Painted Black (5 page)

Clovis put his hand on Bobby's shoulder.

“You're Dust Bin Bob, aka Bobby Dingle from Liverpool. You took a drug called LSD at Brian Jones's house and you're on a trip.”

“I am?” Bobby blinked. He couldn't stop smiling.

“That's about the gist of it, pardner.”

“Am I always going to be like this?” Bobby said.

Clovis's voice was reassuring.

“Nah, it's already starting to wear off. You'll be fine in a couple of hours.”

“Thank God.”

Erlene returned. She looked surprisingly clean and fresh.

“I found a gas station and washed up in the restroom.”

Clovis looked at Bobby. Bobby translated.

“She means she found a petrol pump and washed up in the loo.”

Erlene held up a greasy white bag of food.

“I found an all-night fish and chips shop and I had some money in my pocket, so I bought you guys some breakfast.”

She handed the food to Clovis and Bobby, and they ate ravenously.

Erlene looked around. The sun was up now.

“We're gonna have to walk home. We better get started.”

“Home? Oh my God! Cricket! I promised I'd be home.”

The unlikely trio trudged through early morning traffic. Bobby and Clovis were barefoot. After a few minutes, Bobby developed several large blisters on the bottom of his feet and walking became difficult. He wound up hobbling through the streets of London.

It took most of the day to find their way back to Bobby's apartment. He opened the front door and shouted Cricket's name even though he knew she was gone. His clothes were disheveled and filthy, his feet were black with dirt. He had a wild look in his eye, and his hair looked like he'd slept on the ground.

There was a note tacked to the inside of the door. Bobby snatched it and read.

I hope you're all right and nothing bad happened to you, so I can
kill
you later. How could you? You promised you'd be home to say good-bye.

—C

PS Here's a dime. Call me when you grow up!

A shiny American dime was taped to the paper. Bobby looked down at his dirty clothes and black feet like he was discovering them for the first time. He rubbed the shiny new dime between his fingers and felt bleak. It would cost a lot more than a dime to call her now. He looked at the clock and saw that Cricket and Winston wouldn't arrive in Baltimore for several more hours. He couldn't call and explain yet.

Chapter Four

Sweet Schadenfreude

Bobby didn't remember going into his apartment. He didn't remember taking a shower and lying down on the bed. He didn't remember falling asleep. He didn't remember anything.

But when the phone next to his bed rang, it all came screaming back like the sooty shockwave of some terrible memory. He looked at the ringing phone, and for some reason he began to cry. It sounded so sad and mournful. He couldn't make his hand reach out and pick it up. He realized he was still tripping.

“Who is it?” he shouted at the ringing phone. “Who's inside of you?”

The absurdity of the statement made Bobby laugh.
Who's inside of you?
Indeed, who was inside that black plastic box?
What did they want?
Bobby doubted he could carry on much of a conversation anyway, so maybe it was a good thing to just shout at it. As if in response, the phone stopped ringing. He watched it cautiously, afraid it would come alive and bite him.

What if it was Cricket?

Could he talk to her in his present condition?
No problem
, he thought,
I'll just tell her the truth. It's a crazy story, but Clovis and Erlene will back me up.

Then he thought,
No, maybe I shouldn't tell her. She'd only get mad at me. I broke a promise
. Bobby realized with a jolt that for the first time in his life, he was contemplating lying to his wife.

He watched the phone.

Cricket would understand, wouldn't she?
Bobby wasn't too sure anymore. Once upon a time, she would have. But now, it seemed unlikely.

The phone didn't move. It stopped ringing. The silence was deafening.

Guilt, perhaps fueled by the residual effect of the psychedelics, ate away at Bobby's mind. The overall effect left him feeling drained.

The phone suddenly rang again and made Bobby jump. It sounded as loud as a fire alarm. Bobby snatched it up, expecting to hear Cricket's accusing voice. His face felt sore from smiling for the last twelve hours while tripping. His upper cheeks must have been locked in a rictus grin for hours because now they hurt. Also, his mouth and throat were as dry as cotton.

“Cricket?” he rasped.

It was Brian Jones's voice. “What? Buddy Holly and the Crickets? No, I want to talk to Dust Bin Bob!”

Bobby was confused.

“Who?”

“It's Brian! Brian Jones! You were at my house last night.”

Brian! The asshole! Was he calling to apologize? It was all his fault.

Bobby's voice was hoarse and throaty.

“What is it?”

A tsunami of emotions unexpectedly swelled up in front of Bobby. Suddenly, he couldn't control himself and he began to tremble. He thought he might cry again. Bobby hoped his tremors weren't audible on the telephone. He took a deep breath.

