kathleen will not disclose the exact location as to where we are meeting...
...for lack of a better description, i am on the east side of the city; in the belly of primrose canyon - the home of the pretty people. it is nearing midnight; outside, a nearly full, jaundiced moon hangs in a bed of amethyst-and-smog stained clouds - a common, but nevertheless eerie sight for summer in cielo.
i did as i was directed, over the telephone last night at 3 AM, by a young male to drive down the strip, take a left at benz street; go up the mountain, take a left at coston, take a right on lookout mountain road and park at one of the viewpoints - "we'll find you," he said, before hanging up. and aside from stopping up the hill for a bunny to hop across the road, i am right on time.
i'm beginning to think that maybe i'm another victim of a senseless phony phone call, because i've been waiting for kathleen since before the sun set. i'm also thinking that if i continue waiting for her, i'll be seeing the sun rise as well; so, i make my way to the ol' jalopy and turn the engine over. across the street, a fox darts through a lawn. this is when i hear the sound of kathleen's boorish boat of a town car barreling through the streets. nicknamed 'the gravedigger,' and boasted as, "the car so tuff, it'll wake the neighbors - even when it's parked," there is no mistaking it.
kathleen's driver opens the coach door for her; she steps out - a pile of tangled and ratted curls, supported by a wisp of a body. she is dressed in a flowery baby doll and has her iconic jean jacket knotted around her waist.
there is no time for me to ask where we are - she ushers me inside the gravedigger with few words. once inside, she introduces her driver - a young kid by the name of trotsky, who acts as her right hand man. he is wearing a mod-looking navy blue suit and a smile; a borrowed trilby sits ill-fittingly atop a heap of matted brown hair. his tie is loosened, undoubtedly as a result from the sweltering heat. although it is nearing midnight, the hundred degree hot spell has still yet to desist. trotsky rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and lights a cigarette, securing it in the crook of his mouth.
the backseat is dim, lit only by lamps hanging in the corners and it provides an orange glow - like a muted fire. i open my mouth to begin, but kathleen stops me with a shake of her head. then, without a word, i watch her glance up at trotsky in the rear-view mirror and with that; we are gone, bound for another top-secret destination.
only the next locale is not as top-secret as first imagined - it is none other than the riot house on the bethel strip. trotsky drops us off at the nightclub street entrance and into the midst of "the beautiful circus," as kathleen so poignantly put it. i follow her into the riot house gardens; "to the last bungalow on the left." it is numbered 666, the same as her room in the hotel. all the windows are open and a folky punk rock is flowing out of them, portentous to the sensationalized lost boys.
at this moment, the front door to the bungalow bursts open and a rather blonde, slim and dirty shirtless youth appears - it is loyal, the youngest lost boy. he exclaims, over the music, "there you are!" in a brainless tone, as if he had been looking for kathleen all over. he starts forward towards us, stops suddenly and then retreats back into the bungalow. a few moments pass and, like a bleached-blonde bullet, he shoots out from the cottage and absconds the lawn in a matter of a few sweeping paces. he wears filthy, tattered grey colored trousers, heavily laden with stains - he later reveals that they began as white trousers; tattoos dot his arm like crude sleeves and he balances his trampy look with a grungy, grey paisley bandanna tied securely about his gullet like a neckerchief. kathleen dons a similar one, which has been seen around her neck as well, albeit tonight, it hangs off her ankle.
within seconds, kathleen and loyal have dropped out of sight. assuming that the two are playing possum inside the bungalow, i begin a slow, but meaningful stride towards the party. i take no more than three steps when i hear trotsky shout loudly; turning to him, he gives me a disapproving look and motions for me to come stand by him. we wait.
and then we wait some more. while we are waiting for kathleen and loyal to reappear, we meet loyal's merry band of mates, the lost boys, who are all as fantastically named as he - rocko j. nasty, freddie the freeloader, eddie spaghetti, jolly roger - and just as dirty. they too, all wear the same begrimed bandannas, though each boy adorns a different color.
rocko is tall and incredibly svelte. he has brown hair, cut short into a fringe mop and brown puppy dog eyes. his look is soft, but his attitude is hard. he is the leader of the pack and, of all the lost boys, has the worst attitude. as rocko is the only member who has a higher education, he manages the band in every aspect and drafts all the music.
