Before the Flock Page 5

  It starts again with go-sees, then castings, and then soon, within a matter of weeks, Caitlin tells her, “You’re the fresh face, and they have to have you.” She gets booked in town, for ads, for editorial. She spends a lot of time sitting in chairs, staring at a mirror, having a team of workers change her. After a while she starts to see the same faces, the same forearms, the same fingers. She can’t figure out if the Sophie in the mirror is the bloom and she the plant or the other way around.

  “Are we connected?” She asks one day sitting in the chair staring at the mirror.

  “What’s that, sweetheart?” the man with the small brush asks.

  “Me and her.” Sophie points to the mirror.

  “Girlfriend? Are you on mushrooms?”

  Sophie laughs. “No. It’s just sometimes I wonder.”

  “She.” The man points to the mirror. “Makes you all your money. She works for you.”

  Sophie smiles. “I like that. What’s your name?”

  “Randy George.”

  “Doesn’t that mean something?”

  “You don’t miss a thing do you? Yes, you are right, I’m Randy and I’m George.”

  “Randy George will you be my friend?”

  “I never say ‘No’ to a proposition.”

  Days come and days go. Home is nowhere. Work is Caitlin’s office. Sophie enters. “Hi. I heard you wanted to talk me?”

  “Sophie. I’ve got some good news. You’re doing the shows. Two of them. But before I book it, I need to make sure you can walk.”

  “Are you kidding?” Sophie laughs and marches a little.

  “Sophie, I mean a runway walk. It’s not the same.”

  “Is this where I put a book on my head, like in those old movies. And we drink tea and wear button-down sweaters.”

  “That kind of walk doesn’t work anymore. You need to learn to walk like a woman from a man.”

  Sophie rolls her eyes. “That is so stupid.”

  “Do you know any trannys?”

  “What’s a tranny?”

  Sophie calls Randy George. Randy George sets the whole thing up. “Sophie, this is my good friend, the incomparable, the enigmatic, the elastic, the fantastic, Ava Wanda Wye.” Ava spins around in some very high heels, blows a kiss, and bends gracefully at the waist until the back of her hand touches the floor.

  “Wow!” Sophie says.

  “Alright Ava, let’s see the sashay.”

  From Ava Wanda Wye, Sophie learns to stomp. It’s that little extra oomph in each step that makes all the jiggley parts tremble. It’s fierce and feminine at the same time.

  A week later, she turns the corner and the runway is below. The lights are blinding like a sneeze and the music moves her. When she gets to the end of the stage and rotates powerfully behind her jutted shoulder, she tosses her hair, her eyes flash, and glamour, glory, and girlishness spill off the stage. A whole section of men jump to their feet and their cameras explode.

  The day after the Pumphouse gig, Kurt wakes up, calls EJ at work, and says, “We need to play L.A. No one’s going to sign us down here.”

  “We can drive up Friday night.”

  “My wife will come back to me when we get signed. Right?”

  “She most certainly will.”

  EJ and Kurt load up the station wagon and head up to L.A. Kurt has a boombox in his lap and two tapes: Echo & the Bunnymen’s Porcupine and Elvis’s Live at Madison Square Garden 1972

  They crank it up and sing along, Kurt on lead vocals, EJ does the harmonies with his brassy tenor.

  Up the 5 to the 101, get off on Highland, turn right on Sunset, and they’re in a seedy area filled with strip malls and street walkers. The batteries in the boombox fade, and Elvis starts singing slower and lower until Kurt presses the stop key.

  As they head west, Sunset Strip becomes Glam heaven. First is the Whisky a Go Go—Jim Morrison and the Doors played there. Now four community-college kids in matching pink spandex, half-shirts, and white Capezios unload Strat knockoffs from the back of a Honda hatchback. They’ve driven in from Van Nuys. Up the strip is Duke’s Coffee Shop, where rock stars eat breakfast at three in the afternoon. Further west is the Roxy with its three-line, red-neon sign. Next is a little brick chateau that wears rock posters and billboards like a crackhead wears a sandwich board—it’s the Rainbow Room. On the sidewalk in front, dudes with perms and bangs stare at cars.

  “These poodle heads, what are they waiting for?” Kurt asks EJ.

  “Ronnie James Dio or Lita Ford or someone else who sucks.”

