1983 came in to
existence much like its predecessor, without much pomp and circumstance, but
with plenty of drugs and alcohol. Jim Phillips was raking in the dough since
the discovery of that Virgin Islands phone book in the storage closet at
Central Supply in Van Nuys. There was this balding, Middle Eastern looking
Englishman in his mid-thirties who was applying for a sales job one day at
Central Supply and he, of course, got the job. All you had to do to get the job
was to be able to speak a coherent sentence and know how to work a telephone.
If you could make at least one sale a day for a week they kept you, if not, you
were shown the door. His name was David George, and after talking with him at
the lunch break, I found out he, among other things was a musician. He had
recorded a solo album for A & M records in Toronto a few years before and I
figured he was a legitimate contender. David has a younger brother, Brian who is
an actor playing parts of the Indian or Pakistani guy that reminded me of Peter
Sellers in The Party. David could
have played the same parts, if he was so inclined, but he had talents behind
the scenes, as a director and writer, besides being musical. I have been
blessed, at least, to have known some very talented people in my life, and
David was another one of them.
One day after
work we got together and jammed. It wasn’t anything like Silverspoon or The Two
Guys, but it was doable. After awhile we wrote a few songs together, one
called, Too Hip for Hollywood,
another entitled, June Brides and January
Babies. The latter song was a bit old style country and reminded me of
something Ringo Starr might have recorded. It was a tale of a backwoods country
girl who meets a stranger and gets married in June. Unfortunately, there was a
baby born in January, and if you do the math that’s only seven months after the
shotgun wedding. There was a girl who worked at central Supply, Leslie, who was
hysterically funny and did a stand up routine daily in the office as well as at
The Comedy Store on Sunset Blvd in Hollywood from time to time—she also played
the tuba. We asked if she could come over to my mom and dad’s place on the
famed Oakhurst Drive and put down a rocking tuba part. She did and we thought
it was terrific.
One day while
searching for another phone book in the storage closet at work, I found a price
list from Daisytek which had the wholesale prices and costs of all the
typewriter ribbons and lift off tapes we were selling. I was shocked to find
out that the ribbons we were selling for $49.75 a dozen cost only $5.25. The
lift off tapes was even cheaper—$2.25 and Central Supply marked it up to
$37.50. When I showed the catalogue to David he gasped and said, “Why don’t we
start a company and sell this stuff. We could buy it from Daisytek and charge
half of what Central Supply charges, and still make a fortune.”
I said, “Sure,
it sounds good but there are other costs involved. We would have to get a Watts
line and an 800 number. We would have to think of a name and have it registered
in the newspaper. Stuff like that.”
“That shouldn’t
cost too much. We’ll do it for the music. We’ll hang a sign over the doorway
that will read, every sale is for the
songs. What do you think, James?”
I nodded my
head. “We are going to need some phone books and some leads. I can sneak a few
out by stuffing them in the back of my pants and you do the same. It is going
to take about a week, and get our existing leads, all of them, and fill up your
pockets with ‘em. I’ll do the same.” He agreed and our new company was in its
incubation period.
David
lived in a one bedroom apartment near Santa Monica Blvd. and Fairfax and that
is where the office of Independent Data Supply was hatched. We thought it was a
good name since we had declared our independence from Central Supply. We
acquired a post office box from a small store in the strip mall on the corner,
and fortunately there was a small Post Office right across the street from
that. It was perfect, or so we thought. I moved into a studio apartment on El
Cerritos a block up from Hollywood Blvd. I could see the Stephen J. Cannel
building from my second story bathroom window. It was a fairly large place with
hardwood floors and a huge bathtub in a tiled bathroom and a nice sized kitchen
with black and white tiles that reminded me of a place that could be in the
West Village in Manhattan. Bridget liked it too, especially when I would throw
on my skates and we would go outside, then fly down the smoothly paved, starred
sidewalks of Hollywood Blvd.
I
don’t know if it was the drugs I was indulging in, or the booze but I was
getting a bit moody and unpredictable. David and I had completely different
ideas on how the business should be run. He would call me constantly always
asking question about sales, supplies, and it drove me nuts. He is a Libra and
I am a Scorpio, not that it makes any real difference in the scheme of things,
but he always had to have things in balance and loved peace and harmony. I, on
the other hand worked best in chaos and, at the time, peace and harmony bored
the crap out of me. I wanted to make money and be left alone. I was not a good
partner and figured if I had a partner; it was going to be a silent one.
