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  Love Lucky

  By Van Quattro

  This is a work of nonfiction. The events and experiences detailed herein are all-true and have been faithfully rendered as the author has remembered them to the best of his ability. Some names, identities and circumstances have been changed in order to protect the privacy and or anonymity of the various individuals involved. I may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

  First Edition

  @2016 Van Quattro

  Love Lucky by Van Quattro

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  For permissions contact: [email protected]

  Cover Illustration Copyright @2016 Van Quattro

  Cover design by Van Quattro

  I had a restless heart, a nasty desire to be loved, a wandering spirit and had barely been out of Glendale. London called in the form of a pretty girl and I followed. I stumbled around one of the greatest cities in the world for a year and a half. Stoned and full of wonder I found people and places that would be far beyond anything I could dream or conjure. It’s an experience that shaped who I am today. It’s about a strong sense of wanting more for my life with a bunch of LUCK thrown in.

  There is a rose that I want to live for, although

  God knows I may not have met her

  The Clash

  Last night I got the weird feeling today might be better than yesterday. It’s five thirty in the morning and I don’t want to die. I do and wait for nothing, just lay here. But I’m okay, I guess. I see sunlight creep up to my windows, it's not fooling me. The day is here. I know this day is the beginning of something else. My cavernous apartment lights up magnifying the skid-marks of my booze and drug filled recent past. The stains, the remnants and the smells are still here, but now they glow with forgiveness. My imprisonment is ending, just like that. With the same suddenness I can find myself circling the drain and getting sucked into the sewer life. Things can just as easily and immediately become clearer. Overnight. Things mostly change in the springtime.

  John has been dead four months now. I still find it so hard to listen to his happy songs since he was murdered. I feel like I’m betraying him if I do, but I have to start trying to enjoy some stuff. Today my heart feels like a bud craving light.

  I put on, ‘Mind Games,’ and clean my quarters, not to shamefully hide what’s gone on, but to allow my soul a chance to breathe the air of this new day. A little hard work and I get the place somewhat clean, except for the hard stains, but it’s okay, only me and a few other people will ever really know what took place in those soiled places.

  Whammy, my pal, calls and tells me about a party he wants to go to later and asks if I'll drive. He doesn’t drive yet he rides his bike everywhere even though he’s older than me. I tell him, ‘fuck yeah’ I’m ready to venture into some kind of scene where I’m not crawling, falling, fucking or crying.

  Whammy is my music friend. He introduces me to a lot of music I normally wouldn’t find. People think he’s kinda weird because he lives with his mom still, but we get along pretty good. He told me about David Bowie. When Bowie played his first shows as Ziggy Stardust at the Santa Monica civic auditorium Whammy had tickets to both shows but didn’t have a ride. He’d seen Bowie the night before and was acting like he got snakebite religion. He said he would give me a free ticket and a whole lid of pot if I would go with him. I refused saying Bowie was too weird and was probably a fag. Then he added ten bucks to the mix and I still refused. Ha, what a dumbshit I was. I love Bowie now. Whammy always brings this up with me. What a dick.

  With my place all snappy and clean I open the door, smoke some ciggs, read plays and wait for the night.

  Soon as it hits six o’clock I start party prep, I am kind to myself. I smile at my ugly ass in the mirror. I drink Stolichnaya from the bottle and I put on some Roxy Music and sing along. I stay with straight vodka. No pills, no coke. I don’t want to start out the night gripping the steering wheel with my teeth trying to do a line, while pissing my pants. Easy boy, there’s a ray in my heart tonight.

  The party’s in Silver Lake close to Whammy’s house. It’s hard to find a fucking parking place, which I guess is a good sign. I hope there are a lot of chicks because I’d really like to meet someone.

  We have to walk through the entryway sideways because of all the fucking people, but the vibe is good. I struggle to break free and get to the kitchen to see if there’s any booze. Yes! I pour myself a large glass of straight vodka and start my rounds.

