16 Shells From A 30.6

We called Aaron “Little Hat” because, well, he wore a little hat. One of those Greek fisherman-type deals. Not always but enough to earn him a nickname. Aaron entered my orbit as a second guitarist for the band I was trying to form. I found him in the Recycler. The Recycler was a weekly classified paper in LA at the time. No matter what, if you needed something, were looking for someone or desiring some sort of service you’d go to any liquor store and grab one as you bought smokes. I think it came out every Thursday. It lasted until the internet swallowed everything up. My last engagement with a few of its pages came years later when I’d lie in my bed in the Echo Park apartment and read and re-read three torn pages of “freebies.” These pages were literally scraps blowing around this fucked apartment, but I needed the printed word and this was all I had. I’d spend days shooting dope, smoking crack and just pore over these long out of date offerings people had made. Lots of washing machines it seemed. Guess it was just easier to give the damn things away. In this state I remained wildly focused and fascinated imaging some sort of life outside which included caring about things and having enough to give some away.

Aaron was Scottish. I mean, he wasn’t from Scotland, but he was a Scotsman by blood and he was into it! He played the bagpipes and wore kilts sometimes. He also loved the ritual of drinking Laphroaig scotch out of a wooden cup he had. God, I hope that’s the right scotch. It’s what I remember. Could be anything I guess but I’m sure of the wooden cup. I hated it. I shiver like someone might shiver hearing fingernails on a chalkboard when anything wood touches my mouth. I have to be very careful around popsicle sticks. One false move man.

He was a much better guitarist than I was, so I was happy to hand over most of the heavy lifting to him. I just wanted to play well enough to sing to and hopefully make someone cry. We became friends right away. I’ve never understood bands who aren’t all friends. It happens but it’s so weird to me. I never wanted to play music with anyone I wouldn’t want to stay up all night with. I miss him.

He lived with a guy named Charles. They lived in a place in Silver Lake. Charles became one of the gang as well. Charles was, at the time, doing something in film in the production side of things. Definitely not a PA. He’s a big Producer now. He’s an epicurean. That’s how I see him these days when I see him post stuff about food he’s cooking for his family. He knows his stuff.

The band also needed a drummer and we found Johnny from the recycler too. Johnny was this weird cat who lived in Thousand Oaks. And I say weird in all the most beautiful ways. He wouldn’t tell us his last name for six months. I don’t even know why we’d even ask what his last name was but once we did, we were obsessed with trying to find out. Eventually he told us his full name was John Penny. Finally. We were relieved.

That wasn’t his real name.

We rehearsed at Hully Gully. A place in Frogtown. Run by this guy Bill. I loved that guy. I stayed with Hully Gully as long as I could. That guy Bill was a good guy. A bit of a beleaguered sad sack but he’d always let us slide if we were short on money. We were usually in the big back room that had rollup doors into the alley. That was the easiest room to load into and out of. That’s all that mattered. We’d learn crazy intricate British-esque pop songs that Rob was writing and my decidedly less complex songs about her and played all kinds of odd covers. Of course, we did “She’s Like Heroin To Me.” God I loved singing that song.

  RIP Jeffrey Lee.

We hung out a lot in our apartment. One night Johnny wanted to give himself a tattoo. I remember watching him jab himself in his hand with some sort of pointy object and some ink. The tattoo was going to say, “Step Away.” He gave up and if you meet him today, you’ll see “Step A” on his hand. I love that.

We’d hang out with Leslie and her younger sister Marion who’d also come out with us. Was she there yet? Was it later? Memories. I’m going to put her in. She was there. Ultimately, she fell in love with Aaron. They should write their own book about all that.

By this point, I’d found 6th and Union and a couple other spots. I found dope that was powder and snorted more gracefully than hot liquid. I hadn’t taught myself to shoot yet. That happened upstairs. In any case the powder dope was civilized enough that sometimes when I’d offer it to Leslie and the gang they’d take some. It was always such a big deal when someone would get high with me. It made it all feel less hidden and desperate. There were nights when we’d decide to get high and a couple of us would drive downtown to cop. It was only when we had trouble finding someone that the cracks would show. After a while everyone would just say oh well, fuck it and I’d be intent on staying. Those were the moments that separated me from them. Getting dope was already becoming a need. Not that I was necessarily strung out yet but the idea of spending an evening without it seemed awful and empty. If we couldn’t get any, which was rare, we’d go back to Franklin and just drink and listen to records and I’d be looking forward to the next day and going back alone until I found it.

