above him, and there was Chris Vilnius. Chris wrote for the Daily Trojan and was a huge sports fan. He had become one of Stan’s better pals. Stan called him Vildebeast, because he was a big former high school tackle with an exceptionally large head. He had a tendency towards boredom. His girlfriend would come over and fall asleep while they watched “Cheers”. It was no wonder when they split. Chris was the kind of guy who would never engage in the type of activity that Stan did. He tended to impose quasi-judgment. He just stared down at Stan, who saw him.

  “What’s up, beast?” asked Stan.

  Chris just shook his head at the sight of Stan with the sex-crazed, pubic-exposed Rebecca grabbing him in a prick-frenzy.

  Finally, everybody settled down with coffee, eggs, and the newspaper. Re-runs of “The Twi-Light Zone” and “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” showed on channel five. Stan was drained. Brad was too tired to pursue anything. Rebecca was in repose. Finally, they started to have a normal conversation. The mystery of Rebecca began to unfold.

  She had been born in North Carolina, where her father had been an Army doctor in a Ranger unit. Her mother was a beautiful debutante from a rich Southern family. When her father was discharged from the Army, he moved the family to San Marino, one of the ritziest sections of Los Angeles County, and set up a lucrative practice in nearby Pasadena.

  Rebecca’s mother was an old school matriarchal type who wanted her daughter to grow up like she had, attending Cotillion balls and upholding the families’ dignity. Rebecca had been on that path through high school, but she was so pretty that men could not help but fall in love with her. She was irresistible, but not in a bombshell way. Her figure, her face, her winning personality and smile made men want her completely.

  When Rebecca was a junior, her uncle came to visit. He was only 30 years old, and a very handsome man. He was her first lover, and taught her every position in his arsenal. Rebecca discovered the joy of sex. She was a certified nymphomaniac. Once she had tasted the forbidden fruit of her uncle, she became insatiable.

  Her senior year in high school was painful for her mother, who tried to hold on to the fiction that her daughter was virginal, or at least respectable. In reality, Rebecca went through the guys at her private school like Hitler invading Poland.

  By the time her parents had enrolled her as a freshman at USC, they preferred not to know what she was up to. Her mother barely talked to her anymore. Her father, the practical doctor, simply told her how to prevent venereal diseases and unwanted pregnancy.

  Rebecca was smart as a whip. She had maintained mostly A’s in high school, and took to college courses with enthusiasm. She rushed a sorority, was accepted, and moved in there. No sooner had she occupied a room, than she was kicked out for having sex with the boyfriend of one of her sorority sisters. She moved into the room of a fraternity. Needless to say, she kept most of the boys there happy.

  Rebecca had been a pretty good high hurdler on her high school track team, and walked on to the women’s track team as a USC freshman. She was kicked off the team for partying, drinking and screwing. Her grades maintained at a decent rate, mostly B’s, but she was carrying on too much for her own good.

  She did not drink or do drugs in high school. Rebecca started to party at the 502 Club, where she met Carl. The first night she was there, she went to Carl’s makeshift “bedroom” upstairs and had wild sex with him. Carl immediately recognized that she was a sex machine. He started bringing some of his older friends around. Rebecca took to them with the same enthusiasm that she had for younger men. Age was not a factor.

  Carl polluted her further. She loved his cocaine and drank like a fish. At 17, she was still so young and indestructible that it did not show, but she was already headed down a bad path. Carl had been suppl
ying USC’s athletes with drugs for years. He got Heisman Trophy-winning tailback Charles White hooked, and partied with him until the sun came up the night before White led the Trojans to their stirring 17-16 victory over Ohio State in the 1980 Rose Bowl.

  Dr. Weitzman was a cocaine client of Carl. Carl introduced Rebecca to Weitzman. The deal was that Weitzman would pay Carl to “date” Rebecca. Rebecca would get free blow from Carl.

  She told most of this to Brad and Stan. Rebecca seemed to be under the influence of a 24-hour a day truth serum. Stan immediately felt a connection to her. He wanted to help her. Stan knew that drugs were destructive. Somehow he felt like her big brother. He was conflicted because big brothers do not debauch their little sisters from the left, the right and the side.

  Finally, everybody cleaned up. The boys walked Rebecca back to her residence at the nearby fraternity. They passed by One-Armed Bob’s room. His door was open, and Rebecca gave him a big wave and a smile.

  “Bye, Lefty,” she called out.

  When they said good-bye to Rebecca at the frat house, Stan turned to Brad.

  “What a woman,” he said.

  “They broke the mold,” replied Brad.

  During the Spring semester of 1983, Watergate conspirator G. Gordon arrived at USC on a book and speaking tour. Liddy was traveling to college campuses with drug guru Dr. Timothy Leary. In the 1960s, Liddy had been the District Attorney of Duchess County, a bedroom community near New York City. As fate would have it, Leary was occupying a large estate in Duchess County. He was offering LSD and orgy parties to high school and college age girls. It was the beginning of the Sexual Revolution, and the good citizens of Duchess County were aghast at how many of their fair maidens were dropping acid and their panties. A man with a white horse was needed. That man was Liddy.

  Liddy and a posse of law enforcement officers descended upon the house, and happened to find numerous couples en flagrante delicto. Leary came out to see what the hubbub was. He stood at the top of the stairs. Liddy stared up at him and saw more than he wanted to see. Liddy wore a shirt and nothing else.

  The arrest propelled Liddy into the political limelight. He ran for Congress but dropped out of the 1968 Republican Primary in lieu of a deal with the incumbent, Hamilton Fish. Fish promised that if he did not oppose him, and Richard Nixon won the White House, Liddy would get a job in Washington as a Presidential aide. That is what happened. From there, Liddy became one of the infamous “plumbers,” was arrested at the Watergate Hotel in 1972, and served the longest, harshest prison sentence of anybody. His tough stance and refusal to “rat” on Nixon made him a conservative icon.

