it's about half-ten in the morning in the cielo valley and it is already nearing a hundred degrees, easy. the doll, kathleen, is running around the riot house property in an american flag bikini with a glass jug of dago red wine that is already half gone - she has been filling up sunbathers' drinks as they lay by the pool. trotsky is chasing after kathleen, sodapop is rumbling through the property on his ancient motorcycle. inside her bungalow, the phone is ringing off the hook. monster speakers are pushed up against the open windows, blasting heavy metal.
"the summer of love is nearly here," kathleen says, running up to me to fill my glass. i tell her that, much to my dismay, i have none, as i have just arrived. "that's okay," she says, "lean back and close your eyes - open your mouth, i'll give you a surprise!"
kathleen flings the doors to her bungalow wide open and continues inside, talking to whoever will listen. she turns as a loud grown comes through the primrose vines - we hear a couple of girls in the pool nearby shriek as sodapop rides up in his motorcycle, beaming a movie star grin. shirtless, tan and young, he is a cielo dreamboat. "the girls just love it when i ride my bike around the pool," he says, hopping off the beast. kathleen rolls her eyes.
maynard g. alberkraut sits on the front porch in a comfy wicker chair, leafing through gone with the wind. alberkraut seems like the typical type kathleen would take under her wing and appears to have either confused himself with atticus finch or have just fallen out of a time machine from 1931. he is dressed in a thin white cotton shirt, trousers held up by suspenders, and finishes the look off with a pair of brown leather loafers. it wouldn't hurt to mention that his dark blonde hair is slicked back, à la james dean's character in east of eden. as i walk in, alberkraut looks up, pushes his reading glasses down his nose a little and then goes back to his book, pausing only to sip whiskey from his tumbler. "how's your drink?" kathleen asks, "warm as piss?"
"warmer," maynard replies, "the ice melts faster than i can drink it. it has to be over a hundred degrees by now, baby, even in the shade."
she turns to me. "he's been reading books on the great depression for the past few weeks and he's starting to drive me up the wall! to kill a mockingbird has been on heavy rotation and 'kraut's quite the square now" she leans in and whisperers, "but trotsky and i have a plan to turn him into a freak!" snickering, kathleen then dips inside to freshen maynard's drink.
inside the bungalow, all the ceiling fans are spinning wildly and trotsky is filling up a swamp cooler that sits on the bay window; all the windows are open - in hopes of catching a stray breeze. "sodapop broke the air conditioning," she says, "we have," she turns to soda and speaks a little louder, "or should i say had - we had the cheap little box that sits in the window - the fancy air is being installed later this week; and, well, one night he got drunk and kicked it out the window. then he threw the television in the pool."
at this moment, soda lopes into the kitchen and interrupts her, "like you're any saint! you took my bike for a spin down one of the hallways of the hotel!" kathleen smiles impishly. "and, on the night of the opening, she rode around the gardens on a horse, totally in the nude! the horse wasn't even hers - it was a cop's! she was lucky that time and only got laughed at."
she throws him an evil look, "i've done wilder things."
sodapop, says, "like what? like dangling out of a sixth-story window? you call that wild? that's kid stuff."
kathleen snorts and points at trotsky, "don't say things like that - trotsky's just a kid himself! talking like that might hurt his feelings." she laughs loudly at her joke.
meanwhile, a pack of wild-haired, tan-skinned kids make their way through the side door, carrying armfuls of fresh-picked wildflowers and nursing burns from the sun. kathleen stops and, upon noticing my observation of them, makes formal introductions - "these are my canyon kids. yes, these are the famed pretty people. only this isn't all of them - there's more of them running around here somewhere." her lonesome lane estate has recently become one of your run-of-the-mill communes for the down and out billion dollar babies. there are camps of people around her yard - the cozy house functions as a sort of rock 'n' roll salon; she plays host to both locals and strangers. the blessed bands of cielo's most divine wandering souls are none other than the beautiful one and her friends themselves, known collectively as the pretty people - or the freaks, if you ask the media. they are holing up at the doll's free spirit enclave on lookout mountain and away from prying eyes, working to help kathleen in any way that they can.
she finally sits down on the patio, next to maynard and begins to skin up a joint. she invites soda and trotsky over. trotsky, who has been acting as mild form of security since the massacre on skid row stands outside, but never sits. "he is constantly casing the joint!" kathleen later says, "i'm sure he probably feels guilty - you know, because he didn't get sliced up and all, but that's okay. whatever floats his boat. if he wants to case, he can case all day - he doesn't bother me any."
trotsky, who, in the papers comes off as shy, unassuming and eager - seems nothing of the like. "last night, i remember taking off my shoes and getting into bed, but i woke up this morning in the main house, face down on the kitchen floor with different clothes on."
he shrugs it off at just another night out with the doll and her sect, until kathleen says, "well, in your own defense, after going down to the strip, getting good and loaded and pissing yourself in the back of a squad car - it's no wonder you don't remember it play-by-play."
with that, trotsky pops a squat on the ground and passes the doobie around. "i'm listening," he says, prompting kathleen to continue.
"i can't tell you much, because i wasn't holding your hand through this one, but i heard that you got lost in the valley and were ticketed for being drunk in public. they said you had to beg a ride home off the police."
it doesn't take long, but trotsky begins to remember the sordid details of nights past - he lost his keys in the riot house and after sleeping in the bushes outside of kathleen's cielo home, took back to the streets in the valley. he says, "i don't know, i've heard by a few people that i got picked up by the fuzz - i can't really say for sure, i mean, i woke up in the yard this morning."
"the yard? i thought you woke up in kitchen!" kathleen exclaims, back in the kitchen preparing more drinks.
"yeah - whatever."
she returns outside with a tray of tumblers as headlock walks up the path towards us. "headlock!" she shouts, "what are you doing here? what did i do now?" he lets out a weak smirk and immediately launches into a tirade about throwing televisions in pools, sleeping in bushes and riding motorcycles in the hotel. she tries handing him the roach, now barely burning and says, "take a hit, relax!" headlock ignores her and presses on that reporters are in the lobby of the riot house, waiting for a statement. "what are these people waiting for?" kathleen inquires, "a bus? things fall into pools and people sleep in bushes all the time! they were just lucky that the television didn't fall on their heads - or worse!" she ushers headlock back towards the hotel to smooth things over.
i stayed for a bit longer than headlock, but when my time came, she then gives me the same walk she gave him - arm draped over the shoulder like we've known each other for years, not hours - and says, "well, you know, i 'd really love you to stay, but the summer of love is only so long and i've got to get my kicks in before it ends." she leans in, "besides, this is the second time i've ever been alone in my life - i'm scared shitless."