6. STUDIO LIGHTS.
Los Angeles: Thursday 24th May 1990.
It's these large, oblong lights.....
They hang ominously above the pool tables inside this dimly lit, shithole bar.... The lights take me back to a place I don't want to be right now.....
....... The Masonic lodge in Surrey was an invite I couldn't refuse. I hadn't been out of hospital one day when the letter showed up at my flat. A politely written invitation on watermarked card; It couldn't have been more suspicious.... I attended, never the less....
A long journey to London, my hotel was already paid for......
Naturally.....
That Friday night, I turned up in my best suit, on crutches....
...... Drugged to the eyeballs on prescription medication- Painkillers, sedatives......
....... The masonic lodge was a sprawling mansion and grounds with black and white chequered floors, filled with powerful people who wanted to congratulate me on escaping the fire that made all the newspapers and even the News at Ten! The great blaze had revealed a huge cavity beneath the lighthouse; nobody knew what had filled the cavity previously as the fire had destroyed everything! One tabloid newspaper had reported that the cavity was the size of a high rise block of flats. It had caught the nations imagination......
Not mine however.....
I didn't dare look at the press or the news... I was to busy recovering- Measured for a Prosthethic foot, false teeth fitted.... Nobody seemed to know how I got to the lighthouse or why; the police informed me a full investigation was underway.....
I'm doubtful an investigation even happened......
After all the handshaking, I was in invited into the billiards room and given a glass of fine brandy with a cigar. One of the country's top Police officers and a senior Tory politician warned me that if
I spoke about what I had experienced underneath the lighthouse, I would be dealt with accordingly.....
They told me it was all a bad dream and handed me a check for half a million pounds. A threat and some sort of compensation.....
My reward....
But for what exactly?....
I couldn't be sure...... None of it seemed to make any sense... Still doesn't......
I left the lodge in a taxi with a big cheque, feeling like I'd been raped...... And here I am: FREDDY'S SNAKE PIT.
Of all the places in Los Angeles, Hymie has taken me here.... A fucking biker bar..... Great.
The place is empty, except a few bikers by the bar, flirting with a few tarts- Strippers by the looks of it.....
But.... How can I complain?
The table is full to capacity: A large pitcher of '66 lager; two strong, menthol cocktails; grease ladened baskets of fried food- Far more than needed; I haven't touched my chicken in a basket.... Hymie ordered the grub, despite me telling him repeatedly I wasn't hungry. These cocktails are a menthol concoction that tastes like some sort of sugery mouthwash..... After today I feel wasted, happy, and at peace with myself.....
Temperarily at least..... I can't taste any smoke at this precise moment in time....
I take another mouthful of the cocktail and watch Hymie eat. The grease is dripping off Hymies chin; his mouth is filled to capacity with bacon, cheese and hamburger meat.
He looks like butter wouldn't melt......
"What?" He says.
I think that's what he said....
"I need to ask you something Hymie... And I don't want you getting all offended and defensive-"
"What?" He impatiently interrupts. "What the fuck do want asshole?"
He wipes the grease and ketchup from his six o'clock shadow and scowls at me:
"What Tone?"
"That was a bacon cheeseburger.... Right?"
"Yeah...." He burps. "So?"
He grabs the pitcher and pours more watered down beer into our glasses.
"You're Jewish?...... Correct?"
He screws his face up:
"Yeah...... So?"
Hymie likes to dish it out:
"What the fuck Tony?! Spit it out asshole!" Can't take it.....
I say:
"Milk and meat? Bacon-"
"Fuck you Tony!"
"You don't make any sense as a person Hymie.... I mean, are you Jewish or not?" I ask him, taking a brief moment of joy watching him become visibly agitated.
He says:
"Sometimes, you don't make no fuckin' sense! You know that?! You wanna check my dick asshole?! Where the fuck do you get off-"
"No, I just want to point out your hypocrisy Hymie. Your sensitive about your faith, but you denigrate it constantly and pay no attention to its guidelines or rules.... It's..... Intriguing... I suppose....."
Hymies lost interest after my second word and is piling French fries into his mouth:
"I haven't eaten all day! Shit! I could eat a fuckin' horse!"