  After Jimmy Carter pardoned him, Liddy wrote his biography, “Will”. It was a best seller and launched his newfound popularity. The more the Left excoriated him, the more the Right embraced him. He turned his book tour into a national campus road show in which he and Leary argued in crossfire of ideological opposites. A television movie, starring Robert Conrad, further added to the Liddy legend.

  When Stan and Mark Terry went to Bovard Auditorium to hear him speak, Leary was not there. But Liddy’s solo act was highly entertaining. USC is a conservative institution, one of the few major universities that are not desecrated by liberal bias. Liddy spoke to a receptive, testosterone-charged crowd. He had them laughing and applauding him with standing ovations.

  Liddy went into detail about the current military situation at the time.

  “The Israelis have the best air force in the world,” Liddy explained, “because their pilots go on three times as many missions as anyone else.”

  Liddy described the deal that brought him to work for the 1968 Republican Presidential nominee, “Richard Nixon of California,” as he said it. Liddy’s FBI expertise was put to use by the White House in clandestine operations coordinating former CIA assets.

  “This leads me to a discussion of something I know a little bit about,” he said to the rapt audience, “and that is the practice of es-pio-naaage!” It was like a Robert Ludlum novel being brought to life.

  Liddy talked about spending time in prison.

  “I had four children in private school,” he said. “I was banned from the practice of law, out of work, in debt, and in prison facing a long Federal sentence. My reputation was destroyed. But I still had my wits, my education, and my will. I was about to enter the most interesting period of my life.”

  Liddy spoke without notes for one hour. Hundreds of students bought his book for him to sign.

  “You got balls,” was the typical student’s refrain.

  “Best, Stan, G. Gordon Liddy,” he wrote in Stan’s copy of “Will”, which Stan read from cover to cover in the next couple of days. By the time he had finished the book, Stan, for the first time in his life, began to think of a future other than baseball. He was inspired to pursue law school, and possibly politics or work with a government agency like the FBI or CIA.

  That Summer, Stan pitched for the Boulder Collegians, a fast team in Colorado. It was a highly competitive club, with several All-Americans on the roster. Stan fought for pitching assignments. They played every night, sometimes double-headers. He was able to get his share of innings. The team made it to the National Baseball Congress in Wichita, Kansas. Stan had a record of 6-3 that Summer, and had to work for everything he got.

  Billy Boswell played for the Alaska Goldpanners and tore up the Alaskan League. The Goldpanners won the NBC, and Boswell was the Most Valuable Player in Wichita. He was easily the best amateur player in the country.

  In the Fall, Boswell was UCLA’s starting quarterback. After a slow start, he led the Bruins to the Rose Bowl and was named All-Pac-10. Socially, Boswell took things to a new level. His sexual prowess at Palos Verdes High was nothing compared to his harem of UCLA coeds. Word spread, and opponents talked about Billy Boswell’s women. They sat together in the stands at baseball and football games, like groupies touring with Led Zeppelin. They oohed and aahed over this super athlete who was headed towards great riches. He was already a famous star.

  Stan had arrived at USC during a down time in the school’s heralded sports history. The football team played poorly under new coach Ted Tollner. The glory days of John McKay and John Robinson were gone. Critics began to call them “Yesterday U.” instead of “Tailback U.” Stan hated to see his Trojans lose to a UCLA team led by Boswell. Billy turned UCLA into a major power in baseball, too. They up-graded their program when they built the gleaming new Jackie Robinson Stadium, replacing their dilapidated field near the Veterans Administration. Despite players like McGwire and Johnson, SC’s baseball fortunes took a dive.

  Stan came back for his sophomore year, enthusiastic about returning to Southern California after his Summer in Colorado and traveling around the Midwest. It had been an interesting experience. He saw America from a bus, staying in seedy motels, and got a taste of the amazing humidity. He spent some time with Brad and Walt before school started. Walt had written him letters in Colorado, filled with Hunter Thompson-esque statements about any and all things. He wrote about acquaintances that “continue to smoke vast quantities of evil weed,” and continued to make solemn pronouncements about his latest choice of college, which still changed every week.

  Both Walt and Brad returned for their sophomore year at El Camino. Walt had been cut by the basketball team his freshman year, but would made it as a sixth man in his second try. Brad continued to play on the baseball team, holding out slim hope that he could move on to another level.

  Stan and Terry went to Barney’s Beanery in West Hollywood on their first night together after Summer vacation. Barney’s was once the preferred drinking establishment of Jim Morrison, who had lived at the Alta Cienega Motel a block away on La Cienega. It was just a short, steep hike downhill from the Sunset Strip. Barney’s was strictly a macho rocker’s pick-up joint that disdained the fact that it existed in an unincorporated section of L.A. that was overwhelmingly gay. They flaunted their homophobic attitudes by printing, “Fags stay
out” on the matchbook covers. Many rock stars were still hanging out there in the 1980s.

  “Hey, man, look in the corner,” Terry said to Stan.

  “David Lee Roth,” said Stan.

  It was Van Halen’s lead singer, talking to two hot girls. A giant bodyguard stood between him and the rest of the bar crowd.

  “I gotta ask him something,” Terry said. Terry walked up to the bodyguard, introduced himself politely, and asked if he could speak to Roth about something. Roth nodded that it was okay.

  “Hey, Dave, it’s an honor,” Terry said. “My name’s Mark Terry.” They shook hands. “Over there, that’s my roommate, Stan Taylor. We go to USC.”

  “What can I do for you?” asked Roth.

  “We were wondering,” said Terry, “whether you’d be willing to do a benefit concert?”

  “Benefiting what?” asked Roth.

  “The Nicaraguan Contras,” said Terry. “Congress keeps trying to de-fund `em, but they’re fighting Communism in Central America. You could call it Contra Aid, ‘Rocking for the Republicans.’”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” asked Roth.

  “Just an idea,” said Terry. “Think about it. See ya.”

