Straight Life (64 page)

As far as sex went-Laurie and I went to the guestroom two or three times a week, and it was great. When we went we'd really be ready to make love; it was a place of love. Every now and then we'd get an extra day or an extra night-somebody had canceled-and we'd just have a ball. There was never once that we didn't enjoy it and didn't make love. Oh, a couple of times we had an argument for some ridiculous reason or other and didn't go, but the rest of the time-and this was for two and a half years, twice a week, every week-never once was there a failure. Never once was I unable to get an erection. Never once did I not come. Never once did she not come. It was perfect.

Sometimes I wonder if I had been able to go to Synanon as a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old, I wonder what might have happened with my life. Well, everything was going fine. I was blowing. Every now and then somebody would come in from the outside to play. Phil Woods dropped by, one of the greatest alto saxophone players living. He's a fan of Charlie Parker's. He's such a fan that when Bird died, Phil Woods got ahold of Chan, Charlie Parker's old lady, and he wooed her and wooed her and finally he married her. And he got Bird's horn when he married her. I don't know if he married her because he loved her or because she was Bird's old lady or to get the horn or what.

Hahahaha! They were together for a long, long time. He's a great player. I loved blowing with him, and I played beautifully, and I realized then than that was what I had to do. I had to play. But, as the people asked me in games, would I be playing like that if I was on the streets? They told me, "You'd be dead." I figured I'd better stay where I was.

Then something happened that turned everything around. There was an old guy in Synanon, Reid Kimball, a close friend of Chuck's, and he was dying of emphysema. He had to stop smoking. The doctors told Chuck that he should stop, too, but he couldn't. So all the kids in Tomales Bay, the fanatical followers, they got together with Chuck and said, "To help you stop we're going to stop smoking."

At first it was a voluntary thing. Then rumors started going around. Finally, one night a general meeting was called in the ballroom. I remember it was mobbed. I had a hard time finding a place for Laurie to sit. She sat down on a little rampway; I stood next to her, watching Jack, who was about to speak, and I had a strange premonition. I hadn't been so scared for a long time. Jack started talking about Reid and Chuck: "The founder has to stop smoking because he is also developing a lung condition." He went on to talk about how much things cost us, how we could get everything donated except cigarettes. Cigarettes was our biggest expense. "The kids in Tomales Bay have already stopped smoking. What do you say?"

It didn't stay voluntary long. Soon another general meeting was called and Chuck appeared in person and told us that smoking cigarettes would henceforth be as forbidden as the use of drugs and physical violence. After that meeting I went back to my dorm and took all my cigarettes and stashed them-in trash cans, under plants, all over. For a while it was an honor thing. People were supposed to turn in all their cigarettes, but you could still smell smoke in the air. Then they went through one of those crash-break-'em-down searches. Pretty soon almost everybody had stopped.

There were two bathrooms in my dorm. Next to my room was a little toilet and sink, and there was a fan over the toilet in the roof. You could turn the fan on, stand on the toilet, and the fan would suck the smoke out. I went in there every morning. I could hardly wait to get in there. We were put on restriction at that time, containment they called it, no walking, but I'd sneak away from the Clump and smoke at Santa Monica City College. In Santa Monica they have police helicopters that fly around. I got so panicked after sneaking around for a while that I was sure that the police helicopter was watching me at Santa Monica City College or wherever I was. I thought sure they knew I was in Synanon and that I was smoking and they were going to land and grab me. One of my duties on my job was to take the mail by car to the post office. I'd wrap two cigarettes in cellophane with a rubber band around them and stash them in my sock. I'd have a book of matches in my pocket. I carried gum and mouthwash and cologne. I smoked in the bathroom of the guestroom, and one time I was kissing Laurie and she started sniffing. She stuck her nose into my mouth. She said, "You've been smoking! You've been smoking!" She had her whole nose and half her head in my mouth: "You've been smoking!"

I couldn't stop smoking. People were turning in their husbands and wives. Guys were getting bald heads, losing their positions. I smoked like this for over a year and a half, every day. That's why I finally had to leave.