He shouts at the bar lady and points to what remains of a bacon cheeseburger:
"TELL JOE I'LL DROP HIM A TEN DOLLAR TIP FOR DOUBLE BACON AND DOUBLE CHEESE... SHIT! MAKE IT TRIPLE!! TWENTY DOLLARS!!"
She just rolls her eyes, shouts:
"KITCHENS CLOSED SUPERMANS WORST NIGHTMARE!"
This is typical of-
"Look," he says, "you see any Rabbis here?"
"Is that rhetorical?"
"DO YOU SEE ANY RABBIS HERE?"
"No....."
"So..... I can do... WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT TONE!"
He's right. He can do whatever he wants..... I'm defeated; Hymie wins again..... But..... I'm feeling happy.....
The alcohol has killed my fear and paranoia.... ..... For now.....
The peace I have won't last forever; I should really enjoy this while I can.
"Do what the fuck you want, I'm just saying."
Hymie gives me a strange look. It's like he's weighing something up.....
He shouts over at the lady behind the bar again:
"HEY! ANOTHER PITCHER! AND TWO PORT OF SAINT LOUIS WITH COLA!"
"That's not funny Hymie," I comment, beginning to feel a little woozy..... Disorientated......
"Jesus, lighten the fuck up Tony! You just sat here and criticized me for being a Jew! It's not like I tell you how to be a Rastafarian?"
Typical Hymie!
Typical fucking Hymie.....
"My father was from the West Indies. My mother was from Bristol..."
"Whatever! It's not like I'm telling you how to smoke reefer and twist dreadlocks-"
"What's with the stereotypes Hymie? Do I look like a Rasta to you?"
"Hell no! You look like a motherfuckin' Mormon fuck with your white shirts and black suits-"
"As opposed to a Las Vegas pimp-"
"What?! Get the fuck-"
"Who eats like Elvis Pres-"
"Look, I'm not taking any shit from a Mormon lookin'-"
"PIMP!" I shout, beating the bastard to punch!
Tony wins this one!
We both stare at each other across the table...... And then break into laughter....
Hymie says:
"Jheez! It's about fuckin' time you lightened up! You've been so uptight..."
"I'm always uptight," I correct, attempting to ignite Hymies Zippo lighter by clicking my thumb and middle finger. "Mellow.... But you Americans call it being 'uptight'.... If we don't sing and dance like clowns, you call us 'uptight'.... Did you read my story or what?"
As he's shovelling French fries into his mouth, he responds:
"What? The one about the skinhead fucks in the stone garden?"
Fuck!
I gave him the wrong story. I gave him the one about Tobey: Memories of The Lighthouse.... Tobey and the lighthouse.....
"That was about Tobey...."
Hymie looks confused, squinting and focusing his eyes on me:
"The skinhead kid was Tobey?"
"Yeah Hymie.... He was in the car with me and Jeff.... On the night..... I mean morning..... Urgh...
I dunno....."
Right now, I am lost for words- Rather drunk aswell....
I hate talking about Jeff, especially with Hymie being so sensitive about the accident and all.....
To late to change the subject?
He drops the burger onto the plate and pushes it away- He's lost his appatite.
He takes a huge gulp from his cocktail and stares down at the table:
"Shit.... I need to go see Jeff. I haven't been in a while, I mean...... Shit....... I dunno man....." "Maybe we could go and see him together?" I blurt out, trying to say something..... Anything.....
In awkward moments like this, words can fail you when they are so readily available at any other time.
"Sure," he responds slowly, spinning the long cocktail glass with his fingers, lost in thought....
..... Sorrow....
He slides along the seat and out of the booth without making eye contact:
"I gotta take a piss Tone."
Every ounce of confidence and bravado is lost when you mention Jeff. It's true what Jeff had told me back in Portishead:
"Hymie's closer than a cousin. He's my best friend, my brother......"
Hymie stares at the floor as he skulks across the poorly lit bar towards the toilets. He suddenly looks very lost.......
Lost in a world of his own.....
For me, a brief moment of peace and quiet.... .... Some time to reflect.....
Jeff is still alive, but he might as well be dead. Hymie mourns him. Hymie is unable to deal with the harsh reality of life- I have been forced to......
Hymie has a wildly distorted view of the living world; I too have a wildly distorted view of the living world.
Maybe that's why we gel so well.....