  A few years later Farm Aid and Live Aid were successful concerts. They were convinced the “aid” concept originated from Terry’s suggestion of Contra Aid. Terry had a way of predicting things. The Soviets shot down the Korean Airlines Flight in the Summer of 1983. Everybody thought the only solution was to defeat them in combat.

  “No,” Terry argued. “I say we should just outspend `em. Make them try and stay with us militarily. We’re the United States of America. They can’t keep up with us. It’s that simple.” When all the pundits were finished analyzing how Reagan won the Cold War, Terry’s simple suggestion that the U.S. “outspend `em” was how they did it.

  Brad introduced Stan to an El Camino teammate of his named John Bruk. Brad had moved into an apartment in Redondo Beach with Bruk and a drug dealer named Brady James.

  Bruk and James were L.A. characters worthy of a Quentin Tarantino movie. Bruk had grown up in Mar Vista and attended Venice High, where he was considered one of the best pitchers in the city until he was thrown off the team for drug possession. By the time he finished (without graduating from) high school he was a minor scourge with the cops who patrolled the beach areas. He was 18 when he was convicted for drugs and assault. The judge told him he had a choice of jail or the Army. He chose the Army.

  Bruk was not great military material. Stationed in Alaska, he was thrown in the brig for stabbing a guy in a bar. It was self-defense. The man had come after Bruk because Bruk had been screwing his old lady. Bruk spent months in a cell until he was released and dishonorably discharged.

  Bruk was “6-3, 220 pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal,” as he liked to say. He loved baseball. It was his only wholesome joy. He decided to play at Santa Monica JC. After one week of Fall practice, Santa Monica coach Marty Berson kicked him off the team. It was early enough in the semester for him to transfer to El Camino. He lived with his alcoholic father and long-suffering mother, and had nothing else to do.

  At El Camino, he befriended Brad. He liked Brad because he was good-looking, and figured he was a worthy partner to “chase wool with.” Brad also had a car and a credit card.

  Bruk threw a baseball 90 miles an hour. Had he been harnessed and disciplined, he may have had a future in baseball. His lack of discipline and respect for authority drastically reduced his chance at success under the strictures of a team game like baseball, however. He was a remarkably good-looking guy who grew a beard and looked like a cross between the TV character Grizzly Adams and Jim Morrison during his “L.A. Woman” period. Bruk was as sure of himself with girls as any man Brad or Stan had ever seen. No female was off limits to him. His success ratio at “pulling pussy,” as he termed it, was incredible.

  Bruk was 24 by this time. When Brad wanted to find his own place to live, Bruk suggested his drug dealer, Brady James. James lived in an apartment near the beach. He was 30. James was a classic beach boy with long, bleach-blonde hair and a terminal tan. He played volleyball and surfed every day. He went to Santa Monica Pier a lot and played volleyball with Wilt Chamberlain. His “clients” included a lot of celebrities from the L.A. sports and entertainment world. He was handsome and possessed a phenomenal gravelly voice, formed from years of Tequila and cigarettes. Brady was a would-be rocker who claimed to have played with Mitch Mitchell in Amsterdam after Jimi Hendrix’ death.

  Brady’s uncle, who lived in Brentwood, was an old vaudevillian. Brady had a beautiful girlfriend who modeled part-time. He kept her at bay while chasing every other girl he came across. They were numerous. Brady had lost a roommate and needed somebody to make up the rent. Brad and Bruk fit the bill. Brad took the other bedroom, and Bruk slept on the rollaway couch in the front room.

  Bruk and James were in a constant battle to see who could get more women. Brad, now in full flower, was the younger, more wholesome man. He was able to hold his own with them. Their apartment quickly was dubbed the “tuna boat.”

  Stan thought this arrangement was too good to be true. He started hanging out with them and they made the L.A. scene. They went to bars, nightclubs and strip joints. They went to Yesterday’s in Westwood, Gazzari’s on the Strip, the Rainbow in West Hollywood, Barney’s Beanery off of La Cienega, Sloan’s on Melrose, the Red Onion in Redondo, Hennessy’s in Manhattan Beach, Flanagan’s (known as Big Daddy’s) in Marina del Rey, the Oar House on Main Street in Santa Monica, Mom’s in Brentwood, the Quiet Lady in Orange County, and discos in the San Fernando Valley. They mixed it up with actors, models, porn stars, hookers, athletes, celebrities and wanna-be’s of all stripe. It was the pre-AIDS era, and Los Angeles was at its height of conspicuous sexual consumption.

  Brad and Stan were not of legal age. They both went to the Department of Motor Vehicles, claiming to have lost their driver’s licenses. They filled out a form stating they were 21, and were issued temporary licenses. Combined with their ability to finesse and the relaxed nature of the times, they were allowed full access to a new adult Disneyland. The two suburbanites, rich and naïve by upbringing, got an education that cannot be learned in college.

  Bruk and Brady liked their drugs. Brad began to fall prey to drugs. Stan partook, but never cottoned to it. He smoked a little grass, snorted a few lines, but was able to say no. He did drink, however. He was still learning how to handle alcohol, and not very effectively. One night, he and Brady put down a bottle of Tequila, until Stan had a “peyote high.” He started having conversations with a “higher power.” He felt at the height of his drunkenness that he was talking to God. Stan took notes because he felt that he was being told the meaning of life, or something like that, and feared he would forget it after the effect of the Tequila wore off. He was right. His notes, which had seemed so lucid and of such importance when he wrote them, were unintelligible scribble when he attempted to read them the next day.

  Brady had Stan approach bands at the nightclubs they went to and told them that Brady had sung with Mitchell, was a local celeb, and would they mind having him sing one song? Most of the time, the answer was yes, so Brady sang “Down” by B.B. King. Brady never sang all the lyrics. He just sang “down, down, down” over and over again. He had the voice and enough stage presence to reasonably pull it off.

  Stan found a ratty old couch and brought it over so he would have a place to sleep when he came over, which became too regularly for his own good. He would get drunk and not want to drive back to USC on the Harbor Freeway. Staying at the pad meant for some interesting developments. Brady liked to go to Hollywood Park and gamble on the horses. He picked up one girl hitchhiking at the entrance to the San Diego Freeway. He brought her home, took her in to his room, and started having sex with her.

