Caveat Emptor (3 page)

When I accompanied him, the three of us usually wound up in Little Italy, eating scungilli at the bar in Vincent's on Hester Street with Tony's hoodlum friends. Kathy was amused by the crush I had on her and sometimes, without the least warning, she'd put her arms around me and start kissing me right in front of Tony. He didn't mind at all. In fact, he enjoyed watching the blood rush to my head as I'd almost pass out in a swoon.

If Tony wasn't enough, I reached a new level of cultural enlightenment when I began spending time with Tom. Up until this point, I hadn't read a book in my life, and the only time I'd been to a museum was on a school trip. I assumed that the appreciation of such things as art and literature was for people of superior intellect who dressed in tuxedoes, went to the opera, and ate caviar.

Tom changed all that. Almost every night I was at his place smoking dope with him and listening to his stories. Tom was a storehouse of knowledge. He knew everything about art, history, and literature. I thought he was brilliant. He had the answers to everything—and if he didn't, he'd make them up. He was just the kind of person I wanted to meet. Before long, he had me reading books by Voltaire, Balzac, and Dostoyevsky, and appreciating art by masters with heroic names like Titian, Rembrandt, and Michelangelo.

Stumbling on the Castle was the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. It was a center of cosmic energy. I was deliriously happy. I couldn't sleep nights, thinking about the Castle and my new friends. My mother couldn't understand what had happened to me. Every weekend, there was another party made up of guests that Tony invited from Max's. These always included a few top fashion models, artists, actors, and even rock stars. As a practical contribution, I showed Tom and Tony around Jersey and served as chauffeur, especially at night coming home from Max's when they were too drunk to even walk to the car.

And Tom was the best friend anyone could ever want. Not only did he let me smoke all the pot I wanted, and not only did he give me a copy of the Marquis de Sade's
Juliette
for my birthday, but he was positively dedicated to getting me laid as well! What more could any teenager wish for?

Nineteen sixty-seven promised to be an exciting year. The Vietnam War was tearing the country apart; that spring, protests, rallies, and be-ins were held in Central Park. I finally graduated from school and was good for absolutely nothing. Tony, Joyce, and Tom, black cape and all, surprised me and came to my graduation. They sat right in the first row of the auditorium and cheered when I got my diploma. Afterward, they took me to Max's for dinner.

The prospect of going out and finding a job with a bogus diploma in order to run a printing press for the rest of my life was never even a consideration. For the time being, I had no intention of doing anything except hanging out at the Castle and studying art. And what better place to advance the curriculum than the Metropolitan Museum of Art? For Tom and Tony, it served as the ideal pickup joint. I tagged along on their field trips every Sunday afternoon. Not only did I finally see paintings like those I remembered from the
torrone
boxes, but, curiously enough—and what would prove to be an important factor in my life—I developed an interest in the early European furniture I saw on display there.

I had no idea how I was going to use all this new knowledge about art, but through these expeditions I lost my fear of museums and galleries and was now able to hold a conversation on the subject. In addition, Tom allowed me to watch him paint as much as I wanted. He showed me how an ever-developing series of drawings became a finished work of art. It was fascinating for me to watch the creative process unfold before my eyes. I had always assumed that paintings were created by an artist guided by some supernatural inspiration, instead of by a process of simple progressive steps.

In the late sixties, the Vietnam War was America's worst nightmare. No sooner had I graduated than the draft was ready and waiting with an order to report to Newark, New Jersey, for classification. If I passed the mental and physical examinations, I would be inducted on the spot, shipped to boot camp, and on my way to Vietnam.

I needed a plan fast, and Tom had the answer. He gave me a satirical instruction book titled
101 Ways to Beat the Draft
, which he'd bought for me in a head shop in Greenwich Village. It was filled with ridiculous suggestions designed to convince the doctors at the induction center that you were unfit for service. It suggested you talk to yourself, roll your eyes, prick holes in your arms, wear a dress, etc. However, the book warned that a rejection on these grounds came with a derogatory classification on your draft card. According to the book, 1-Ys were handed out to “physical wrecks and psychological misfits.” And the 4-F was reserved for the “incorrigibly wicked.” The book also warned that potential employers were required to check your draft status, and that a derogatory classification made your chances of getting hired very slim.

I read the book but had no idea of what I would do when the time came. I racked my brain trying to figure out a way to be undesirable. It was obvious that 99 percent of the suggestions were absurd, but it was the principle that was important.

It was a dreary gray morning when I and the other inductees were loaded onto an army recruiting bus in Hackensack, New Jersey, for the ride to Newark. It was a depressing journey through an endless industrial landscape of rusting factories, oil refineries, and garbage dumps.

The bus pulled up to a dirty nondescript building in a run-down part of town. We were ordered out. Once inside, we were directed to a classroom where an old windbag in a military uniform treated us to a patriotic sermon. Then they handed out an aptitude test. It was about four pages long, containing math, science, and history questions.

I decided this would be my starting point and deliberately scored low. In fact, I scored so low that I was ushered into an office for a chat with the shrink.

The doctor began by asking me a few questions about the extent of my schooling and background. Finally he wormed his way around to the aptitude test and said he thought it rather unusual that anybody could score so low.

“I thought I did pretty good!” I answered.

Satisfied with that, the shrink turned his attention to questions of a more personal nature.

“Have you ever taken any drugs?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“What kind?” he wanted to know.

“Pot, acid, and speed,” I confessed.