  One poodle head in an acid-washed jumpsuit points his finger at EJ’s mom’s station wagon and laughs. Kurt leans out the window and yells, “Don’t laugh at me, you poser! You don’t even play music!” Kurt sits back in his seat and does his fake southern voice. “Alright. Look at me. I look like I’m in a band, but I don’t even know how to play music! Alright! How mellow!”

  They keep driving until they are in front of the façade at Gazzarri’s. It has a giant airbrushed painting of a fat man in a fedora surrounded by sad, rubber-faced strippers. They pass Doheny and a Jag dealership, and suddenly the Strip ends in the uniform quiet of Beverly Hills.

  “Well? What do you think?” EJ asks.

  “Let’s try the Roxy. It looks more modern.”

  Kurt and EJ walk into the blacklight world of the Roxy. A chick behind a plastic shield says, “Come back tomorrow. In the daytime. Nobody talks to the manager at night. You want to party? It’s six bucks.”

  Kurt gets pissed. EJ gets him out onto the sidewalk. They meet a hippie chick. She’s there to see Sally’s Strung Out. She says they perform magic on stage—Santeria—and she thinks they’re gonna get a deal with a major tonight. Arty Azimoff, Golden-Eared Arty, red-bearded Arty, Arty from Geffen Records is in there right now, and he’s gonna sign Sally’s Strung Out. Kurt, half horny, half looking for a record deal, gives the hippie chick his last copy of the demo. She’s interested. She looks at him too long. He tries to kiss her, then says he’s married, then says his wife left him. She gives him her number.

  Kurt and EJ drive east on Sunset toward downtown. The signs change from English to Spanish. They pull the station wagon into the uneven parking lot of the downtown Tommy’s Burgers. It’s busy and buzzing at two in the morning. The mix of kids is one-third cholo, one-third ghetto, and one-third USC cracker. Everyone’s drunk and happy, with dripping burgers in their hands.

  “I used to frequent this establishment when I was at USC,” EJ says to Kurt. “They serve a fine burger.”

  “When we get a record deal, you should buy this place.”

  EJ laughs. “I know, Kurt. I really should. What are you going to buy?”

  “A house with a gate to keep the fans out. My wife wouldn’t be too stoked on fans in our yard. You saw that chick tonight. Chicks like that won’t leave me alone.”

  “Even with all those metal loops in her face—like fishing lures—she was kinda hot. Well, Kurt, I guess that’s just one of your burdens. One I would gladly shoulder.”

  “It’s like they know we’re going to get a record deal.”

  “You may have something there, my good man.”

  “We need to make another demo and play up here, and people like that red-beard will sign us.”

  “Kurt, look, the rest of us can come up with two hundred dollars for a demo. You can’t. We’ve got to figure something out.”

  “I know. I’ll talk to Ivo.”

  As the night lingers on, there are a few less clouds, a little more haze, but the L.A. grid is lit in such a way that there is never a star in the sky, barely even a moon. EJ and Kurt drive slowly past several two-level Spanish apartment buildings in the Hollywood flats.

  “I don’t know, Kurt. Sven lives in one of these. I can’t remember the number.”

  “I thought you never forget numbers.”

  “I never forget anything of a financial nature—house numbers are different.”

  Kurt throws his hands in
the air and says sarcastically, “Alright! Panthers and Pathogens—what a cool band. Let’s all wear felt hats, then we’ll get a record deal.”

  “Kurt, cut that shit out. Sven is a good guy. It’s not his fault his band belongs at a Renaissance Faire. He’s a really good bass player.” EJ shakes his head. “And Panthers and Pathogens is still really big in Japan.”

  They stop in front of a small apartment building.

  “Well,” Kurt says, “let’s start ringing doorbells, I guess. It’s that or sleep in the car. I don’t care. It’s the same to me.”

  “I’d like to see Sven.”

  They pick a house and knock. A lady screams “GO AWAY!” from behind the closed door.

  They try a second building. Someone yells, “I’m calling the cops.”

  They try another. The lady says, “Those Robin Hood–looking boys live in the third one down on the left, downstairs. We call it Sherwood Forest, but young people nowadays don’t even know what that means…Would you boys like to come in for some tea? I’m up anyway. Do you mind cats?”