  “Stan,” Jay suddenly belted, “get in her!”

  Stan entered. Jay was screwing her. Stan had his pants off and put his manho
od on her mouth. He was not terribly excited, and what he had was as limp as cooked spaghetti. Not impressive. Stan’s tepid member touched the girls closed lips, but she did not kiss it or touch it.

  “You can wave that thing in my face all night long,” she said, “but until I get a line of coke, I ain’t gonna suck a Goddamn thing.”

  Stan decided that discretion was the better part of valor and left the room. On another occasion, Bruk brought some barfly back to the pad and started to get it on with her right in front of Stan. Stan offered to help out, which was fine with Bruk but not okay with the girl.

  “What kind of girl do you think I am?” asked the 21-year old girl, whose legs spread from one end of the room to the other.

  Bruk and the girl finished and fell asleep. Stan discovered he had wood of his own, and started to jerk off. He got up and stood above the girl, holding himself, not sure what to do. He was afraid to touch her, for fear that she might get angry, but he needed release. He jacked off on the girl. Amazingly, she did not wake up. The next day, she figured the crusty white stuff was Bruk’s.

  When Stan got off a plane at LAX with his teammates after a baseball trip, a stunning blonde rock musician named Peggy met him.

  “Are you Stan?” she asked.

  “I sure am,” he said.

  “Come with me,” she replied.

  His teammates boarded a bus for SC, while watching Stan leave with this beauty. Brady waited for them in his sports car.

  “I shoulda known it was you,” said Stan.

  “The night is young,” announced Brady. He, Peggy and Stan proceeded to barhop from Santa Monica to the South Bay. When they finally got back to the apartment, nobody was there. Bruk had a girlfriend in Westwood and Brad was visiting his mother.

  Brady was highly intoxicated. Peggy and Stan dug each other and started having a nice conversation in the kitchen.

  “I’m going to bed,” announced Brady. He expected Peggy to follow, but she stayed with Stan. Stan then made his move, and the two of them began having sex on Stan’s couch. Brady came back in, wondering where the hell his woman was. All he saw was the back of Stan’s ass and Peggy’s legs in the Johnny position. Brady joined in, and Peggy was all for it.

  Then something weird happened to Stan. He lost his erection while inside Peggy. It was very embarrassing. Neither Peggy nor Brady let him off the hook.

  “Jesus,” said Peggy, “most of my men can maintain an erection.”

  “Christ,” said Brady, “I bring you a stunning blonde and you go limp on me. What a disgrace.”

  Stan got up, got a drink of water, and watched Brady make love to Peggy. He masturbated himself, and after a while started to get the power back.

  “Move over,” he said to Brady, tapping him on the back.

  Brady pulled out and lit a cigarette. Stan entered Peggy again, feeling hard and excited. He went deeper and deeper with each thrust. Peggy started to get in the mood, squealing and squirming like crazy.

  “I’m cumming,” she announced. “Oh, shit, I’m…I’m cumming.”

  Indeed she did. Stan gave it to her hard and deep for about eight minutes. Then he pulled out, put himself between her breasts, and shot enormous streamers of semen, decorating Peggy with his glorious load.

  Brady observed his performance.

  “Man, that’s the best comeback I seen since SC beat Notre Dame in ’74, man,” he said in his gravelly voice.

  They high-fived each other.

  Brady found one 19-year old beauty at the bus stop. She was the classic Midwest story. Prom queen comes to L.A. to start a film career. Brady had plans for her, and it had nothing to do with a screen test. She was too smart for him, though. After staying at the tuna boat for a day (but not submitting to his charms), she escaped for the bus ride to Hollywood. A year later, Brady saw her doing a shampoo commercial.

  “Good for her,” he growled.

  Brad bought groceries. Brady and Bruk never did, but they ate his food. Brad woke up and found that Brady had eaten all his eggs. Worse, he had left the remains in a pan on the stove, and had not turned off the burner. The pan, which belonged to Brad’s mom, was burned beyond repair. Brad barged into Brady’s bedroom, where he was sleeping one off. He rocked him with his hand.

  One of Brady’s bloodshot eyes opened.

  “You ate all my eggs,” Brad accused him.

  “Hey, mon,” Brady gurgitated, “I didn’t eat your eggs.”

  While Brady was a scoundrel and con man who lived for sex, drugs, sports and gambling, down deep he had a relatively good heart. Most of his problems stemmed from substance abuse. He partied almost every night.

  John Bruk was charming, too, but he was a bad apple. Bruk had a girlfriend named Vanessa Tail-feather. She was of Cherokee descent on her father’s side, and hailed from Fresno. Vanessa was foxy as hell. She was a majorette with the UCLA band. She was smart, vulnerable and ambitious. A drama major, she would someday produce and direct independent films with an accent on Native American themes. Aside from her last name, however, she made no attempt to highlight her ancestry. Vanessa looked and talked like any other Valley girl. She loved to shop, party and have sex, which she was quite open about.

  Bruk had a way with women, but theirs was an odd match. He had little real education and was obviously a born loser. Stan theorized that Vanessa saw in him something from back home. Maybe unconsciously she felt that, being an American Indian, she could not do better than a guy like John, which was crap.

  Stan, the golden baseball star at USC, the lawyer’s kid from Palos Verdes, would have done anything to get a girlfriend like Vanessa. Vanessa flirted outrageously, which was just enough to drive Stan to distraction. She openly talked about hardcore sex acts with Bruk, in front of Stan. Vanessa made love to Bruk on the rollaway while Stan pretended to sleep on the couch.

  “I know you’re watching,” she cooed to Stan.

  “You’re driving me crazy,” Stan said.

  “Why don’t you join us,” she said.

  There was awkward silence.

  “Just kidding,” she said, laughing.

