Chapter Three (December 31, 1968) (Draft)

Tuesday, December 31, 1968

(Hollywood, California)

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The window opens to the freeway. As the sun slips behind a hill, I lean forward and breathe in. The air, still unseasonably warm, foreshadows a chill, the specter of the diminishing year only hours away.

Stoney and I’ve been living together since early December at 2001 Ivar Street–we call it our space odyssey, but it’s just a drab, stucco apartment building next to the freeway. The end of the line for a few acid heads, speed freaks, heroin addicts, prostitutes, and crazies with guns. At first, living here was kind of fun, but now I’m getting tired of dealing with these marginal people.

I’m scared.

I’m afraid of getting killed by Rudy, an old freak with no front teeth–he lives downstairs and always packs an iron in his bell bottoms. I’m afraid Tessa, that spade chick a few doors from Rudy, will end up stabbed or shot to death. I’ve never seen so many mean-looking dudes going in and out of the apartment next to hers. Tessa’s so strait-laced, and those creeps always bug the hell out of her, pounding on her door, baiting her. Maybe I shouldn’t care what happens to her, but I do. I’m not that stoned.

Death is too final, too real.

I’m so tired; I drop five bennies, just to get pumped up for the New Year.

-
Ever since he dropped acid yesterday, Stoney’s been acting kind of weird.

-

Thirteen tabs of STP.

-

I thought he was going die; he slipped into unconsciousness, face twitching like an epileptic’s, head puffed out like a balloon. I was afraid to call the ambulance, there was so much dope in the place–still is–so I watched until he opened his eyes. I can’t put my finger on it, but he hasn’t been the same since. He keeps talking weird shit, like spreading his wings and flying out our second-story window.

He really scares me.

* * * * *

I hear there’s going be a big blowout at the Mission Hotel tonight. Free dope. You name it, someone’ll have it. As we leave for the party, Stoney’s face is still puffy, his eyes dull. Like, maybe his intelligence was sucked out of his head–like a yolk from its shell. We haven’t made love in days, and at first, we made love all the time. He busted me almost three weeks ago, December 10, 1968. We’d just moved in together. Imagine: me, an 18-year-old virgin. At first, I thought Stoney loved me, he wanted me all the time. Then he started shooting Horse and dropping tons of acid and whatever else he could get his hands on. It doesn’t matter what he drinks, smokes, drops, snorts, or shoots, just so he’s on another plane. Now he’s just another broken down freak, gone out of control. As I watch him zip up his jeans, I sense we are through.

"What’s going to become of us?" I ask.

He looks up at me, his eyes half closed, his mouth hanging open, drool running out of the corners, and he says, "Huh?"

I want to throw up.

Maybe I’ll meet some friends at the party–too bad Jeff’s not here, but maybe Ratt, Eleanor, or Mel will be there. I could use a good friend about now, a shoulder to cry on.

God knows I can’t depend on Stoney anymore.

We hitch a ride to the Mission Hotel. A straight couple from San Jose picks us up. The wife tries luring me away from Stoney, promising me a hot meal and warm bed. Salvation from my life of degradation. Sure. Like I really want to spend New Year’s Eve with Perry Como and his old lady. She thinks I’m only 14–I don’t tell her otherwise. If I keep my mouth shut, maybe she’ll give me some bread.

Sure enough, just before we hop out of the car, the woman slips me 20 bucks.

"Get yourself some help," she whispers.

I stash the money into my pocket, mentally calculating how much weed it’ll buy.

The Mission’s a broken down joint, but it’s happening tonight. Every room’s filled with at least four people. The two-dollar rooms are five bucks ‘cause of New Year’s, but we know just about every freak here–I’ll find a place to party and crash.

Stoney’s on his own.

On the first floor, we stop off in a room full of heroin addicts shooting up; I leave as Stoney ties off a rubber strap around his arm, makes a fist, and taps for a vein. He’ll be out for the rest of the night. I make my rounds to each room, taking a toke here and a toke there, keeping my eyes open for some familiar faces.

On the second floor, I find Mel, Eleanor, and Julius Caesar, an old freak decked out in a Roman soldier costume appropriated from 20th Century Fox, and we sit on the bed, rapping. I tell them I’m sick and tired of all the dope and heroin addicts crashing at the pad, and I just want to go home, maybe even back to Iowa…

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