I don’t think anyone picked up on what was happening to me. The truth is that they probably did but didn’t want to say anything. Hardest thing in the world is confronting someone you love about their self-destruction. It gets messy and weird and full of stuff. Better to leave it alone and hope it just goes away. Let’s just hope Mike gets out of the heroin phase. And not like any of them had the responsibility of saving me from myself and in time they all made it clear that they’d fucking had it with me but in those early days it was all just so new to us. All of it was. We’d all landed in LA from some faraway place and were feeling our way into it.

I wasn’t using every day. It was still like weekend warrior or special occasion stuff. You know, those special occasions hallmarked by heroin use. In time, simply being awake was occasion enough. It wasn’t everyday but it was building but still we rehearsed, and I worked and Leslie made potato salad and painted sets and things were good. They really were. I often wonder where we’d all be if I hadn’t exploded everything. I suppose that’s giving myself way too much credit, but it does seem like I turned into a problem to be avoided. Rightfully so.

Sometimes we’d hang at Aaron and Charles’ place. When that happened, it was just the three of us. We’d drink and talk about things we found fascinatingly weird. Like late night phone sex ads on TV. They killed us. Some hot troglodyte moaning into the camera urging us to call. We’d watch movies like Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. We likely watched Eraserhead. Stuff like that. Three fairly well-read guys into weird stuff and getting drunk. Aaron and Charles weren’t into dope. Hell, none of them were except for Dean but he comes into this later.

RIP Dean. I’m sorry.

They had a little house on Sanborn. Sanborn? Maybe it was Lucille. It was south of Sunset, I know that. Just a typical little LA neighborhood edging toward the slums. Today, Silver Lake is investment property and very hip. Lots of pronouns and cancellations. But it was still a place where some guys in a fantasy band could afford to live. Single family homes with dusty front yards and add-on apartments. They had neighbors.

One night Aaron, Charles and I had been out somewhere. I don’t know where. It might have been bowling. Maybe it was just another night of drinking at my place. I have few memories of any of us actually doing anything beyond our living rooms and rehearsing but we must have done something. It was summer. I remember it being hot and that stood out because it was past midnight and still hot when we parked and walked up to their place. This little Silver Lake neighborhood was shut down for the night. I imagine we were going to keep drinking and watching phone sex ads. Who knows?

I remember walking up their driveway and my attention being pulled to the left. Another innocuous LA post-war home. All the windows open. All the lights on. Past midnight. And booming from the open windows we hear Tom Waits sing “16 Shells from a 30.6” It’s loud. Someone is going to town with this beautiful racket of a song well past midnight and damn the neighbors to hell. It’s loud! Meet me by the knuckles of the skinny bone tree. And in that moment, they both react, and I remember something they told me about way earlier. It all happens at once and I put it all together and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and inside I just well up because, fuck, this is love.  A Father’s love. I remember them telling me that in that house next door was Tom Waits father. He lived there. I had never seen any sign of him and still thought it was cool but to come upon this moment felt like such a gift. He was in there blasting his son’s album, Swordfish Trombone after midnight on a hot summer night. Is there any clearer example of a Father’s love for his son? Would my Dad so support his son? (it turns out that he would). I’ve held that memory throughout all my life as proof that love exists in this world and that nothing can ever truly vanquish it. I have no idea what sort of relationship Tom and his Dad had but in that moment it was about as good as it gets. I hope Tom knows.

Twenty years later I’m at a funeral reception for my girlfriend’s aunt. Altogether different girl and altogether different love. We’re at a little church in Sonoma and the place is filled with Origami birds. The family is Japanese. Thousands of these paper cranes. Everyone in the little town who loved Jana’s aunt helped make them. And there’s Tom. He’s standing there just a part of this scene. Turns out he lives there and his son is close to the family. He’s close to the family. He helped make the birds. I notice him and slyly follow him outside. We both stop on the little porch and pull out cigarettes. He says something like “nice service.” I answer “ yeah, it really is.”. I don’t say anything else. We smoke in silence and the moment ends.

After, I ask the family who’s stayed behind to clean up why was Tom Waits here? They’re all confused by my excitement. All they know is that Tom’s a guy who does some sort of music but he goes rafting with us when we take the kids. They have no idea who Tom Waits is. They only know Tom, the guy who does something in LA but helps make auntie’s cranes. I try to explain. They seem interested but their idea of Tom is what they cherish. They love the Tom who shows up and helps out and shows love.

I would give anything to be back in that moment and tell him about that night in Silver Lake. I’d give anything. But I blew it. I acted sensibly. I acted with restraint and I gave in to fear. And I fucking blew it.

Don’t blow it. The regret is soul-crushing.