Fighting back his own spontaneous tears, he suddenly realized that the sobbing he heard was coming from Brian.

“It's Anita! She's gone!”

Bobby looked at the phone as if it were alive in his hands, twisting like a snake.

“I can't help you. I've got my own problems.”

“What do you mean?” Brian couldn't conceive of anyone else's problems being more important that his.

“My woman is gone, too,” Bobby said shaking. “She left after you made me break my promise. Remember? You and Anita laughed at me? Well, now she's gone back to America, thanks to you.”

“Sorry, don't remember a thing.”

“Well, because of you my wife has left me and taken my son.”

“Because of me?”

“Then you beat up Anita at The Scotch of Saint James. Do you remember that?”

“Oh God!” Brian gasped. “That was it! I didn't see her after that.”

“You mean to tell me you don't remember a thing?”

“Nothing. Was I a complete bugger?”

Bobby sat up.

“Yes! Yes you were! You really fucked up.”

He must not even remember being punched out by Erlene
,
Bobby thought
. Score one for Clovis, it could have cost him his job at Olympic.

“Sorry. But will you come over and help me find Anita?”

Bobby laughed.

“You gotta be kidding me. Can you go to America and help me get Cricket back?”

“Yes!” Brian shouted. “For God's sake, help me get Anita back. I'll do anything!”

“You beat her up in a packed nightclub, Brian. You bloodied her nose in front of all her friends. I would think she'd be halfway back to Munich by now.”

“No!” Brian sounded like a petulant child. “Look, if I take you to America and help you patch up with Cricket, will you help me get Anita back?”

Bobby sighed. Brian Jones was a piece of work. He sincerely believed that being a rock star and a member of the Rolling Stones gave him license for anything.

“What can I do?” Bobby sighed.

“You helped the Beatles. I know. John told me the whole story. You saved their lives. You have the magic. Now I need you to save mine.”

Bobby still felt mildly psychedelic. It was hard to separate fantasy from reality.
Was this conversation really happening? Was it a dream?

“Are you there?” Brian asked after a long pause.

“Huh? I can't talk now. Let me wake up a little,” Bobby croaked.

“Take your time. Have some tea.”

Bobby couldn't think straight yet. His mind was still scrambled from the LSD. He compared his earlier peaceful trip with John to the chaotic trip with Brian and his friends. With John, it had all been quiet contemplation and peace. Just the two of them.

With Brian, it was a roller coaster ride. He loved to surround himself with people. Faces came and went looming out of the shadows. The background conversation at The Scotch of Saint James became white noise. It all swirled out of control and all Bobby could do was watch and listen. The gravitational field generated by Brian's own personality guided the chaos, pulling along his dinner quests just for the fun of it.

He realized the extraordinary differences between John and Brian.
Maybe that's why they're such good friends
, Bobby thought.
Opposites attract
.

Music propelled both men through life but with very different engines. John was all about creating new songs, new opportunities, new vistas. He was a dedicated revolutionary. He exploded with creative energy, which extended from writing to artwork to music. To John, it was all about the next song, the next challenge.

Brian, on the other hand, felt that every great song had already been written and that the musician's role in life is to reinterpret the music through his own eyes. Brian strove to make old songs sound new. For the first three albums, the Stones followed that same path. It was all about the blues then. What could be more perfect than the blues? Three chords were all you ever needed.

“Bo Diddley” came back to him. In his mind, he replayed every second of that song. The maracas sizzled, the guitars throbbed, the vocal echoed. Bobby couldn't get it out of his head. He made a mental note to purchase
Bo's Greatest Hits
as soon as possible.

Bobby realized that he had been dosed by two of the greatest musicians of his generation. Instead of feeling special, he felt nauseous. He made the same promise to himself that he'd made after his first trip with John:
Never, never again
.

Bobby looked at the clock on the wall and realized he hadn't called Cricket.

Oh my God, I missed my window of opportunity! They're already there. How many hours ahead are they? Or is it behind? She's gonna hate me!

His mouth was as dry as the Sahara and he could hardly talk, but he was determined. He dialed the number with shaky hands. The aftereffect of the LSD made him clumsy.

The transatlantic telephone connection was horrible. There seemed to be a half second delay, and at times the static overwhelmed the signal.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Bobby? Is that you?”

“Cricket? Honey?”

“Don't ‘honey' me! It's three o'clock in the morning here. You probably woke up Winston. I guess you didn't think about that.”

“Honey, look, I'm sorry. I can explain—”

Cricket cut him off.

“I don't want to hear it! Call back at a decent hour if you want to discuss it!”

She hung up.

Bobby tried to call back but got a busy tone. She'd obviously taken the receiver off the cradle.