  Sven answers the door in a tunic with a rope belt. He is tall and thin, and blond roots show through his dyed black hair. “EJ. Kurt,” he whispers. “What are…Dude, you guys can’t stay here.”

  “That was quick,” EJ responds.

  “Look, man. Nicky’s got a six A.M. call.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s she in now?”

  “It’s a slasher film. She’s getting disemboweled in the morning. She’ll kill me if you wake her up.”

  “Hey, man, did you give our tape to your A&R guy?” EJ asks.

  “Yeah, man. That’s some Gothic-sounding shit you guys are into. Kind of like Echo & the B-men, huh?”

  “It’s New Romantic,” EJ says.

  “That demo is the best tape ever made,” Kurt adds. “Tell that to your A&R guy.”

  “It’s a tough sell. The A&R guys are still looking for Glam bands. They were pissed when our second album went from Glam to Wandering Minstrel. But, shit, you got to keep up with the times. In Silverlake it’s Heroin Chic or Wandering Minstrel. Glam is dead.”

  “Tell that to the poodle heads in front of the Rainbow,” Kurt says.

  “Dokken dickheads,” EJ adds.

  “Fuck Warrant. Fuck Winger.” Kurt bends his wrists and lifts his hands awkwardly above his head. “Fuck Cinderella too.”

  “Give the people what they want,” Sven says, and cinches his rope belt.

  “I’ll fight all of those guys for my band,” Kurt adds.

  Sven pauses a moment and looks Kurt up and down, then stretches and yawns. “Hey, guys, it’s been real, but I gotta go to bed. Call me tomorrow.”

  They leave the station wagon where it is. EJ crumples up a moldy towel, puts it under his head, and stretches out in the back. “I’m telling you Kurt. Someday we’ll own this town.”

  Kurt props himself up between the front seat and the steering wheel. “Someday is coming soon.”

  Sunrise is cruel and soon when you sleep in a car. The only answer is to cram your head into a crevasse or cover it up with your jeans. That leaves your bare white legs splayed out for dog walkers and joggers. Finally you rise. AM/PM coffee is a yellowish brown like gasoline, one drop of creamer turns the whole cup opaque. It tastes like dishwater, but it works.

  Kurt and EJ stand at the bar with the Roxy manager. Like every bar in the world, it smells like smoke, old beer, and urine in the daytime. The manager wipes the counter, tosses the rag in the sink, and looks Kurt in the eye. “So you want to play the Roxy? What makes you think you’re ready?”

  “Ever heard of Bad Bobby!?”

  The manager shakes his head.

  “That was my band. I played the Starlight Bowl when I was fifteen years old. I can handle the Roxy.”

  “You bring your demo?”

  “Yeah.” Kurt reaches in his pockets, looks at EJ, and says, “Shit. You bring one?”

  EJ shakes his head. “You said you would bring it.”

  “I did, but I gave it to that chick.”

  The manager laughs. “You gave your only demo to a chick on Sunset Boulevard?”

  “Dude, she knew that red-beard guy.”

  “Golden-Eared Arty? Is he coming to see you?” the manager asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who else? What other labels?”

  “All of ‘em,” Kurt says.

  The manager likes lies. He smiles. “Right. So, you got a crowd? A crowd that drinks?”

  EJ starts, “In San Diego we have a huge—”

  Kurt cuts him off. “Look, people up here know us.”

  “What? You got some ad in the Weekly? How do people in L.A. know a San Diego band?”

  “My guitar player. He plays with Brian Smith. You know him?”

  “Yeah, I know Smithy. Everyone knows Smithy—from the Love Guns. I know that guitar player too—good-looking, hair, rides a louder than shit black chopper. What’s that guitar player’s name?”

  “Bobby Dugan,” Kurt says.

  “No. That’s not it.”

  “The Jovi.”

  “Yeah, his name is the Jovi. I know that guy. Comes in here with some hot chicks. That guy’s in your band? Why didn’t you say so? How’s about a week from Friday at eleven?”

  “That’s cool.”

  The manager pulls out a bunch of tickets stuck together with a rubber band. “Okay. Forty tickets.”

  Kurt and EJ look at each other, excited.

  “Five bucks a pop. That’ll be two hundred bucks.”

  Kurt says, “That seems fair. When do we get it?”