  “Jesus,” Stan said. He thought about jacking off, but decided to hold the edge - just in case.

  Stan woke the next morning when Vanessa crawled to the couch and blew him for about 10 seconds. Then she put her hand to her lips, indicating quiet, and crawled back in bed with John.

  “Gee, thanks, Vanessa,” Stan said, more frustrated than ever. “That really helps me out a lot.”

  Vanessa had a roommate named Marta Rubenstein. She was the original JAP - Jewish American Princess. Marta had gone to high school with John Elway at Granada Hills. She was always bragging about dating Elway, and how her “best friend” was “Three’s Company” star Valerie Bertinelli. It was always “Val this” and “Val that,” but nobody ever had known Valerie Bertinelli to call the apartment, or for Marta to spend any time with her.

  Marta was a blonde bombshell. She also was a virgin, as far as anybody knew. She despised Bruk, who she immediately recognized as being beneath her class. Stan tried hard to get her to go out with him. His recent adventures had totally changed his attitude with women. Suddenly, he was aggressive, asking girls out, trying to pick up on them in bars, and generally acting like he was God’s gift to women. Marta ignored his advances, which frustrated Stan because she often came along for the ride. Stan and Bruk often went to Vanessa’s off-campus apartment. They took the girls to football and basketball games. They even went to a gay dance club in Hollywood, which was an eye-opener for Stan. The girls wanted to see the place, and liked it because they could dance without being in a “meat market” atmosphere.

  These nights had the earmarks of a date, or double dating, except that all the kissing, holding and loving was between John and Vanessa. Stan would try to hold Marta’s hand, kiss her on the cheek, or put his arm around her, all to no avail.

  When Brad was brought around, it looked like the ice princess would break down.


  “I’m gonna dress up really sexy for this guy,” Marta told John when she got sight of Brad.

  She went to her room and returned in her most revealing short dress. It looked good for Brad, and Stan returned to his SC apartment that night. He was proud that it was his good buddy who had finally gotten Marta. It was as if she was the Germans holding out in the Argonne, and Brad was the American battalion that had finally broken their defenses.

  That is, until three in the morning when his phone rang. It was Brad, calling from a pay phone in Westwood. Marta had let him kiss her, but had not even let him come in the apartment, not even to make a phone call.

  Neither Brad nor Stan ever knew a man who had sex with Marta. Mike Hoffmeister saw her one night at the 32nd Street Cafe and Saloon and declared that he had done her, but that was as suspect as an O.J. Simpson alibi.

  John cheated on Vanessa every chance he got. He was capable of performing any time, anywhere. He would “service” Vanessa and be in some other girl’s pants an hour later. The youthful Stan and Brad almost idolized him. Almost.

  Brady saw him as a rival and declared that he got more women, or that his women were classier. John did more damage, cutting a sexual swath through Greater Los Angeles. He got coke whores on the street and 18-year old high school virgins. He had married women in the Valley. Bar girls, one night stands, girls he could not remember. He had slips of paper all over the place with phone numbers on them. He was an unorganized slob who never kept an address book. Stan had a meticulous address book, with the phone number of every girl who ever gave him her number. He wrote the numbers of John’s girls in his book, which John appreciated because he would call them.

  Stan became a running joke in the apartment. John, Brady and Brad all got their own girls. Stan was the “garbage man” who got their leftovers. Stan had no trouble copping to this.

  “I’m like Phil Esposito,” he said, in reference to the Boston Bruins hockey player who mainly just hung around the goal, knocking the puck into the net after Bobby Orr had created a melee near the net. What did Stan care? After years with no girlfriend, he was free and getting laid. With these guys, the leftovers were still high quality.

  An example was Joanie, a high school senior who John found at The Music Box on the Pacific Coast Highway near Pacific Palisades. He brought her home and took her into Brad’s room. When they were finished, Brad came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. He woke up Stan, sleeping in his regular place on the couch.

  “Hey, dude,” he said, “John and I’ve got some chick in my room who digs cock.”

  “Open up that towel,” said Stan.

  Brad did, revealing an impressive erection.

  “Let’s ddddddd-do it,” said Stan.

  So they did. The girl was a young hottie. Once the other guys were done with her, they left her to Stan. As usual, Stan did not mind “sloppy seconds.” He invited her to sleep with him, and held her tight through the night. He made love to her in the morning, and tenderly cleaned her in the shower afterward. Stan was grateful to get sex. He did not treat women like sluts. Joanie had been high the night before, and in the sober light of morning was questioning herself.

  “My mom’s gonna kill me,” she said.

  “You want to call her?” asked Stan.

  “You mean right now?” she said. “What do I tell her? ‘It’s okay, Mom. I just got picked up and fucked by three older guys. But it’s okay because none of `em came inside me.’”

  “You know what I think?” asked Stan.

  “What?” she said.

  “I think you’re beautiful,” said Stan.

  “You do?” she replied.

  “Any guy’d be lucky to have a fox like you for his girlfriend,” said Stan. “I’d love to go out with you some time.”

  “Really?” she asked. “I don’t think your friends would want to see me again. They just think I’m a little slut.”

  “I think you’re great,” said Stan.

  She was a rich girl from Brentwood, but a wild child who liked to hang out at dance clubs looking for musicians. John had fed her a line about being a drummer for somebody, and that was all she needed to hear. Stan got her phone number, and called her. He went out with her once, but she had a boyfriend who got wind of it and answered her phone when Stan called.

  “Is Joanie there?” asked Stan.

  “You listen, Stan,” said the boyfriend. “I know all about you, and Joanie don’t wanna see you no more, so if you call hear again I’m gonna call the police.”

  “You sir, are an idiot,” said Stan, hanging up the phone.

  One night Bruk and Stan were in the Oar House on Main Street in Santa Monica. Cher was there that night.

  “Watch this,” said Bruk, “I’m gonna fuck Cher.”

  “I think you’re amazing,” said Stan, “but I do not believe you can pick up on Cher.”