It's off the hook
, he thought.
I've been taken off the hook.

Guilt swept over Bobby like a sheen of perspiration.

He had to go to Baltimore. He had to be with Cricket. Even though he still felt woozy from the purple haze, he reached for the telephone to call the airlines. He made up his mind that he would make arrangements to travel to Baltimore as soon as possible.

But unbeknownst to Bobby, all the airline companies were on strike. In fact, the entire country seemed to be hobbled by a general strike. Bobby wasn't sure why, but the airline workers, baggage handlers, food handlers, ticketing agents, and maintenance workers were all out. It would be impossible to leave the country for at least the length of the work stoppage.

“Shit!” shouted Bobby at the telephone.

There was nothing he could do. He considered calling Cricket back and telling her, but that would only make matters worse. He'd tell her on the next call. Maybe the strike would be over by then.

Bobby wasn't going anywhere soon.

“Are you crazy?” Clovis Hicks asked Bobby.

He was standing in the doorway of Bobby's apartment.

“After the shit that guy pulled? You wanna help him?”

Bobby nodded.

Clovis said, “So, let me get this straight. You totally fucked up with Cricket and when you tried to call her and explain, she hung up on you?”

Bobby nodded.

“Aw, man, you are in for the shits. She ain't coming back anytime soon, I can tell you that. You're gonna have to go over there and beg her to come back. You made a promise to your woman and you broke it? There's gonna be hell to pay.”

“I was avoiding all fluids all night long, but he got me with the ice cream.”

“Who'da thunk it? He's a devious little motherfucker, I'll give him that.”

“He was actually proud that he'd managed to dose us.”

“Yeah, these fuckin' rock stars! Ain't they a bunch?”

“Maybe Erlene could call Cricket and explain my side of the story.”

Clovis let out a long and suffering sigh. “Let's let a little water pass under the bridge first, pardner. Give it some time. Erlene's still pissed-off, too.”

They stood in silence for a minute or two.

“Could you drive me to Brian's?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I don't know what else to do. Maybe if I help find Anita, Brian's karma will help me get Cricket back. Who knows?”

Clovis chuckled. “Jonesy can barely tie his own shoes, man. He's a mess. His karma stinks.”

Bobby put a hand on Clovis's shoulder.

“You want to know the truth? I don't know why I should go over there. It just seems like something I should do. I got this feeling of inevitability, like it's part of my fate.”

“That's the acid talkin', pardner. All that fate and inevitability shit. Sounds pretty trippy to me. Look, I'm your friend. I'll take you. That's that. No magical mystery tour, okay?”

“You're a good man, Clovis Hicks.”

“I know. Erlene tells me all the time.”

Bobby snapped his fingers.

“It's hard to believe that Erlene punched out Brian Jones at that fancy nightclub last night and he doesn't even remember.”

Clovis laughed.

“She don't take no shit, man. She told me she thought Anita was a witch and Brian was a warlock.”

“She might be right.”

Number One Courtfield Road was dark in the afternoon. The windows were drawn and the house appeared closed.

When Bobby rang the doorbell, he felt a slight electric shock and pulled his hand away from the button quickly.

“Did you get a shock?” Clovis asked.

“Yeah, as soon as I touched it.”

Clovis rang the doorbell, too. He received no shock.

“Nothing.”

Bobby touched it again and got another shock.

Just then, Brian opened the great door and peered at them through red squinty eyes. He'd been crying.

“Come in, come in,” he said. “Hurry, before they see you!”

“Before who sees us?”

“Them …”

“What the fuck?” Clovis said. “There's nobody out here, Brian. You're just paranoid.”

He pulled Clovis and Bobby inside and shut and locked the door with multiple locks.

He led them into the living room where they had been getting high the night before. The remains of the merriment were still there.

Bobby was surprised to see Skully and Acid King Leon sitting on the couch. They must have returned to Brian's some time during the night. Clovis saw them at the same time Bobby did, and they shared a frown.

“What are they doing here?” Clovis asked, nodding toward the couch.

Clovis made no attempt to hide his distrust of the two Californians. They knew hardly anything about them other than the unofficial connection to the Monterey Pop Festival, but something about them made Bobby uneasy.

Brian was apologetic.

“I'm sorry. I was lonely. Anita's gone. She took her things.”

Clovis put his hands on his hips.

“Well, somehow that doesn't surprise me.”

“Oh, shit. … I must've been crazy.”

“No argument there.” Bobby looked around.
Yep.
Crazy as a shit-house rat
,
as old friend and R&B philosopher Preston Washington used to say
. The place was a mess. It looked like the lair of a madman.