After I'd been in Synanon for about three years I knew I was as healthy as I was ever going to get, and I had to make a decision about what I was going to do next. I couldn't stay in Synanon and become a lifetime member. It was just a stopping-off place to straighten myself out before trying the world again. I wanted to play. The main thing was, I wanted to be free. I wanted to walk when I wanted to walk, smoke when I wanted to smoke; if I wanted to get loaded occasionally, I wanted to be able to do that. I'd stayed as long as I had because of Laurie. The thought of leaving her ... it was terrible. I couldn't imagine being without her, and I knew she'd never leave with me.

It was getting toward Christmas. That's always a hard time. I was at work, and a call came through on my telephone. It was Blackie Levinson. He'd been in Synanon two or three times while I'd been there, but I knew him from before, from jail. He'd split this last time about eight months ago. He asked me how I was doing. He said, "So-and-so is here, and So-and-so's here." They were all laughing. It seemed like they were having a ball. He said, "When are you leaving? Anytime you want to leave, you can stay at my place, you know. I can probably get you a job." His father owned a business. They sold electronic equipment.

I started thinking seriously about leaving then. And I thought that if Laurie really loved me, she would follow me. After I was gone she wouldn't be able to stand being without me. Blackie called a few more times and gave me a number where I could reach him.

Laurie and I were friends with a couple, life-stylers, who had an apartment in the Clump. They were going back east to visit their families for the holidays and told us we could stay at their place for a whole week while they were gone. Laurie sensed that I was leaving, even though I couldn't tell her. We had a wonderful week together in that apartment, and when it was over I gave Blackie a call and told him to come pick me up.

24

The Return of
Art Pepper

1971-1978

BLACKIE was a great big cat, about six, six; he looked like he weighed four hundred pounds. He looked like Murder Incorporated. He came to get me the next evening. I got the stuff I was going to take and put it in Blackie's car. One of the guys looked out a window, and he shook his head and waved goodbye. Blackie backed out of the driveway of the Clump, and my first thought was of Laurie down at the main club getting ready for a game. I had a feeling that was half elation and half sadness. Blackie said, "Oh, man, it must be great to get out of that fuckin' place, fuckin' assholes!" The only thing I wanted now was to get loaded. I'd saved about twenty-five dollars from my WAM. I told him to stop at the first liquor store we came to, and I bought a pint of brandy. As soon as it hit me, I felt better.

Blackie lived in Inglewood in one of these nondescript apartment houses with a pool in the middle. There's a million of them in Southern California. We got to his pad and sat down, and I asked him, "Man, did you save me any methadone?" I knew he was on the program. He said, "Oh, man, I'm sorry. I can't. I need every bit that I get." I said, "Well, I thought you'd save me some." He said, "Don't worry. I knew you'd have eyes to score. How much money have you got?" He called up a guy we both knew, Fred, that used to be in Synanon. He talks and gives me a kind of a smile. "Ok. We'll see you." He hangs up the phone. "I told you I wouldn't let you down. Everything's straight. Fred's dealing."

Fred came over. I got loaded. I forgot about Laurie, about my problems. It was a great night. I woke up the next morning, and I thought, "What am I going to do now?" I had no money. Blackie had a day job. He'd get up real early in the morning and drink his methadone; he'd go to work-"I'll see you about four o'clock"-and leave me sitting there thinking about Laurie and wondering what I was going to do.

Blackie tried to talk me into getting on the methadone program. He got a friend of his, Carl, to drive me to the Veteran's Hospital at Brentwood. I had an interview with a secretary. She asked about my health. I mentioned that I had cirrhosis. She said, "That ends that. You won't be able to get on the program, because methadone is very bad for your liver." This girl just confirmed my fears. I'd already had it in my mind, that I'd die if I got on the methadone program.

I went on like this for a while, hustling Blackie, trying to get money from him so I could score a couple more times. That was all I could do, drink and score. Blackie was getting drug. He was mad at me because he felt I didn't really try to get on the program. He said I could have got on if I'd really forced it. Nothing was happening for Blackie. His father owned a big factory, but Blackie had blown all that. He was driving a truck for the Salvation Army.

One day I got a phone call from someone who'd been in Synanon with me, inviting me to a party. A group of people who'd left Synanon and hung out together had heard that I was out and staying with Blackie, and they wanted to help me. They looked down on Blackie; they felt he wasn't really trying to help himself. He was trying as hard as he could. They invited me to a party at an apartment in Hollywood. Blackie drove me. I said, "Why don't you come in?" He said, "No, no. I don't like those people."