freddie is the romantic of the group and otherwise known as the heartbreaking libertine. he writes all the songs for the gang, which has kept a synonymous theme - women. freddie the freeloader is responsible for such hits as, "sadie's a psycho," and, "leslie's not a good girl no more," and the unforgettable classic, "linda's lips sink ships."
eddie is a spritely fellow - offbeat and excitable. he is clad in a rainbow suspenders and a funky tee-shirt that bears a cartoon of a naked black woman with a large afro on the front and 'a whole lot of woman' on the back. he keeps his banjo on him at all times and constantly breaks it out to break the silence.
i notice jolly roger, the boys' wrangler and security, sitting quietly on the bungalow's front steps. stoic-like and clad in jean overalls, he is big and tall, with a dark, brooding face peeking out of a large, bushy beard. then, all of a sudden, he jumps up and takes his hands, which are as big as baseball mitts, and balls them into fists - he launches into "oh du lieber augustin" and begins to pound the tune on the front door. "ach, du lieber augustin,"
boom, boom, boom
"...augustin! augustin!"
boom, boom
"ach, du lieber augustin, alles ist hin!"
kathleen opens the door, just as he is preparing to strike, and smiling sweetly, says, "alles ist hin!" the two exchange word and she passes by, with loyal trailing her. again, i open my mouth to speak and she denies me. "if we were going to stay, i would have invited you in. get in the car."
with that, loyal, trotsky, kathleen and i clamber into the back of the gravedigger and roar down the street. it is at this time that i realize the gravedigger is a cunning beast. whereas on the outside, the roar of the engine is loud enough to rouse the dead; on the inside, it's as quiet as a tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it - the ride is quite slick. similar to its owner, i found the entire facet noteworthy.
now, the sun is coming up and the streets, mostly abandoned in the dawning, feel peaceful. the night now seems much ado about nothing; i am still anticipating her to crack and speak about jimmy kiss or the freak festival, but all hopes are surely trivial at this point. rush hour will begin shortly. kathleen and loyal seem more awake than the rest of us and in high spirits.
without warning, trotsky makes an abrupt u-turn and turns sharply down a narrow alley. "where are we going?" loyal asks.
"to the hidden glade of cielo," kathleen snickers. we leave the main roadway and, sure enough, on the far side, away from everything else on the far side, we emerge into a little cul-de-sac lined with brick townhouses and trees, with thick primrose bushes, white dogwood trees and ivy crawling up the buildings. it seems uncanny.
kathleen asks trotsky for the owner's manual of the town car and she flips it open. loyal then dumps out the contents of a small parcel onto the book and kathleen begins to curse. "i don't have any papers!" she complains, "what a nightmare!"
loyal says, "let's just dash to the love shack, doll, and pick up some papers there - we're like five blocks away." she shoots him an icy glare and makes no comment. "no, it's okay, let me see your cigarettes." within moments, he produces a fine looking doobie, worthy of street praise.
kathleen commends him and, sparking a match, remarks, "here, let me get that for you - pretty girls don't light their own cigarettes."
in the light, i glance around and notice that the palatial backseat is more of a home away from home than your average carriage. the floor is littered with discarded objects : loose credit cards, candy wrappers, bits of wadded up foil, a torn copy of nietzche's thus spoke zarathustra - a pack of rolling papers.
i look up at kathleen to announce my discovery when she says, "it's nice out here - i think i ought to stay a while."
loyal responds, "hate to break it to you, doll, but we'd better beat feet - or the rail bulls will get us."
kathleen asks trotsky for the time - it is now 5:55 AM - and shoves the roach in his face. before the words, "be careful!" can exit his lips, the two scamper out of the gravedigger and, picking up speed, sprint through the meadow. trotsky looks at me questioningly and then says, "well, what are you waiting for?"
following their path, i catch up to kathleen and loyal just in time to see them hop on a cielo red line train and pull away - two shreds of blonde hair in the wind.
by the time i make it back to the gravedigger, the sun has risen. trotsky is waiting for me, grinning and shaking his head. after lighting a cigarette, he confirms my ultimate fear by saying, "you know, you should have gotten on that train." there is no defense - he is right.
i ask for a cigarette and mutter in acquiescence, "you snooze, you lose."