  I stroll in to the living room and we come face to face. She is sitting in an armchair holding court. We look at each other and I feel that urge thing, it's good. I sway with the rhythm of the music and find a new bounce in my step kinda like I’m pimping or something, but a good pimp you know, and I go directly to her as if I’m cued. Sometimes I can be so damn cool. I lean in and ask her name as if I was taking a census.

  “Tess,” she says over the loud pulsating beat of, ‘Vienna’ by Ultravox. She has an English accent to weep over. Her face is fetchingly round with rose-colored cheeks, surely drug or alcohol induced, but it still has me chiming a Herman’s Hermits tune in my head. Her scarlet hair is cropped swinging sixties style, her lips are an innocent shade of red and she even has on a miniskirt.

  “You mean like, Tess? Like Tess of the D’Urbervilles?” I say trying to sound as American as Warren Beatty, hoping the charm of being foreign to her will sweep her as it did me.

  I have a pretty good buzz going but it’s quite manageable. In fact, it’s perfect, kismet. Like I said people, stuff happens in summer. The booze allows my words to dance and confidence to flow. We are the rock crowd, us party people. Close to being broke, the in our twenties gang fills houses from Silver Lake to Santa Monica. Making the rounds every weekend, parties are usually stops on the way to clubs, but sometimes there are reasons to hang the whole night.

  Tess is my reason.

  I know Tess of the D’Urbervilles was a movie but I hadn’t seen it. I thought it was supposed to be romantic so I took that chance.

  “A very romantic movie.” I said.

  ‘Think so?” Her green eyes seem to challenge me.

  “Well, sort of, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, magic, but fatal as a beef cow.” She looks in me.

  “Magic, but fatal,” I say mimicking her like a puppy unsure he’s a dog. I smile quizzically. Oh my god, I want her. I love her, I need her, I can tell her all about my love for the Kinks, The Beatles, The Stones, The Clash, everything and everyone in England; the Punks, the rockers, the mods, their movies, style, clothes, everything.

  “You’re Magic,” I say, lushing to the floor and back.

  “Think so, love?”

  “Oh so, love.” Now it’s my time to entertain her with my music knowledge. “I can name any Beatle or Stones song just by the lyric.” I say wanting to impress.

  “Well I can’t, and not everybody from England is a Beatles fan.”

  “What? Hell yeah they are. Have you ever seen one?” She smiles lending me all the rope I need. I tell her about how I cried when John was shot and became depressed, more than usual, for weeks. The fact is I was really fucked up before the assassination, but that drove in the last nail. I was bogged down with myself, in the poison cloud, draped in disappointment, unable to look the real world in the eyes; maybe some random person serving burgers, but that was it. I was convinced that my self-imprisonment was in fact not self inflicted, but brought on by a sickness I was born with, a sickness that would never go away and had very few witnesses. John Lennon had it, Neil Young understood it, but they were
able to create, I could only identify. I am a fervent sufferer without an outlet I could trust. With my acting still just fresh from starting, I’ll sometimes find a posture or an emotion to propel me into something noteworthy, but most of the time I’ll float around the surface with limited understanding of what’s going on, terrified to use the vast well of muddied and bloodied emotions inside. My insecurity has me chasing down the lowlife of the highlife, the agents and casting people with shady profiles to fit my shaded talent. The addresses ending in ½ are where I get meetings. And those meetings end up nowhere. I find casting notices in a magazine called Drama- Logue. They’re just enough to keep me active in a business I had no technique for, just a desire to be involved.

  I’m too drunk to be insecure and too happy to drink. I actually know nothing about England other than the whole swinging sixties, big clocks, and a bridge or two. And here is this cherub with large breasts seemingly captivated by me. It’s one of those nights when I can say no wrong because something inside of me is switched to the OKAY button. There is a being thing that sometimes happens when I’m perfectly concocted with hope and booze, I love it. It’s the heart of everything I search for.

  The night ends and we trade phone numbers and lips.