There were fifteen or twenty "splittees" at this party. We ate and drank and reminisced about things that had happened at Synanon. They asked me how I felt about being away from Synanon. Did I miss Laurie? What was I going to do? I said I wasn't sure. I was afraid to get back into music for a lot of reasons. I didn't know whether I could make it, playing, after all this time, whether I could get back into a field which is very difficult and competitive, whether people would give me the opportunity, whether I was physically able. I realized that the only times I'd been really happy were when I was working, like in the Paymaster's Office in San Quentin or in bookkeeping in Synanon, so I was thinking about getting a job where I wasn't playing music all the time, just playing for kicks and holding a job where I could make a living in another type of endeavor.

Bob and Nikki Deal had a proposition to make me. Bob had recently opened a health food bakery in Venice, Good Stuff Bread. They lived next door to the bakery; they had an extra room, and they told me if I'd like, I could stay with them and work with Bob, helping around the bakery, keeping the books. I told Bob I'd think about it. He told me he had a car, a little Honda that I could use. That was what finally made me decide to stay with them.

Carl drove me to Bob's house. Bob showed me my little room in the back of the house. It was a large house. In front was Nikki's studio; she was a commercial artist. My room was off the enormous kitchen and dining area. There was a desk and a bunch of windows, a bed in the corner, a chair, a big closet and a little bathroom with a shower, a toilet and sink. It was a nice room and very convenient. I could go in there and close the door and feel safe.

Bob made a heavy dark brown bread, supposed to be very good for you, and a carrot cake, a banana cake, and an apple cake all out of whole wheat. I took care of ordering the labels, ordering supplies, checking the big freezer making sure the bakers had enough to work with-nuts, honey, flour. I'd straighten the place up and get it ready for the day's work. I'd slice the bread and cakes and wrap them, put labels on them and price them. I'd set up the window display. I'd fill the orders and sometimes make deliveries. There were several delivery guys. Each had a sales book; he'd be billed for whatever he took out, and all that had to be watched, so they didn't cheat us. Sometimes I'd put on big rubber gloves and wash trays or sweep and mop the place. Then Bob would come in and say, "I'm going to take over for a little while so you can go do the books." I'd walk back to my room. I made out all the paychecks, took out the taxes, did the accounts payable and accounts receivable. I had to make everything match out. That was hard, hard, hard. Faye, my old boss in the Synanon book keeping department, was a splittee now, too. She'd come around once a month and help me when we made out a sheet that had to be sent in to the government. Every day I'd go to the bank and deposit all the money. Sometimes I'd have as much as twelve or fifteen thousand dollars. Then I'd go to the post office and pick up the mail. I'd take all the mail that had to do with the business and go through it.

The truck drivers came in at about three or four. I'd check them in. I'd take all the spoilage and throw it away and do an inventory on what they'd brought back. After they left, the people that worked in the bakery would want to talk to me-there wasn't enough of this left, or somebody had an argument with someone and I'd have to straighten them out. The phone would ring. Somebody didn't get their apple cake. The honey place would say they couldn't make their delivery. Bob would be in and out asking for things and giving orders. At five, I'd check out the register, take the cash to the house, put everything away.

At five thirty, we'd have supper. Nikki would come in with some Hamburger Helper or a salad. We had to eat at that particular time, and if we weren't on time, she'd flip out. We'd eat in the little living room in front of the TV, and then the dishes were put in the sink for Bob to wash. Sometimes I did it. After dinner, it was time for me to do the daily report. Bob usually went back to the bakery to fill last minute orders or experiment with new recipes.

At first the daily report took me two or three hours; it was very complicated. I used an adding machine and made everything jibe. I'd enter all this into the books and put all the slips into the files. I wrote to Laurie, telling her how well I was doing and asking her to join me. She called Bob and Nikki to make sure. Then she left Synanon and got a little apartment nearby in Venice. She got a job at the bakery.

I was happy being in something legitimate. Bob told me I'd get a percentage of the business. I was only getting my room and food and ten dollars a week, but it seemed as if I'd have a good future, financially, and not have to play in clubs anymore.

