Chapter 19 - The Entrepreneur

Seated at my round, blue kitchen table looking out at the expanse of the park across the street from the Hollywood Bowl, I studied the yellow invoices from the Virgin Islands. I wondered if those leads would still be good, and if the wonderful folks whose names were printed on the sheets of paper would be upset with the underhanded dealings of Premium Services and Central Supply. I knew that Jim Phillips and Jeff Henry were now retired and these calls were going to be made by James Haymer, the president of Universal Data Supply—my own company. I wore all the hats. I was salesman, shipping clerk, customer service rep, head of the complaints department and secretary. After making my first sale on May 15, 1986, I celebrated by taking Bridget and Ginger for a walk in the park where I would meet up with Campbell Lane. Campbell was from Chicago and was in L.A. trying, like half the population of the city, to make it in showbiz—a thespian. She had two huge dogs, both St. Bernard’s, she would religiously walk in that same park and I had called to see if she would meet me there. She was a very pretty, twenty something with short brown hair and cherubic cheeks. I was attracted to her, but there was something that told me not to make any moves. I guess it might have been the dogs.

I had recently reconnected with Paul Downing, a left-handed guitar player and one of the replacements after Michael Kennedy quit Silverspoon and retreated to Philadelphia. Paul is from Yorkshire, England that is seven years older than me and is a guitar and classic car aficionado. At the time we were a couple of practicing alcoholics—practice makes perfect. He had a 24 track tape machine and an Aces console that was wider than a Cadillac in the living room of his house in Laurel Canyon. After a few drinks at The Rainbow or The Cat and Fiddle, we would head up to his home studio and record. I don’t know how he could focus on the job at hand after drinking what seemed like gallons of vodka tonics. For that matter, I don’t know how I managed to play any semblance of music on my J-200 or my 1958 Fender Telecaster, but we managed somehow even as polluted as the brown, mid-summer Los Angeles sky. Paul was also producing two female artists at the time that way he could kill two birds with one stone. And pretty birds they were. He had three Jaguars, a red 1962 Series I XKE, a British Racing green, 1958 XK-150 and a beautiful white 1954 XK-140 which were bone fide chick magnets. Teresa, one of the singers he was producing, had a couple of good songs. One country ditty Paul had written was called “Close up the Door” and it reminded me of something Dolly Parton or Charlie Rich might have penned. The other song of note was entitled “Marble Light” which was more of a Pat Benatar or Blondie number. I was impressed and was asked to overdub a few acoustic guitar parts to add to the plethora of electric guitars on his wall of sound. Phil Spector ain’t got nothing on those babies. The other female artist, Tria, had a really cool song I thought could have been a chart topper. It reminded me of something by ‘Til Tuesday or an updated Buddy Holly song. I knew it needed something. Then I thought of that Holly song, Everyday, with that bell-like child’s piano played by Norman Petty’s (Holly’s producer) wife in Clovis, New Mexico, and I knew that was it. I overdubbed a bell part on a synth and the song became magical.

We did some originals, too. One was in a Neil Diamond style called “You’re Never Alone” which I sang lead vocals on, and the other was one called “True Light” which, unfortunately, we never finished. Maybe it was the booze or the women that distracted us? I told Paul that I wanted to buy an English sports car and I couldn’t afford a Jag. The only thing in my price range was an M.G. or a Triumph. He said the Triumph TR-6 was a lot of car for the money. It was a poor man’s Jag. So I bought a Recycler and looked in the classified of the L.A. Times. We had found a few prospects. Paul was my mentor in that department and was kind enough to accompany me on our ventures to the far reaches of Los Angeles County searching for the right TR-6 for around a thousand bucks. Those things now go for over fifteen grand, but back then they could be had for under two thousand. So I knew I was in the ballpark. Paul had a friend, Richard Boyd, who owned his own car repair shop in the North Hollywood, so if the TR needed some repair, Richard would be the guy to see. Sometimes he let Paul work on his Jag’s there free. Richard, I found out later, was a helluva nice guy who, besides Beau, his Golden Retriever, had nobody to hang out with at the shop. He appreciated the company and we appreciated his expertise and his tools. It was a win-win situation.

After test driving three Triumphs I settled on a black 1969 Tr-6. It belonged to a guy who lived in the hood near Baldwin Hills. The car was a bit tricked out in an African American sort of way and I knew I would have to have it re-sprayed. That was one of the bargaining chips. I think he was asking $1500 for the car but after a bit of haggling, and Paul was the master at this, I got the car for $1000 on September 29, 1986. It was a speedy little gem that handled like a Puma around the curves of Mulholland Drive. I was hooked. Richard helped me tune the little beast up and suggested a friend who worked near downtown L.A. who had a paint shop. I had it painted maroon that went well with the black interior—all for the cost of $450. So for roughly $1500, I had an almost mint British roadster. I was a single guy with a sports car and his own company that was starting to turn a profit. All I needed now was a pretty blonde on my shoulder as we cruised down Sunset. From September 1986 to September 1987 a few things of note happened but nothing monumental except for the trip back to Detroit by way of New York in March. After the night at Karen Speilberger’s apartment in mid-town Manhattan, I swore to myself it would be the very last time I would ever snort cocaine. It was. Thank God!