  The manager laughs. “You pay us. You sell the tickets to your friends—That’s how you make the money back.”

  “Can we pay you that night?” Kurt asks.

  “No, you gotta pay when we book it.”

  “We’ll be back.” Kurt turns for the door. “We need to go to the bank.”

  “You’re gonna need an account,” the manager says as they are walking for the door. “Or a gun.”

  In May of 1983, Sophie is summoned. She appears. Caitlin says, “We’re sending you to Paris then Milan. Pack your bags. You’ll be gone for a while.”

  “No, I don’t want to go.”

  “Look. Sophie, this is the next step for you. All the up and coming photographers are in Paris and Milan. We’re building your career. This is part of the plan.”

  “Is he in there?” Sophie motions towards the door to Mr. Cassavetes’s office.

  “Sophie, pack your bags.”

  In his apartment, Sophie holds Randy George in a desperate embrace.

  “Oh come on. Don’t be so dramatic,” He says.

  “I can’t help it.” She answers into his neck. “You smell good.”

  “It’s just Paris. You’ll meet a boy. You’ll meet lots of boys. I just know it. You’ll have fun.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “Sweetie, fun is not the problem.”

  “Boys!”

  “Boys aren’t the problem either. What’s wrong?”

  “I like the bad ones. And I don’t even know they’re bad until…”

  “That’s half the fun.”

  “No, it isn’t. The last time I did, something terrible happened.”

  “Oh… I’m sor— What?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Just trust me a bad person hurt me.”

  “Terrible things happen in life. Wonderful things happen in life.” Randy George holds Sophie’s shoulders so he can look at her. She’s a tussle of hair and tears. “If you’re stuck in the past, you’ll miss them both. Is the bad person here right now in my apartment?”

  Sophie snivels and looks at Randy George’s soft eyes rimmed in eyeliner. “No.”

  “Then don’t invite him in. Live in the now, Sophie.”

  On Girard Avenue, between two commercial-style buildings, sits a wood-frame house, a holdover from an era gone bye. Inside, indie girls and boys wear black nail polish and serve coffee. Outside,
on the porch, under the long-armed liquid amber, people have conversations. This is the Pannikin. The Jovi and James Franklin are sitting together in the corner under the spiky purple bougainvillea, taking in the clear and brilliant day. Eric Adams comes to pay his respects. With his long straight brown hair and his high cheekbones, he looks like an Anglo Iroquois. He is calm, almost stolid. It’s the demeanor that one would associate with a bass player. The Jovi asks, “Eric, what’s up? Do you know Kurt’s brother, James?”

  “Hey, James. I’ve seen you at the meetings, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “And your brother is Kurt Franklin?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “He shreds the guitar, and can really sing, too. But he’s always so…”

  “Yeah?” James asks.

  “I said ‘Hi’ to him and he just stared at me. He’s so… I guess the word I’m looking for is intense. He’s intense.”

  “I think you mean insane,” the Jovi says, cracks a smile, and lights a smoke.

  “Hey!” James barks. “He’s not insane. Eric’s right, he’s intense. You’d be intense too if you’d been through the shit we’ve been through.”

  “I love the guy but he’s—” The Jovi stops himself and smiles at James.

  “Dude,” James says, “he was misdiagnosed by a hack from the County Health Department. That hack cost Kurt years of his life. He doesn’t hear voices. Not anymore. Not since he quit Mellaril.”

  “Whoa.” Eric says. “Mellaril. That shit is like Thorazine. Heavy sedative. He was on that?”

  “Yeah, a prescription,” James nods.

  “I’ve heard of junkies doing Mellaril when they want to kick H, just to knock themselves out for a day or two.”

  “Try being knocked out for four years,” James says.

  “So Kurt’s clean? One of us?” Eric asks. “Plug in the jug?”

  “No. Kurt drinks.” The Jovi says, “For him it’s a God thing. He thinks the voices were demons. God rebuked ‘em. Now he’s cured. Demon free.”

  “For real?” Eric asks.

  James and the Jovi nod at Eric.

  “God, yeah. That’s what fucked me up,” Eric says. “I was your standard trash can, but freebase, shit, that was like the warm hand of God pushing softly through my frontal lobe. It scared me. That desire to be touched by God, it turned me into the devil.”