  I call her soon and I’m in love with her charming irreverence to things that really shouldn’t matter, and to the freeness of her. All the charred things I cling to until my pores drip black are the things she never gives a second thought.

  We meet for a drink and we kiss some more. I’m in no hurry for her rose because I have love cataracts. My eyes are misted with nobility. I want to have the selfless actions of one who truly is capable of romance. I open doors for her (car and street), I buy her drinks (during happy hour only, cheaper), and I look deep into her eyes and say her name repeatedly until she asks me to stop. But it’s so wonderful and unlike any name here in L.A. In America even. She tells me about all the very, very, cool things they do or don’t do in England compared to the U.S. Then she tells me she’s going back to merry ole next week because of visa problems. I tell her I’ll marry her so she can stay, but she doesn’t bite. Instead she says I should come and see her in LONDON.

  “Its really not that expensive, you’ve never beeeeen, yes?”

  “Yes, I mean no, I’ve never beeeen.”

  “Well, come then, I’ll show you around.” I feel the wave of happening. Something good is going to happen. I get this feeling in spring. I get this feeling when I get out of jail, when I can afford the cheese I really want, when I get a full tank of gas, wash my clothes, or get a big thing of toilet paper. All these happenings give the impression of newness.

  This is huge though, England!!!

  “Yeah, I’ll do it. Yes. You sure it will be okay?” I ask not sure if I need an answer. I am going, that’s it, done.

  “Yes dear, it will be fun.” She smiles.

  She’s only twenty-five and she uses the word dear. How cool is that? I want to kiss her with glee and tongue but I’m not sure if we’re at that stage of our lives. I’ll wait till we are more drunk, or drunk more.

  I’d leave for England right now if I could: like tonight, I mean it. I have some things to do before though. One big thing is I promised my director friend, Sandy I would do Mr. Roberts, at the San Gabriel Playhouse. She believes in me very much, so much it feels uncomfortable. I know I’m not that good. I just mumble when she tells me how good I am. She wants me to play the lead and I’m excited, but I’ll drop it for England in a fucking second. Damn, the play starts the same day my Tess leaves. What the hell am I going to do? It’s going to be hard without her. I will put on my devotion glasses. I wear them well at times.

  I take her to the airport, and I’m solid and hopeful. We have our whole lives together. I will see her in exactly three weeks. I wave and she blows me a kiss. Thank you, God for my very own Julie Christie.

  Soon I purchase my ticket, $140.00 one way. I haven’t traveled much just up to San Francisco, Alaska, and to Wisconsin once to see my sister. I’m going to fucking fly over the Atlantic. Ha.

  Tess and I speak once a week, and I stay so true. I help my friend Greg paint houses during the day. At night I stay home unless of course I have a performance, then I come straight home, and play my new musical bible, Sandinista, by the Clash. I dream of anarchy, and my Tess.

  In between scenes during the play I wonder what she’s doing and I picture us taking photos where the cover of, Abby Road was shot. I’ll wear clothes like the Beatles and she will be my cooler Yoko.

  Greg keeps me working right up to the final week. He’s the older brother of Johnny, a friend of my younger brother. Johnny’s my friend as well, but mostly my brothers. He’s a rowdy hippy, Greg is an un-rowdy hippy. He loves pot and gets high all fucking daylong. I can only smoke pot if I’m already fucked up on something else. Pot alone makes me paranoid.

  Greg and I are starting a job in the Hollywood hills. It’s milky cloudy this morning and he comes by my place near the Hollywood bowl to pick me up. The show, Mr. Roberts, is done and I’m satisfied enough with how it went. It’s my biggest role yet and I think I did pretty good so I don’t eat my self up from inside out like some Pac Man death worm that chews the core of the experience leaving a hole to be filled with doubt and amnesia regarding a positive occurrence. Plus, I’m getting ready to write the ballad of Van and Tess. This helps.

