But the worst shock was yet to come.
"Ellena, I'm gonna tell your Mother on you!" The girl friend, whom we had completely forgotten, was hanging over the back of the front seat leering.
Ellena did the only thing a nice girl who had had too much to drink and had just been fucked hard could do, she opened the door and vomited out into the parking lot for five minutes.
I asked her to drop me at the corner of Fortieth and Balboa. This was several blocks from where I lived, and if I did get her pregnant she'd have a hell of a time finding me, since she didn't know my last name. Come to think of it, I didn't know hers, either.
We drove to the nearest open service station, where both girls, bickering loudly, disappeared into the John. They bitched all the way to Fortieth and Balboa as to whether the fat girl friend would keep her mouth shut. By that time I really didn't care. I had gotten what I wanted and Ellena's problems were now of no interest to me. I just wanted to get home.
In bed a few minutes later, exhausted from a long day and a longer evening and just the general tension of it all, I felt a great deal of personal satisfaction. At the age of fourteen, after three years of dreaming what it would be like, I had finally done it.
I had been fucked.
Chapter 4
The big-band era was dead. It had been killed by the musicians' union itself. Clubs that used to have ten or twelve-piece bands could now afford only combos of three or four. In a way it was a blessing in disguise, because bars all over the Bay Area seemed to be dropping juke boxes in favor of live, small groups, which meant more employment for more musicians.
A bunch of us who had the talent in both danceable stuff and modern jazz took advantage of a loophole in union rules and joined. The rule was actually made so that child prodigies could play public performances at which admission was charged. What it meant was that any minor who could prove professional proficiency and get his parent to sign for him could play up to four hours per night.
Badgering my parents constantly until they finally put their names on the dotted line, I became a pro under the prodigy clause. All I had to do was show that I knew the twenty-six rudiments, about as difficult for me as for an English language scholar to recite the alphabet.
My best friend, Herb, who was two years older than I and played a great trumpet, joined at the same time. He was more excited than I when we went to Sherman and Clay to get drums. It took almost all of the money I had saved from scabbing, but it was worth it. I bought a set of Ludwigs which included one of the new twenty-two-inch bass drums, a snare, side torn and floor torn, all in silver pearl. I ran my hands over their brilliant, smooth surfaces. It was love at first sight.
Then there were the cymbals. A drummer cherishes his cymbals almost as much as his women; some drummers even more. With almost any article of merchandise in the world there is reasonable choice. One brand or another may have certain advantages or drawbacks, but purchase depends to a large degree upon personal preference. Not so with cymbals. There is only one brand that any drummer will buy, no other brand is even considered. It's the only private business in the world with no real competition. If you want a cymbal, you have to buy a Zildjian, and they are not cheap. All other brands sound like tin-can tops with holes in the middle, and are used only for grammar-school orchestras and training. The Zildjian has a rich, even sound, and after being struck will be audible at low levels for minutes. I chose an eighteen-inch medium, two twenty-inch medium-thin rides, and a set of fine, matched sixteen-inch high-hat cymbals. It came out about even; the drums with cases were three hundred dollars and the Zildjians were three hundred dollars. I piled the stuff into Herb's car and we made it home in record time, with the drums bouncing around in the back and me watching them nervously.
By this time things at home were pretty strained, and about to become still worse. The whole scene was getting to be quite depressing. My mother cried a lot and my father yelled constantly that I -was a no-good bum, with my duck's-ass haircut. After I started playing regularly as a pro, he began to yell about my fancy nigger clothes, as indeed they were. I bought my clothing at Dude's on Market Street, a place catering to the sartorial styles then favored by Negroes and musicians, who to a great extent emulated Negroes in dress and talk. I mastered jive talk. and could turn it on or off at will, along with a slight Southern accent.
Through all of this my grades in school held up well. In the beginning I didn't cut too many classes unless I had been up very late the night before. I passed most courses just by browsing through the books, which was a source of constant amazement to my distraught parents.
When it came to women I was gaining experience, too. At least, I thought I was. Actually I was just spinning my wheels and going nowhere, with a big whang that I didn't know how to use and a technique that dated from the middle Bogart period. During this time I screwed seven or eight more girls, concentrating on my own pleasure, driving hard and fast because it felt so good when I came, figuring the girl was just a willing vehicle for my own sensations.
Of course, all of this experience didn't stop me from masturbating quite often, it just added a lot more fuel to my fantasy fire. Somehow, our backward society, in its recent acceptance of masturbation, seems to have condoned the idea only for those who have no ready sexual outlet. Nothing could be farther from the truth, as any really honest man or woman knows. It's hard to think of chiefs of state or famous religious personages locked up in a bathroom, sedately beating their meat. It's hard to think of presidents, prime ministers, generals, and movie stars blissfully jacking off while their wives read "How to Keep Your Husband Sexually Happy" in some ladies' magazine in the next room. Because we all know that happily married men aren't supposed to jack it; they're supposed to stick it into the old lady. But we all do, all through our lives. If only the big world politicians who control destinies would beat off vigorously and regularly to get rid of all those tensions and frustrations they take out on the rest of us, our planet would be a much happier place.
Chapter 5
I turned fifteen shortly before I was graduated from junior high school, which in San Francisco goes through the ninth grade. It was then that I started blowing after-hour gigs in the Tenderloin, the area just north of Market Street, bordered by Geary, Van Ness, and Powell. It was a great place, frequented by bums and winos, addicts, whores, pimps, and homosexuals of all three sexes. The clubs opened at two o'clock in the morning, when the bars closed, and served food and "soft" beverages until sun-up. Most • had been bars that had had their liquor licenses yanked by the State Alcohol Control people, for selling booze to minors. The funny part is, they made more profit as after-hours clubs than they did as bars. For three bucks a breakfast and fifty cents a cup of coffee, you could sit and dig the music all night. Of course, the customers got hustled for another cup of coffee every fifteen minutes.
The Streets of Paris, on Mason Street, now long defunct, was a favorite. It was dark and dirty, nothing at all fancy, but very popular. It was a hangout place for street girls trying to get that last trick of the evening, for pimps who tried to push their girls on Johns that were too bombed to know what was happening, for homosexuals after the gay bars closed, and for male hustlers. I met Bobby there.