We
never did hang the sign over the front door with every dollar going toward the
music as we originally intended. In actuality, not one red cent went to the
music and we were bickering all the time like a couple of old Jewish women
playing Canasta. I knew Independent Data was doomed for failure, but I didn’t
want to go back to Central Supply with my tail between my legs, or start out
from the bottom again at some other company, so I tried to keep it together as
long as I could.
It
was now 1984 and foreboding thoughts of George Orwell’s novel resounded in the
back of my mind. I would now only make sales calls from the kitchen table in my
New York style kitchen and avoided David like the plague. I still enjoyed going
with him to the P.O. box and seeing the mail slot stuffed with checks—but that
was the only thing I enjoyed, everything else was a grind. I would still hang
out with Carrie and we would purchase a gram or two from her friend’s father,
Charles, whose other daughter was married to Stevie Winwood. We would stay up all
night, night after night, playing Greed, while Joe the chiropractor hid in the
closet trying to horde all the white powdery substance for himself. We spent
the days, when we got up early enough to see daylight, going to the Equestrian
Center in Griffith Park to watch Francie ride her thoroughbred Arabian horse
and see then jump over those wooden barriers together while Carrie and I drank
Bloody Mary’s.
By
this time BJ had moved back to Philadelphia for good leaving in his wake a
trail of bad deals, broken friendships and insurmountable debts. His art of
ripping everyone off had reached new heights and was beyond the realm of my
comprehension. He would never go back to LA again— if he did he would be a dead
man at the hands of some very disgruntled people. I still believe in the laws
of karma and knew I wouldn’t have to lift a finger—he would receive his own
just reward.
I
was beginning to think my using was getting out of control and thought back to
the year before when, after partying at Larry and Jeffrey’s place in Van Nuys
until the wee hours. There was the usual debauchery—stoned out naked people
with their nonsensical raps. I watched the scene with a combination of intrigue
and disgust while I indulged in the white powdery substance so freely
administered by Jeffrey. I never did get unclothed, maybe because I was a bit
ashamed of my hairiness or it wasn’t in my DNA to succumb to that level of
sleaziness, where Larry ruled as king. When I attempted to drive my Toyota
Corolla with the bald tires home, I found I was one of the only cars on Van
Owen, and noticed there was a cop car following me. I tried like hell to keep
it together, but that street had old train tracks and when my bald tires would
cross over them. The car would sway and swerve making it seem like I was under
the influence. By this time, after seeing the black and white in my mirror, I
had sobered up. I was pulled over and the cop gave me the field sobriety test
which I passed with flying colors, but when he looked in my back seat and saw
the dozens of unpaid parking tickets he threw the cuffs on my wrists and read
me my rights. I spent almost a week in LA County Jail and my very disappointed
father had to pick me up in the middle of the night.
Now,
back to ’84, I was starting to see the effects of my abuse. I looked tired and
was much too thin and I knew it was time for a change. I would walk down Sunset
with Bridget, the only sense of reality I had, and one evening I saw a meeting
going on. It was an AA meeting and I stood by the door watching with Bridget at
my side. I noticed that a speaker got up and talked about his rock n’ roll days
of using and abusing. I knew that voice, and as I got closer to the door I
could see it was my old friend, Doug Fieger. He was now sober and was receiving
his one year chip—what they called a birthday. I knew I was getting close to
stopping, but I was terrified to commit to never using again. It was a habit, and
I dreaded the thought of breaking it cold turkey. I rationalized it by thinking
I could cut down and get sober in baby steps. It didn’t work.
Charles
was your typical drug dealer who played those stereotypical games. He would be
happy to front you a gram of powder so you would be in the red and have to come
back for more, if nothing else but to pay him the hundred or so bucks owed. While
I was there, I had every intention of just giving him the money and leaving,
but I always caved in and fell victim to my cravings. I would leave with
another gram, even if I didn’t have the money. It was a vicious circle of
depravity and I was caught in his sticky spider web like a fly waiting to be
devoured. Every night was an attempt to balance my high. I would snort a line
or two, then drink a Peppermint Schnapps mixed with vodka to chill out the
effects of the high, then when I got too drunk, I would snort another line to
counteract the drunkenness while Bridget watched with, what seemed to me, to be
disapproval. I kept it together enough to make a few sales during the
afternoon, but just enough to perpetuate my self-deceptive, damaging lifestyle.
I was feeling sick all the time and had pains in my kidneys and thought that if
I kept using and abusing it was going to kill me. Something had to change, and
I knew the only person who could initiate that change was me. I was getting
close, but I wasn’t quite ready...not yet, anyway.
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