I observe the bikers with the girls laughing and enjoying themselves- Downing strong shots of booze and blowing smoke rings up in the air. The girls are smoking big cigars and pretending to kiss each other on the lips.....
The bikers are enjoying the show, verbally responding:
"YEEEAH! LET'S SEE SOME TONGUES! WE WANT TONGUES!" This is what life is all about: Enjoyment. Something I should be doing.....
I survived the lighthouse, but I have been mourning my own life ever since. I'm still alive, but only just. Most days I feel like a shell of a human being..... Skin and bone, but not much else. Maybe I need to be-
BANG!
The toilet door flies open with a bang; Hymie exits and heads streight past me to the bar......
Where the fuck is he going?
I can see him talking to the bar lady... I go back to my cocktail and unrealistic hopes for the future. He spins around from the bar with two lethal looking red cocktails. From the corner of my eye, I can see him exchange some words with one of the bikers- Who bats him away like a fly. Hymie walks back to the table, spilling the cocktails as he slams them down on the crowded table:
"That asshole said something to me! Motherfucker......"
"You're probably imagining it Hymie, Chill-"
"Fuck that Tony! Don't do that! Don't fuckin' do that!"
"Do WHAT Hymie?"
He drains his menthol cocktail, picks up his red one and lights another of my cigarettes- He can't take his eyes of the bikers at the bar, the strippers...
It's like he feels he's been slighted in some way.... It's hard to tell if he has.
"One of them said 'Tommy Lee'....."
"Who is Tommy Lee?" I ask, bewildered, but also intrigued at the same time.
"I interviewed these assholes: Motley Crue... They didn't like the article I wrote. At the MTV awards, these assholes tried to jump me backstage! I socked two of them before security broke it up....."
I say:
"What's Motley Crue got to do with these bikers?"
Hymie looks visibly agitated again:
"Bikers listen to that shit! Hair rock douche bags! Motley Crew make music for assholes! Guys like that! Douche bag, drug dealin' motherfuckers!"
"Hymie... We have cocktails, food, beer and cigarettes.... Leave this shit! Ignore them!"
He says:
"Port of Saint Louis...."
"What?!"
Hymie can spin you around in circles, especially after a gutful l of booze.
Before I can even distract him, he's up and walking back over to the bar. The table is packed with booze- Including two, untouched highball glasses of Port of Saint Louis with coke.
"Hymie ya cunt! Come back....."
Too late......
Hymie is standing by the bar, eyeballing the biker who batted him away. This is about to turn ugly; I grab the red cocktail and gulp it down in one slow pour. I grab my stick and get ready to make an exit or hide in the toilets.
"YOU GOT SOME KINDA PROBLEM PAL?!" Shouts one of the bikers.
This is bad news. Only Hymie.... Would start a brawl in a biker bar....
With bikers!
Hymie holds his arms out confrontationally:
"I THINK YOU'VE GOT THE FUCKIN' PROBLEM PAL! LOOKS LIKE YOU HAVEN'T SEEN A BAR OF SOAP IN THREE YEARS!"
Oh lord.....
Hymies mouth will be the death of me.
Another biker with a short, purple mowhawk haircut, flicks a cigerette in Hymies direction:
"WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM?! YOU AIN'T GOT NO BITCHES TO PIMP?!"
I told you Hymie! I told you! Alligator loafers and peroxide hair- PIMP!
Hymie walks over to the bikers:
"THE SKULL COLLECTERS?! WHAT IS THAT?! THE NAME OF YOUR GIRL SCOUT GROUP?! WHAT?! DO YOU BITCHES SELL LEMONADE N SHIT?!"
He didn't just say that! Jesus...... I never did go to church....
Too late to start now? I can see my epitaph:
TONY M RICHARDS
1956 - 1990
DIED IN A BIKER BAR, BECAUSE HIS SELF LOATHING JEWISH FRIEND COULDN'T KEEP HIS BIG MOUTH SHUT.
R.I.P
This is what I believe they call an intervention.
I grab my stick and stumble towards the nightmare that is unfolding before my very eyes.
One of the other bikers stands up:
"WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE ASSHOLE! WE'RE THE ROAD TEAM FOR MOTLEY CRUE! EVERYBODY KNOWS ABOUT THE STUNT YOU PULLED BACK IN OREGON!"