  I sell my 1978 Volkswagen camper van for $500.00 and a part of it goes for the plane ticket, though. I still need to pay my utility bills and buy food for the rest of the week. The money I’m making helping Greg will be my spending money in England.

  On our way to the job Greg fires up a bowl of pot. I check everything out going on in the streets. Hollywood in the morning reminds me of Vegas at four A.M. Ha, desperate, kinda like my apartment before I cleaned it.

  We wind through the hills above Beverly Hills lost, but we finally find the address.

  The house is a very cool, old and multi leveled. It sits on a hillside projects out of the rock supported by steel pillars, as many of these canyon homes are. Earthquakes must scare the shit outa these people.

  Greg is contracted to do a bunch of rooms inside. The place looks quite regal; I guess that’s the word. It has royal blue awnings, ornate iron and the walkways line the mountain and has neatly trimmed bougainvillea. We pull up to the front and unload our tools. I look over the building and I’m thinking it resembles an old time movie star’s house.

  A gracious older woman filled with life, past and present, greets us at the door.

  “Hello boys.” We wander around her maze of living and she reminds Greg of the work to be done. Damn, she has a lot of stuff. There are artifacts from far off places way beyond any books I’ve read; I mean dead kings shit. The rooms are just south of clutter but comfortably intriguing. There are many photos from the forties and fifties of Hollywood; recognizable starlets, stars, and business types that I can’t identify, but look important, pointing and smiling and having a grand time. I try to insert myself into the photos but remember reliably, I’m just a mangy working class smart ass with a heart tied to a rising anchor.

  Greg and I are left alone downstairs to begin our prep on a pallor room, but we get sidetracked for hours looking at all the memorabilia. Man, there are costumes, jewelry, magazines, and hundreds of photos.

  We find a common thread in all these images, and it’s Ava Gardner, she’s in most of them, or they’re autographed to her and someone named Bappie.

  Neither one of us know of anyone named Bappie, even though we’re both pretty knowledgeable regarding film and music. I can’t stop staring at the Ava photos, I feel like I am damn hypnotized.

  When I was ten years old I saw a movie called, A Touch of Venus, and there was a woman in it that had the darkest hair with a face like a chiseled goddess, and a smile that could have an army on it’s knees. When she walks I love the space she’s in, the space she’s left and the place she was going to. At night I would have dreams of her.
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  She was Venus, the lady of love, a much prettier version of my mom. I fell for Venus, as any male should, with a tender boner and a ready chariot.

  Now looking at her in some of these photos she seems just as beguiling but less fanciful. There is a slight slouch in her posture and a devil in her eyes. I think about late nights with her.

  In the afternoon when we’re leaving I challenge Greg to ask the lady about all the photos.

  “Leave me alone,” he says, as if dealing with a mosquito.

  “No, come on man, just ask her how she has all this stuff. It’s no big deal. Maybe she’s an agent or something. Man I need an agent. Come on. She’d probably love to talk about it. She’s all alone and needs to talk, you’ll be helping her out.”

  “No, I don’t want to bug her, I need this job.”

  “Hey Greggie, me too if I don’t make some money I won’t have anything to spend on my Tess. Let me ask her then, I’ll just be real nice about it and if she doesn’t want to talk, I’ll drop it, right on its head, like you were, when you were a baby.” I have a way to annoy Greg either in to doing what I want of him or making him homicidal. He’s very docile and kind, ever bending with childish exuberance before snapping. Getting him to do what I want is a delicate task I am usually pretty successful at.

  “What if she wants to barter some of her stuff for more painting, wouldn’t you like to have some of it? What about that photo with Ava and Hemmingway?”

  “She is not going to give up a photo with Hemmingway in it, so just shut up now,” he says walking up the stairs. I follow poking him in his back.

  “Ask her, ask her, ask her. If you do, you can knock off an hour of what you owe me for today.” He moves faster to try and separate himself from me.

  “You boys done for the day?” the lady asks with a smile and a seemingly deep appreciation for the hours we put in.