kathleen and jimmy have been through it all - heroin. arcadia. celebrity status.
together, they are like fire and gasoline.
apart, they are no longer.
our story begins in the beatific city of cielo, in an offbeat hotel called the riot house that overlooks the bethel strip. it's eleven o'clock on a hot summer night - there is no moon hanging in the sky, nor breeze blowing through the air. i am late, due to customary downtown traffic and walking in, it's easy to understand why the papers paint the far-out hotel as a freaky meeting place for all of cielo's outsiders.
the lobby is packed, elbow to elbow with what i assume are the pretty people and i can't help but taking a seat to watch them, lost in admiration. within moments, a very young, tan, tall blonde boy appears in golden hotpants and asks me what i take to drink. a look of alarm washes over my face. he then says, "i work here, man. don't worry - i'm not trying to pick up on you." relieved, i tell him that beer is fine.
he returns and i realize that he is on roller skates. i stifle out a small laugh and he gives me what my mother would call 'the hairy eyeball.' covering my tracks, i say, "wow, this place sure has some beautiful people." he gives me another strange look, so i continue nervously, "it's just a little loud in here for me. i'm really here for kathleen - do you happen to know where i could find her?"
his face relaxes and he slowly says, "why? are you a cop?"
"far from it - i'm a writer for hep parade."
the hairy eyeball reinstates itself and he says, "will you do me a favor, then? i only want you to write half of what you see tonight."
"okay, which half?"
"the good half." he disappears on his skates back into the crowd.
a few moments pass and then, finally, the elevator door sounds and kathleen steps out. she is instantly recognizable - ratty blonde hair, jean jacket, cigarette at hand. she motions for me to come to the elevator - which, mind you, is the original birdcage lift from 1912, refurbished to functioning status. she is friendly and calls the operator by name when asking for the top floor. She leaves him a £50 tip.
we walk together to room 666 and upon walking through the door, it becomes quite clear that the riot house is not just kathleen's casual hideout and that she has been living in the room for longer than just a few days. she jokes, "well, the freaks have totally taken over 10050 lonesome lane and the house has gone to shit." she then informs me that she and jimmy haven't left the room since they made up earlier this week.
trotsky, pal ludo ludovic and brother sodapop take to the sitting room, like gangsters out of a mafia movie. they are seated around a small table, drinking what appears to be scotch, playing a game of cards. a cloud of cigarette smoke veils them. whenever a knock comes to the door, one of them springs up to get it - same with the telephone. every once in a while, they say that they're leaving to 'case the joint,' but we later find them buying drinks for girls at the bar.
kathleen throws what was in her hands - a silver cigarette lighter and case - onto the bed and slips into the kitchen to make a drink. from the balcony, in walks jimmy kiss. kathleen describes jimmy as, 'a tall drink of water' - he's 6' 4, skinny as a rail and all limbs, long arms speckled with tattoos. he looks like the greaser dream. he's wearing tight black jeans and a crisp white tee-shirt. naturally, his cigarette pack is rolled up in his shirt sleeve and his hair is slicked back with pomade. he walks into the kitchen, i follow. the pair have launched into a heated liplock, so i turn heel into the foreroom. sodapop wins a game of cribbage and I get a chapter of the satanic bible in before jimmy hollers from the kitchen and asks the boys what they would eat from room service - kathleen's buying, as always. they begin to debate, but he's already made the call. they'll be having cheeseburgers and strawberry shakes.
as soon as jimmy hangs up the phone, it rings again - this time, for kathleen. she spends a few minutes talking hurriedly and hangs up the phone. it rings again. she answers and wails, "i don't know - tell headlock to figure it out!" she slams the telephone receiver into the cradle and like clockwork, it rings again. kathleen's wild blue eyes go electric. she lets out a howl, "those...freaks!"
she is seemingly talking about her cielo commune. "there are juice freaks...grass freaks...pill freaks - every one is a freak!" she goes on, "in the mornings, what we have in mind is breakfast for forty-five," the introduction of granola proved an urgent fix for a desperate situation. she discloses that she recently purchased another three acres in monticello for her pretty people to set up camp - "only because i was tired of them sprawling out on my lawn." the papers have properly named it 'the freak farm,' identifying kathleen as the astute mother. the harem, which started out with a handful, has now grown to well over fifty and will continue to grow. the 10050 'love shack' began as a place where the down-and-out privileged hellions could take a breather; the commune is now open to people from all walks of life. "there are freaks all over cielo - working at the riot house and at hep parade. i'm also helping some of the kids open up a store. it's going to be called 'nobody's business' and it's sure to be essential for all." she goes on to describe the store at length - it will be full-service : books, clothing items, artist exhibitions, instruments and a complete range of hip paraphernalia. the paper's think she's started a revolution; they call this 'the summer of love' and her 'the beautiful one' - the paramount. "the fence thinks that the freaks are an organization, because they camp out and gather in cielo - and some think it's a movement. and that's what i think it is - the doll's pretty people and freaks anti-squares movement and all you've got to do to join is come by the house. since me a song, read me a story - paint me a picture. the revolving doors are open."
at this time, a knock comes to the door. kathleen is sitting on the edge of her bed, smoking a cigarette - although she's received several complaints - in a bathrobe. the wolfman jack show is playing in the background, on a small radio. the bellboy, after scooting in the cart in and before he snatched up his tip, raises his eyebrows at the doll. eventually he musters the strength to remind her that the floor is non-smoking. with a smile, she pulls a £50 note from her wallet and says, "i pay the taxes on cigarettes, don't i?"
the boys crowd around the cart like a pack of feral street cats and scarf down the food in record time. retreating, they reveal three beat-looking hamburgers, with a tiny pile of fries crowded near each one and three pink milkshakes. jimmy hands me my eats and serves kathleen before himself. i take a bite and look over at kathleen, who is still inspecting her food. "there's no tomatoes," she says weakly. i stop chewing and scan the room, anticipating a first rate prima donna meltdown. Instead, she looks at jimmy and says, "no one ever remembers that I hate tomatoes!"
soda jokes, "wait - you don't like tomatoes?" but the damage is done. within moments, kathleen and jimmy resume their heavy petting and drive everyone out of the room.
our story closes in the riot house bar and lounge, at or around two in the morning. kathleen has just finished her third double-shot of her 'baby's love,' also known as whiskey, and has already ordered two more. people look on - some in jealousy, some in distaste; still, she perseveres - in fact, she gets on the stage. the room begins to crowd around and kathleen, so deep into dancing, doesn't realize that a troupe of hecklers are pelting her with whatever they can find - bottle caps, lemon and lime peels, pennies wadded up in napkins. as soon as she catches onto this, her response is classic doll - "oh yeah, you people are so cool - you are going to sit in the darkness and throw fruit at me? come on up here, in the light, so everyone can see you. why don't you throw glass? do you have a gun? why don't you just shoot at me?" as she is being peeled off the stage, by her own security, she caps her diatribe with, "and don't forget to boogie!"
the end
