IT WAS
NOW the waning days of 1967. I was a sophomore, and my sister was a senior at
Beverly Hills High School. My brother, Robbie, was still in sixth grade at
Beverly Vista. Even though I wanted my own space, I still shared a room with
him before that fateful day when I finally convinced my dad to turn that garage
to a bedroom. Thus, in early 1968, I gained my independence and escaped to the
sanctuary of the famous (or infamous) Back Room.
My best friend and fellow songwriter at the time was Stephen Gries
or Adamick, depending on which father he was on better terms with. We were
first introduced by Russ Freeman that year on the front lawn of Beverly Hills
High School. He said something like, “Hey Haymer, this is Steve Gries, he plays
guitar too.” Two years later, Stephen, and his girlfriend at the time, Debbie
Griffin, and I drove up to Carmel, California to meet his real father for
the first time. Every older gentleman that walked through the door of that
restaurant we would say, "that's him” or "there he is" but when
the real Chick Adamick strolled in it was undeniable. Stephen looked exactly
like his father.
Beverly Hills High School in 1968 was (and probably still
is) a sub-culture of well to do progeny sprung from the loins of well to do
mothers and fathers making their living in the area's number one industry—showbiz.
Oh sure, there were many other families in insurance and law etc. but even they
had ties to the entertainment field. You couldn't help it, it was ubiquitous,
everywhere. Stephen invited me over to his house at 701 N. Alpine Dr. in a very
exclusive area of Beverly Hills. The streets were lined with tall alpine trees
and there was an elementary school playground right across the street. It was a
beautiful Spanish/adobe style home with a back house, an office, and recreation
room where his stepfather, Tom Gries, spent a lot of time honing his writing
and directing skills.
Stephen's mother, Mary Munday, hated me
at first sight. I don't know why I have that effect on people sometimes, but I
just do. I guess you either love me or hate me although I'd like to believe I
have found some kind of middle ground over the years. Or as Stephen more
delicately puts it “I had a suspicion that she disliked Jimmy for no apparent
reason. As you know my mom was very opinionated and even more stubborn. If she
liked something or someone then they could do no wrong, conversely, if she
didn't like them, they could do no right, ever. She loved Jon Marr because he
did the dishes and cleaned the ashtray. She didn't like Jimmy
because, when she eavesdropped on his phone conversation, after she came
up to me and said: I don't like that Haymer kid. He's a bad influence. I
know he's got you smoking pot and your gonna end up stoned and sent to
Vietnam where you will become a faggot junkie and get killed and it will
all be his fault. (Yeah, ok mom, have a valium). My mom (Mary) and I finally
came to excellent terms and understanding in the months before her
passing.”
One evening after Stephen and I were up in his room playing
guitars, his was a red Gibson SG, a 64 and mine was a 1952 Red Telecaster. That
guitar of mine is probably worth, even in this tanked economy about $30,000. I
wish I still had it. I think this particular evening was the one where we were
partaking of the herb and were busted by Moses himself. As Tom Gries was giving
his guest the dime tour, Charleton Heston had peeked his head into the room. I
panicked and dropped the lit joint on the yellow carpet and crushed it with the
well calloused fingers on my left hand. They came in the room, and I was
frozen. Stephen was too. I slid my body over trying not to expose the evidence
and reached for my guitar. Stephen got the cue and grabbed his and said, “We've
been working on a new tune, Dad wanna hear?” His dad awkwardly smiled
and said, “That's ok son, I was only showing Mr. Heston around.” He closed the door,
and we laughed our asses off then started playing Mr. Fantasy by
Traffic.
One night I called my house to ask permission to have dinner over
at Stephen's and I had a feeling someone was listening on the line, but I
didn't know if it was on my end or my mom's. All of a sudden, Mary comes
stomping down the stairway shouting, “That boy is not having dinner in this
house.” I was shocked, angry, and appalled. I hung up the phone and headed for
the wooden front door beyond the cold expansive marble foyer. I turned around
and gave Mrs. Gries a look as if poison darts were shooting out of my eyes. She
swore as long as she knew me that I had said the F word to her. I never did . .
. but I WAS thinking it.
After that, it was very difficult
to maintain a friendship. Now jam sessions were mostly at Oakhurst Drive or at
Alpine Drive when Mary was away, but that was a risky proposition. Stephen has
two younger half-brothers, Cary and Jon although Stephen was unaware this. Tom
Gries had adopted him at the ripe old age of one; as far as he knew Cary and
Jon were his blood. He had an older step-brother (who I think he thought was
his half-brother) Peter, who was a photographer, a bass player, and a big
influence on Stephen.
Cary and Jon were about eleven and ten respectively at the time,
and they made great lookouts. I guess it was fun for them – like a real game of
hide and seek. Tom was on my side. I guess it was the Jewish connection (even
though he was raised Catholic. His mother was Jewish but converted after
marrying Muggsy Spanier, the famous jazz horn player), or that he could see I
was sincere about my music, and he respected my discipline.
When Mary came home early one afternoon and caught me in the back
house Tom said, “Oh Mary for God sakes why don't you leave the kid alone.”
After being shown up, she stormed back into the house. I can only imagine what
the conversation in their bedroom was going to be about that night. He probably
spent it in his studio or some other room. The house was a mansion, at least in
my eyes it was.
Well Mary's son and I never went to
Viet Nam. We both had high lottery numbers or maybe it was because I'm
colorblind and flat footed and Stephen was extremely myopic. Stephen remembers
it like this. “Concerning Vietnam, I missed getting sent there by I think three
numbers in the draft. I had to go to The FBI bldg. in Westwood with Tom and had
a meeting with a five star general who wanted me to enlist right away. I said I
didn't want to go to another country and kill people for reasons I don't even
know on your say so. If they come on our US Shores, I will go to the front line
and defend America without question because I love this country. Well, I
ended up not getting called, and during that short time, I was listed as a
conscientious objector, (which was later dropped).”
Rest in peace, my brother, Stephen 11/13/1952 - 2/23/2024
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