HYMIE WAS RIGHT!
Shit! Karma Hymie! KARMA!
"So what?! I'm supposed to be impressed you hang around with drug addicted douche bags?!"
"GENTLEMEN! THIS IS- I BELIEVE, GETTING WAYYY OUT OF HAND! I AM A GUEST IN YOUR COUNTRY AND I WOULD LIKE TO BUY EVERYBODY A ROUND OF DRINKS, COCKTAILS, CHASERS, WHATEVER YOU WOULD LIKE!" I announce, hoping to defuse my impending doom.
One of the bikers is evidently insulted by my generous offer:
"You and the Jew can stick your drinks up your ass! I've never seen a basketball throwing ape speak like an Englishman before!"
They all break into laughter. I can take it. Hymie is the one I'm worried about. He may be a self-loathing Jew, but he's also proud. He doesn't take kindly to-
"LISTEN ASSHOLE! YOU CAN BE ANTI SEMITIC! BUT DON'T TALK TO TONY LIKE THAT! SHOULDN'T YOU BE BURNING CROSSES AND MAKING LOVE TO YA MOMMA?!"
We've now descended into racial slurs and incestuous insults......
Is there any way back now? Probably not.....
My blood turns cold when one of the savages shouts:
"LET'S TAKE THESE TWO ASSHOLES TO THE PARKING LOT!"
Just what I didn't want to hear.
Loafers vs steel toe biker boots- Which would you bet on?
Hymie and the ringleader are staring each other down like heavyweight boxers about pummel each other.
Hymie suddenly sticks his arm out and points my prosthetic foot:
"His foot."
Now everybody- Including myself, is baffled.
Hymie?
"He has a fake foot! Lost it in an accident n shit... That's why he walks with a cane. Would you call that a fair fight?"
Now everybody is laughing, including Hymie. My foot has defused the situatio..... For now.
I use my humiliation as an opportunity to make peace with the enemy:
"MY PREVIOUS OFFER STILL STANDS! DRINKS ALL ROUND!"
I observe relief wash over the bar woman- Betty, who fills up large pitchers with '66 lager; pours an array of multicoloured shots; fills chunky glasses with whiskey chasers....
"You English guys really are gentlemen!" Says Betty, handing me four glasses of Port of Saint Louis- Hymie insisted, a joke he refuses to relinquish.....
Fucking Hymie....
Before all the drinks have even finished being poured, Hymie is regaling the bikers with stories about the celebrities he's tangled with during his tenure at Rolling Stone:
"So..... I told Neil Young to go fuck himself..... Him and his asshole manager! Fuckin' assholes!"
He has them eating out of his hand already. Hymie can be the most obnoxious guy in the world, but he can also be the most charming chap on the face of the planet.
Hymie Cohen- 8th wonder of the world!
Betty closes up the bar and we all shoot pool- What we call in England a 'Lock In'...... One of the strippers informs Hymie that she is an 'exotic dancer' and not a stripper.....
The biker who called me 'a basketball throwing ape' apologises. I tell him I've had worse and will hear worse again in the future- No hard feelings.....
The night is becoming dawn and I can feel myself start to drift away... I ask Betty to call me a cab....
Hymie looks like a rock star, breaking his pool game with a sledgehammer shot. He has the girls in awe and the bikers buying him whiskey. He stands over the table with his Acapulco shirt unbuttoned to the navel; his hairy chest and thick gold chain on show; his Elvis aviator glasses are planted firmly underneath his bright peroxide French crop:
"I TOLD YOU BABY! MOTHERFUCKERRRRR! I'M SUPERMANS WORST NIGHTMARE!"
His catchphrase..... Repeated again.... .... Time to go.
I open my briefcase and toss Hymie Cracking Skulls In Portishead part one:
"Hymie, take a look a look when you've sobered up."
"Sure thing!.... Ya basketball throwing ape!" Responds Hymie, his hand down the bra of the 'exotic dancer', retrieving an ice cube... "I'll call you Tony!"
As I walk to the cab, Betty runs after me:
"HEY! TONY! Hymie wants you have this....."
She hands me a bottle- The Port of Saint Louis......
Fucking Hymie!
I kiss Betty goodnight and jump in the cab.... ..... Back to the hotel.....