“How often?” he inquired.

“Every day,” I assured him.

The psychiatrist studiously noted all my responses on a pad and then asked me in a frank manner, “Have you ever received psychiatric help or been admitted to an institution?” At this point, I exploded with indignation. “Whadda I look like?” I yelled. “Some kinda degenerate?!”

He calmly recorded my response in his growing report. He thanked me with a smile and directed me to a waiting room, where I sat for an hour with two other interviewees. They looked like zombies and were oblivious to their surroundings. If they were acting, they were doing a beautiful job.

Finally my name was called, and I was ordered into a room down the hall where I found a serious-looking officer seated behind a desk. He looked up at me and picked up a piece of paper. “I'm sorry, Ken,” he said, after glancing at the sheet, “but the Armed Services aren't interested in your service at this time. You'll be receiving your classification in the mail in a few weeks.” I tried to look disappointed and left. I couldn't wait to get out of that building.

Weeks later, when my draft card came in the mail, the classification 1-Y was stamped on it in bold letters. It was the perfect complement to a diploma from Bourbon Tech. Together they virtually guaranteed I'd be thrown out on my ass if I even approached an employer for a job. I knew I had struck out big-time and had no idea where I was heading in life. But during this period I also came to realize that the more I studied paintings, whether in Tom's books or at the museums, the more I understood how they were painted. It was as if they were breaking down into their simplest elements right before my eyes.

At this point, looking at paintings was the only thing that made sense in my life. Somehow I understood the logic behind their creation. I felt an irresistible force driving me, telling me that I could paint them too.

My artistic career began that summer when I explained my feelings to Tom. He went around the studio and gathered up some old tubes of paint and a few brushes. He suggested that I follow the example of the old masters and begin by painting copies of masterpieces. Hunting around through some books, Tom came up with a portrait of Christ by Rembrandt.

It was my first try, but I executed the Rembrandt with a genuine understanding of color, tone, and texture, as though I had always understood how to handle paint and brushes. I was very excited and couldn't wait to show it to Tom. I raced to the Castle. Tom was amazed when he saw it and called my mother to tell her how impressed he was. My mother was delighted that I had found such nice people at the Castle, people who were finally giving me some direction in life.

Tom lost no time finding more prints for me to copy, and with each consecutive painting I learned more. Soon painting became a compulsion and I couldn't wait to start another one. For me, this was a major turning point. Painting gave me a purpose in life. Now I didn't feel so bad about my 1-Y and promptly burned my draft card at the next antiwar rally in Central Park.

Next, Tom gave me books on two artists whose work we had enjoyed looking at under LSD. Hieronymus Bosch and Pieter Bruegel were two early Flemish artists who specialized in bizarre allegorical paintings. In fact, I don't think it would be an exaggeration to say that Bosch was probably on an acid trip himself when he painted his pictures. As for me, I didn't need any prompting at all to begin copying their work as well.

One day Tony showed up at the house with two girls he knew from the back room at Max's. The girls were Andrea Feldman and Geraldine Smith, two of Warhol's superstars from his films
Trash, Imitation of Christ
, and
Bad
. Andrea, spaced out on drugs twenty-four hours a day, lived in a state of complete fantasy. She claimed to have taken LSD over four hundred times. Geraldine, in contrast, was cool and in complete control. Beautiful, thin, and sexy, she had dark red hair and a sculptured face, and she arrived in a fishnet minidress that left nothing to the imagination.

The girls needed a break from the city. They promptly moved into an empty room at the Castle and I made friends with them right away. They were great fun—and soon we were cruising around in an old Mercedes-Benz I had just restored, getting stoned and going to the Dairy Queen for milkshakes, little realizing that my fate was being sealed and life would never be “normal” again.

CHAPTER TWO

Ciao! Manhattan

P
rovidence could not have put Tom Daly in a better place at a better time. He was the psychedelic king of the Castle. Brilliant, rich, and talented, he lived in a paradise of booze, sex, and pot. And the world came to his door.

Tom called one afternoon while I was at home tuning up the old Mercedes. He wanted me to come over as soon as possible. He had some important news to share, and Andrea and Geraldine would be there too.

After dinner and under the suspicious eye of my mother, who was beginning to suspect that more was going on at the Castle than intellectual forums, I left for Fort Lee.

When I entered Tom's room, I found him seated with Geraldine at the table in the alcove. He seemed mesmerized by a coffee can placed on the table. When I approached, he motioned for me to take a seat across from him.

“What's that?” I asked, pointing to the can, on which his attention was focused.

“Open it,” he commanded. To my astonishment, the can was filled to the brim with a fine green powder.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Kief, one of the best grades of smoke,” Tom said. “It was a gift!”

Instinctively we began rolling joints, as Tom explained that the Castle was going to be used for the shooting of an epic underground flick entitled
Ciao! Manhattan
. The star, Edie Sedgwick, was the Marilyn Monroe of the underground movie scene. Tony had brought the Castle to the attention of the producers, and the kief was a goodwill offering presented to Tom for his permission to use the house.

Andrea called out from Tom's bathroom. She wanted me to keep her company as she tried a hundred different things on and asked me what I thought. She also wanted to know if I had any acid. I unwrapped a piece of foil extracted from my jeans, and we split a piece of filter paper. When she was finally ready, we joined Tom and Geraldine in the main room. Tom, who was already stoned on God knows what, was amusing Geraldine with stories as she lay back on the sofa, gazing up at the ceiling.