  “Betcha $50,” said Bruk.

  “You’re on,” said Stan.

  An hour later, Stan knew he was $50 lighter when Cher and Bruk were locking lips.

  “See ya tomorrow,” Bruk said to Stan as he headed out to Cher’s limo arm-in-arm with her. “And have my fitty for me, bra.”

  Stan was happy to lose the bet. Hey, it’s Cher!

  “Perty good, perty good,” he mimicked Jim Morrison. “Perty neat, perty neat.”

  All good things must come to an end. Stan’s “education” became all too real on the night of his twentieth birthday. Stan drove John and Brad to The Music Box. Brad scored early and left with a girl, leaving Stan and John. John spotted a disco girl in a halter-top, and started to talk to her. Suddenly, John moved quickly.

  “Get the car,” he told Stan. “We’re in.”

  Stan went around and got the Plymouth convertible. It was the perfect vehicle to tool around the beach towns of Los Angeles. John and the girl came out, and got in the back seat of the car. Stan was not introduced to the girl. He did not say two words to her.

  They were driving home. Stan decided to take surface streets instead of the freeway, for some reason. The idea was a two-on-one. They passed Flanagan’s on Lincoln Boulevard in the Marina. Now it is a giant Kinko’s Copies store, but it was a legendary pick-up spot in L.A.’s disco era. People called it Big Daddy’s because the image of a Big Daddy Bigbucks character dominated the front facade of the building.

  Shirley had bought Stan a disco shirt, and God help him, he actually wore it once or twice. But disco fever was on the wane, and Big Daddy’s was now attracting mostly black people.

  “My friend’s in there,” the girl said. “Stop. I have to go in there.”

  “Hey baby,” Stan said, “I don’t wanna go in that place.”

  “Yeah, but my friend’s in there,” she said. “I have to go in there.” Stan reluctantly pulled in to the parking lot, and they entered Flanagan’s. Another reason Stan did not want to go in was because he had been kicked out of there for putting his dick in a girl’s hand while they slow danced. She went to the bouncer, who 86’d him, saying, “I know all about guys like you.”

  That actually made Stan feel good, because he had thought it was cool to be a guy like that. Stan’s Christianity was in question his sophomore year. He would need it on this night.

  The bouncer who had kicked him out was not working on this night, so Stan was able to get in. Once inside, the guys had weird vibes. The girl went off to do her thing, and Stan and John did theirs. The place was crawling with white babes and black dudes looking to score. A pervasive, yet innocent, sexuality permeated the atmosphere. Deadly viruses, sexually transmitted diseases and “safe sex” were not on people’s minds. Flanagan’s was a poor man’s Studio 54.

  Stan thought the ménage a trois was off. Then the girl came up them.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  Back in the car, John and the girl again got in the back seat. Stan hardly said three words to her. He did not even know her name. Stan was legally intoxicated. He started driving south past the airp
ort, on to Sepulveda and past the airport. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw John kissing the girl. He had her halter off and was sucking her breasts. She was moaning and enjoying it.

  So far, so good.

  Stan maneuvered through Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, and into Redondo. Just before Catalina, a Redondo police car came up behind him, flashing its lights. Stan parked.

  The girl jumped out of the car.

  “They held me against my will,” the girl yelled, running to the cops.

  “Jesus,” Stan muttered.

  Both cops drew their guns. Stan and John were ordered out. They were made to spread-eagle against the car, handcuffed and read their rights. They were ushered into the squad car, and driven to the city jail.

  “Why were we stopped?” asked Stan while they drove there.

  “You were swerving,” said the cop, “and the girl appeared to be struggling with you.”

  “She wasn’t struggling with me,” said Stan. “She was making out with my buddy in the back seat.”

  “She was in the front seat,” said the cop.

  “She was in the back seat,” said Stan.

  “She was in the front seat,” said the cop, “and she was being held against her will.”

  “She never asked to be let out of the car,” said Stan. ”This is wrong.”

  Stan reiterated that as far as he could see she had been making out with John in the back seat.

  “This is just crazy,” Stan muttered.

  “You callin’ me a liar?” said the officer.

  Stan, the attorney’s son, was smart enough to zip it up.

  At the jail, they went through the booking process, and were told they were being arrested on suspicion of kidnapping and sexual assault.

  “What’s the punishment for kidnapping?” asked John.

  The cop picked up a dog-eared codebook and found the page.

  “You can get death for that,” he said, smiling. Stan was scared out of his mind, but deep in the back of his brain a tiny voice was saying, He’s fuckin’ with you because he can.

  “John,” he told Bruk, “don’t open your mouth again without a lawyer.”

  Stan was allowed a phone call.

  “Hello,” said Dan. It was after midnight. Stan had not returned his earlier call wishing him a happy birthday.

  “Dad,” said Stan, “it’s me.”

  “Happy birthday, champ,” said Dan.

  “Dad,” said Stan, “I’m in jail.”

  Stan explained what had happened. Dan listened to all of it. He was as calm as could be, and assured his son that everything would be just fine, and that he had his full support.

  Stan hung up the phone, and thought to himself, Jesus, the guy calls me an asshole if I spill water on the kitchen floor, but now this and he’s no problem.

  Dan was like that. He could be miserable to live with, but when times got tough, he was the best friend a guy could have.

  John was the first to be questioned. The girl had told the officers that he was the mastermind of the operation; that he had hit her, assaulted her, forced himself on her sexually, and would not let her leave when she tried to get away. Then the cops informed John that they had another warrant out for his arrest. He had sexually assaulted a girl in the alley behind his mother’s house in Mar Vista, and she had pressed charges. The cops had come looking for him there, but could not find him. His mom claimed not to know where he was, and there were no formal record of his residence in Redondo. John had not told the guys about it, and figured it would blow over.

  “You’re fucked, my friend,” said the detective, a dark-haired, handsome Latino man with a moustache, who was in his early 30s.

  Stan was brought in.