Bob's house was a visiting place for people who'd left Synanon. This drummer, Lew Malin, came down, and he had a thing going with a musical office; they booked bands for par ties. He had a lot of say-so as to who did the gigs, and he said that if I would learn the Jewish tunes for the weddings and bar mitzvahs, he could get me some gigs. He loaned me some money.

While I'd been in Synanon, a guy had written me a letter from the University of Denver. He asked if I'd be interested in doing a "clarinet clinic." He explained that I would go to the school and lecture and play a concert for the kids who would pay to attend this thing and to associate with me and learn from me. He'd heard me on clarinet on Plus Eleven and on an album I'd done with Henry Mancini called, Combo. I'd told him, "I can't travel while I'm in Synanon, but I've been thinking of leaving." He said, "Well, if you do leave, let me know right away. Call me collect." I borrowed a clarinet from Les Koenig and gave this guy a call. He was really happy. He told me he'd pay me a lot of money and my expenses. I decided to go.

At these clinics, representatives of musical instrument companies-Selmer, Conn, Buffet, and so on-sometimes set up displays of their horns, trying to sell horns to the students. In Denver, I struck up a friendship with a guy named Ken Yohe who was working for Chicago Musical Instrument Company at that time, handling Buffet. He'd been a fan of mine for years. He asked what kind of clarinet I was using. It was some obscure French model; he'd never heard of it. Nobody had. He said, "Why don't you use one of ours?" A Buffet clarinet is one of the best made. I used it and played very well, even though I was playing with classical players from all over the world. When the clinic ended, Ken told me his company might be interested in having me work for them, play their horns, do clinics for them. He said he could probably arrange for me to get some Buffet horns. About this same time, Lew Malin was talking to me about playing these casuals. I told him, "If I get these horns, maybe I -can do it."

I didn't think anything would really happen with this because of my past. I couldn't see them sending instruments like that, that cost so much money, to a person like me, but a couple of weeks after the clinic in Denver, a United Parcel truck pulls up in front of Laurie's apartment and a guy comes and knocks on the door. He's got several big packages ad dressed to me. I open them. There's a brand-new Buffet alto sax, a tenor sax, a clarinet, and an Armstrong flute. A couple of days later, here's a letter from Ken:

August 29, 1972

Dear Art:

I am most pleased that you have received the instruments I sent you and that they got there without any damage, and I am very happy that you like the instruments....

Art, believe me when I tell you that I am extremely happy that you have decided to accept the Veteran's Hospital offer of getting you on their methadone program. The most important thing for either you or me to consider at this point in your life, is for you to gain complete health and freedom from this disease. Regardless of what either your future plans or my future plans might hold for you, it is absolutely necessary for you to regain your health and well being.

Even though there may be a few additional months involved, this period of time would also give you the opportunity to do lots of practicing, perhaps develop some new ideas musically speaking, and really explore the instruments on which you will be playing ....

I needed the methadone program. A friend, Tom, had been bringing me codeine tablets at the bakery; I was using them every day; I was getting hooked; I didn't realize how strong they were. Another friend was chippying with heroin, so, before I realized what was happening, I was getting a heroin habit again. My old friend, Ann Christos and her husband, John were living in Hollywood; they were on the methadone program. I ran into them, and they sold me some of their methadone; I'd drink one hundred, two hundred milligrams of methadone several times a week, and I was drinking a six-pack a night of malt liquor.

They were getting suspicious at the bakery. I quit. I wanted to move in with Laurie, but she wouldn't let me unless I straightened out. She wanted me to get on the methadone program. I went down to the Veterans Hospital but didn't say anything about my liver. I passed. I got on the program, and to my amazement, the methadone got me loaded, and I had no desire to use heroin. I had found a cure for heroin addiction.

Methadone is a drug that's given to you every day, in a liquid, by mouth, and once you have the methadone in you, you can fix and you don't feel the heroin, unless you fix such a huge amount that you're almost ready to die-I did try it several times. The program itself is just wonderful. I saw friends of mine that had been armed robbers and burglars, hustling and stealing to support their habits. They got on the methadone program and started leading regular lives, working. And those were people I never would have dreamed could be straight and hold down a regular day job. For me, it was a panacea. I couldn't believe that they were actually giving me a drug that got me loaded and killed my desire to shoot heroin. I moved in with Laurie. A few months earlier, we had started taping this book.