  “My Dad’s a lawyer,” he said. “I don’t know what the hell this is about, or what you got on John, but I didn’t do shit.”

  “Listen to me, dipshit,” said the detective. “I deal with punk rich pricks from the peninsula all the fucking time, and I got enough on your ass to put you behind bars for 30 years.”

  “I don’t know what she said,” said Stan, “but I never touched her and I didn’t do a thing. I better get a lawyer.”

  “Perps who commit crimes always want their lawyer,” said the macho detective, obviously trying to get Stan to take a dump in his pants. “Fuck lawyers. Just tell me everything I wanna know if you know what’s good for you.”

  A tiny smile worked the side of the cop’s mouth. Stan was shaking, too scared to think, but he saw that little smile. Suddenly, something inside him kicked in. He became calm. He put himself in another place, on the mound with the bases loaded in a tight situation. He had pitched his way out of tight spots many times before. The reason he performed well under pressure was because he wanted the ball. There was an inner mechanism that allowed him to remain calm and collected in a crisis. Now was one of those times. This was different, yet the concept was the same.

  Stan leaned back in the chair. He casually folded his leg over the other as if he was sitting in somebody’s living room.

  “Alright, Detective…” he said, “…Martinez is it? I’ll tell you the God’s honest truth. But before I do, I wonder if you’ll do me a great courtesy.”

  “What?” said Martinez, sensing this change in demeanor.

  “I got a can of Copenhagen that was confiscated from my coat pocket,” Stan said. “That’s like cigarettes, only smokeless. Could you get that for me and I’ll give you everything.”

  A few minutes later, Martinez returned with the snuff. Stan packed in a nice fatty, and spit into a garbage can under the table. Then he leaned back and looked disconcertingly into Martinez’s eyes.

  “Here’s what I know, Detective Martinez,” he said. “You’re about 30 years old and this is Redondo, not the L.A.P.D. Not much happens in Redondo. Some drug running, mostly down by the pier, but the Feds get the juicy stuff and leave you guys dealing with dopers and drunk drivers.

  “You’ve seen too many movies and that ‘I got you for 30 years’ stuff is from one of them. I also have an advantage over you. While you are not really sure if I’ve committed a crime - actually you’re pretty sure I didn’t - I possess actual knowledge that I didn’t. So I’m working on that premise. You’re arguments to the contrary, should you choose to go in that direction, will have the same effect on me as saying, oh, I don’t know, that California is not a State in the Union. You can say it isn’t. I can even nod my head yes, like I agree with you, but I will still have this knowledge that I’m right and you’re wrong. Do I make myself clear?”

  Martinez just looked at him.

  “Here’s what happened tonight,” said Stan.

  Stan went on to give details of how they found the girl in The Music Box, on PCH near the Palisades. He never knew her name. She was in the back seat of the car with John. They stopped at Flanagan’s, and then drove to Redondo. Again, she and John were in the back of the car.

  At this point, Martinez became agitated.

  “See that’s where you’re fucked up,” he interjected. “I got two officers say she was in the front seat.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective,” Stan replied calmly, spitting juice into the can. “They’re mistaken.”

  “They’re trained professionals,” said Martinez. “You telling me they’re liars?”

  “They’re human beings,” said Stan. “I drive a convertible but the top was up with a plastic back window that’s fuzzy, and light shines off it in a weird way. Or maybe there wasn’t enough light. What it breaks down to is this: Maybe they think everybody was in the front seat. Maybe they’re fairly sure everybody was in the front seat. I’m not kinda, sorta, fairly sure everybody was in the back seat. I actually know they were in the back seat, period. End of discussion about that.”

  Stan elaborated on John kissing the girl. He had her top off and was sucking her breasts. He said that he thought she was enjoying it. Stan freely admitted he was horny and was hoping to have sex wi
th this attractive girl at the apartment. He added that he had no knowledge of the sexual assault allegation against John from behind his mom’s house, but John was aggressive with girls and drank too much.

  “He’s my friend,” said Stan, “but that is not surprising.”

  When Stan was finished, he just sat back. Martinez said nothing for a while.

  “You can go back to your cell now,” he finally said.

  Stan spent a sleepless night with John in the cell. At six in the morning a uniformed police officer came to get him. He was led into Martinez’s private office.

  “You’re free to go,” said Martinez, smiling. “You can pick up your stuff on your way out. Sorry about what happened. I like to get a piece of tail now and then, too. I know what that’s all about.”

  “What about the girl?” Stan asked.

  “She’s a whack job,” said Martinez. “Druggy. Total nut case. Nothing she said held up, nothing was the same twice.”

  “Then what about John?” asked Stan.

  “John Bruk’s a menace to women,” said Martinez. “We’re holdin’ him on sexual assault charges from some girl who said he tried to rape her in L.A. He’ll do time if the system works.”

  “Jesus,” said Stan.

  “Want some free advice?” Martinez asked.

  “You bet,” said Stan.

  “You seem like a good kid,” he offered. “Stay away from guys like Bruk. Those guys’ll only bring ya down.”

  “Thanks,” said Stan, and he left. As he was walking out of the Redondo City Jail, it occurred to him that he had committed a crime, but had gotten away with it. He had been driving under the influence of alcohol, no question, and very likely had been weaving on PCH. That had aroused the police suspicions in the first place.

  If the girl had not started yelling that he had been held against her will, he would have gone through a curbside sobriety check, and he might have failed. He would have failed a breath or blood alcohol test as sure as he was alive. But the kidnapping allegations had diverted the cops from the DUI. The kidnapping obviously had no merit, so he had escaped unscathed. He smiled to himself.

  Stan walked to where he had parked his car the night before. It was not there. He had parked in a tow away zone. The cops had not noticed, or if they did, they did not care, or they were busy. The bottom line is that his car was towed.

  Stan took note of the phone number to call, found out where the car had been towed, and walked for 45 minutes to Torrance, where the lot was. The gate was open. He saw his car. There was no attendant minding the store. He felt for his keys.

  “Oh, yes,” he said to himself determinedly.

  Stan proceeded to the car, unlocked it, got inside, turned the ignition, and drove the beast out of there. He had a huge smile on his face when he heard some guy calling, “Stop.”

  “Fuck yooooouuuu,” Stan said breezily. He was taking his property home. Boy, did that make him feel good.

  Luckily, Stan’s “kidnapping” experience never reached the USC baseball program. Bruk’s arrest was publicized in the Daily Breeze and the Santa Monica Evening Outlook, with no mention of Stan. Bruk was kicked off the El Camino baseball team.

  Stan’s biggest regret was having called his dad. If he had not made that call, there was no reason for the old man to have found out. After Dan had found out, he got in touch with John’s mother. A few weeks later, she called Dan at work and asked him to represent her son. Dan met with John, Stan and Mrs. Bruk, at the L.A. County Jail, where John had been transferred.

  “Mr. Taylor,” she said, “my boy’s being held on $30,000 bail. We’re poor people and you’re a lawyer up on the hill. I’m askin’ for that money from you, on account of my boy.”

  Dan was a sentimental, generous man. Mrs. Bruk looked desperate. Dan looked at Stan, who really wanted to say, “Don’t even think about it.”

  Instead, Stan quietly said, “He’s my friend, Dad.”

  “If he’s your friend,” said Dan, “then I’ll provide the money.”

  Dan told Mrs. Bruk he was not a criminal lawyer, and although he had handled a few special cases, like Mike Lodeen’s, he did not feel that an assault case was the kind of law he would be comfortable or competent handling. In truth, he wanted nothing to do with representing the lowlife John Bruk. He recognized him as trash from the moment he saw him.

  Dan was stunned that his precious son was hanging around with a hoodlum like that, but he did understand it. Stan was sprouting wings. Seductive guys like Bruk were out there, saying, “You’re in L.A., you’re young, let’s cut loose and have fun, man.”

  The girl dropped her case against Bruk when the assistant district attorney explained what it would be like on the witness stand. She had worked as an escort and had a reputation for picking up guys at biker bars. She had big hair and big breasts. Her past promiscuity would be brought out in trial. She had been on her knees blowing Bruk, and had only rebuffed intercourse with him because she was on her period when John tried to force himself on her.

  Mrs. Bruk called Stan at USC.

  “Tell your Dad not to worry about the bail money,” she told Stan. “We take care of our own.” She did not tell Stan that they did not need the money anymore, preferring to proffer the fiction that the family could come up with the dough without the help of some fancy P.V. lawyer.

  John Bruk was simply unable to stay put of trouble, though. Without baseball, his last vestige of self-discipline, he hooked up with some Hell’s Angels on a meth lab operation in Lancaster, and was arrested again. When his date was set, Mrs. Bruk called Stan.

  “I don’t have a car,” she told Stan. “Since John let you stay at his apartment rent free, I think you owe it to him to drive him to Lancaster for his court date. It’s Monday at eight in the morning.”

  Stan muttered that he would do it. In the course of the conversation, he told Mrs. Bruk that he would be at his parent’s home on Sunday night. Then he started to think about it. He knew Bruk would never do it for him. He also knew Bruk never paid rent at the apartment. Brad paid half, and Brady paid half. Stan crashed there occasionally and provided a lot of food and alcohol. He used to take Bruk out to dinner, using Dan’s credit card. When they went bar hopping, he often did the driving.

  I don’t owe that guy a damn thing, he thought to himself.

  Shirley had a friend named Maggie. Maggie was divorcing her husband, and was no longer staying in their house. She and her youngest son were staying at the Taylor’s house. Maggie was a substitute teacher. She had never liked Stan. She thought he was arrogant and showed no respect for his elders. She had been one of those little league parents who hated the Taylor’s because their teams always won. The truth is, her older kid, Reggie, could not hit Stan with a 10-foot pole. Somehow, she had ended up in a tennis club with Shirley. Now they were friendly. The Sunday night before Stan was supposed to drive Bruk to Lancaster (about a two-hour haul), she was at the Taylor’s house.

  Everybody went to bed. Stan had decided he did not want anything to do with driving the derelict Bruk to Lancaster. He knew Mrs. Bruk had the phone number to the Taylor house. Sure as heck, if he was not at their Mar Vista home at six in the morning with bells on, she would be calling. So, he took the phone off the hook and stuck the receiver under a pillow on the sofa.

  The next morning at 7:00 a.m., Stan was snoozing peacefully when the door to his room opened. It was Maggie. She was an ugly woman anyway, but a real sight in the morning with her hair shaped like a pillow.

  Stan thought it was a bad dream, until Maggie opened her mouth.

  “You Goddamn son of a bitch,” she spouted venomously. “I’m a Goddamn substitute teacher. I only work when I get phone calls in the morning, and you had that fucking phone off the hook, so I’m not working today, you fucking fuck.”

  Stan stared at her, then put the pillow over his head and said, “No wonder you’re husband split on your ass.” From under the pillow he heard her say, “You’re out of this house. I
want you out. You’ll never stay here another night.”

  Stan was unsure whether Maggie simply had lost touch with reality. She apparently forgot that she was a guest in his house, not the other way around. She slammed the door behind her. Everybody in the house could hear her screaming and swearing. Stan felt bad for a second. Then he figured that she deserved it.

  Fuck her, he thought to himself.

  Over in Mar Vista, Mrs. Bruk called and got a busy signal, but she was not calling Stan. She was trying to track her son down. He had gone to a strip club in West L.A. the night before, and talked his way into going home with one of the girls. He was snoozing at the stripper’s Culver City condo at six. If Stan had busted his butt to pick him up, it would have been all for naught.

  Stan never saw John again. It had been a wild ride over a short period of time. John would be in and out of jail on minor and not-so-minor scrapes. Eventually a biker in Banning, near Palm Springs, would kill him. The biker caught him stealing his money and drugs, and screwing his old lady.

  Brady died a few years later of a drug overdose.