Queen of the Oddballs (4 page)

Every day after school I waited in the driveway for Felix, our mailman, and every day he shook his head and said, “Sorry, nothing for you today. You waiting for grades? An invitation to a bar mitzvah?”

“No, Felix,” I said brusquely, not bothering to give him any more information, since he clearly didn’t get me.

Finally, after two weeks of disappointment, Felix drove up holding a powder blue envelope with my name written on it in neat, loopy handwriting.

“This what you’ve been waiting for?” he asked, handing me the envelope.

“Yes!” I squealed. I tore into the house then upstairs to my room and closed the door. Sitting on my twin bed, I carefully opened the envelope and inhaled the patchouli oil that wafted up from the stationery. The letter was handwritten:

I sat on my bed, unable to hold back tears of relief and joy. Just then, my brother barged into the room without knocking.

“GET OUT!!!!!!!” I screamed so loudly he jumped, then slammed the door.

I put on a Carly record and turned up the volume, singing “The Love’s Still Growing” along with her while I tucked the letter safely inside my shirt and pressed it to my skin.

In early May, Molly and I returned to the Troub. Carly was a huge star by then. Even though she’d won a Grammy for Best New Artist, free tickets still awaited us, and the front table was reserved for us at every show. After the performances, we hung out in the dressing room that had become so familiar I knew every stain on that plaid couch.

On closing night I brought along a clunky tape recorder that I held on my lap during the show. It was a perfect performance to tape because just as Carly was about to sing “Summer’s Coming Around Again,” my favorite song, she leaned into the microphone and said:

 

“This song is dedicated to Hillary and Molly, who have been in the front seats of this club more times this week than I have. They’re very loyal fans, and they bake. You should meet them, because if they like you, they’re a powerful, powerful duo.”

 

What stands out on the tape over Carly’s voice is held-back, breathy, fourteen-year-old excitement escaping from me in short, giddy giggles. I was so high from her lengthy dedication and her hearty hug and kiss good-bye, it wasn’t until I returned home well after midnight and played the tape that I heard the word.

Fans.

She called us fans.

Still, when I climbed out my bedroom window and crawled onto the roof, I played the tape over and over again. Sitting beneath a dim crescent moon, I didn’t mind anymore. Was Carly leaving free tickets and reserving front-row seats for anyone else? Who was she mentioning in interviews, writing letters to, dedicating songs to, and calling powerful? Who did she invite up to her dressing room every night and not only ask for opinions but listen to them as if they counted? And who was the one who had made it all happen?

Me.

I turned up the tape recorder, looked at the Moon, and let Carly’s lyrics seep into my being, my every cell.

“We want you to love the world, to know it well and play a part. And we’ll help you to learn to love yourself ’cause that’s where lovin’ really starts.”

• I go downtown to watch a Black Panther trial and wind up talking to the Manson girls, who hold a daily vigil for Charlie outside the courthouse. I can’t help but stare at the
  X
  s carved crudely in their foreheads and admire the playing card designs they embroider on muslin.
  
 

• I cut my hair to look like Jane Fonda in
  Klute
  but instead end up looking like Keith Partridge.
  
 

• Although cigarette ads are banned on TV, my father doesn’t quit his three-pack-a-day habit. He chain-smokes all the way through
  Marcus Welby, M.D.
  and
  Medical Center.
  
 

• Apollo 15
  carries the first men to drive on the Moon in the Lunar Rover. I go on a crash diet and eat only Space Food Sticks: butterscotch for breakfast, peanut butter for lunch, and chocolate for dinner.
  
 

• The Twenty-Sixth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution lowers the voting age from twenty-one to eighteen. Good news, but at fourteen, I still have four years to go before I can vote, and I can’t wait—especially after the Pentagon Papers are leaked.
  
 

• I see snow for the first time—at the top of the tram in Palm Springs!
  
 

• Jim Morrison ODs in Paris. Because Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin have recently died, some fans believe all three are alive and in hiding or have been assassinated by an anti-rock conspiracy. I’m still convinced Paul McCartney is dead and continue to gather clues for proof.
  
 

• Steal This Book
  , by yippie Abbie Hoffman, is released. My best friend, Greg, and I join in “challenging the status quo” by going to Figaro’s restaurant, ordering a huge amount of food on one check and two Cokes on a separate check, then going up to the cashier and paying only the check for the Cokes. Right on.
  
 

• While songs like “One Less Bell to Answer,” “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves,” and “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing” are in the top ten, I know every lyric on every Joni Mitchell album and “fill my drawing book with line” so I can be like Trina, one of Joni’s “Ladies of the Canyon.”
  
 

I
knew I had found a kindred spirit in Greg when we were in the seventh grade and bonded over Bea Benaderet. After a rousing game of spin the bottle, complete with closed-mouth kissing, our party host, Melanie Morgan, turned off all the lights in her den and lit a candle, creating an eerie mood for a séance.

“Let’s bring back JFK,” Melanie suggested to the twelve of us sitting in a circle around the candle.

“We always do JFK,” Ricky Marx said. “Let’s contact Marilyn Monroe!”

And then as if we had rehearsed the moment, Greg and I simultaneously said, “How about Bea Benaderet?”

“Who?” Everyone else in the room turned and looked at us like we were freaks.

“The actress from
Petticoat Junction
,” I explained.

“She just died yesterday,” Greg added.

It was the start of a long friendship.

A cross between David Bowie and Albert Einstein, Greg’s thick nest of dark blond hair hung well past his shoulders, making him appear much older than his thirteen years. When he spoke he drew out each word in singsongy precision. He called me “Doll,” but it was more like “Dolllllllllllllll.” He was obviously gay, a fact his parents were made painfully aware of when, at the age of three, he took to wearing his mother’s pearls. Although I hadn’t yet realized that I, too, was gay, it was clear in our relationship who wore the pants.

Greg and I shared a passion for the unconventional and eccentric. We devoured
Grapefruit
, Yoko Ono’s book of “happenings,” and created our own “events,” constantly daring each other to do random, outlandish things in public—like the time when we were walking out of the Ahmanson Theatre, after seeing Richard Chamberlain in
Night of the Iguana
, and Greg gave me a dare that, of course, I had to fulfill. Amid the stylish post-theater crowd, I strolled across the busy downtown street, subtly untied my wrap-around skirt, and let it fall to the ground, pretending not to notice. I walked for three blocks in only my underwear.

Greg and I also shared a love of music—the more obscure, the better. Together we discovered performers like the jazz vocal group Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross, who scatted their way through “Halloween Spooks,” and Frances Faye, featuring Jack Costanzo on bongos, whose album we bought simply because we liked her short, snazzy haircut and the liner notes that stated she lived in Hollywood with her “secretary and four French poodles.”

One night in late November, Greg and I went to the Troub to see James Taylor. But, once again, I was even more blown away by James’s opening act. This singer’s résumé of songs she had written for other artists was amazing, and now she was striking out on her own. Her name was Carole King.

Something about Carole moved me beyond the feelings I had for other performers I’d seen—even, dare I say, Carly. Her raspy voice, her peasanty looks—she seemed so down to earth, so heartfelt. She was definitely a “Natural Woman.” As a review of the concert I read in the
Los Angeles Times
put it, “she is very capable of transmitting a chill with the clarity and honesty of her songs.” My chillometer was on high.

Four months later Carole released
Tapestry;
an immediate hit, it shot to number one on the charts and stayed there for fifteen weeks. In May she returned to the Troubadour as the headliner, and Greg and I went to see her seven times. Replacing Molly as my sidekick, Greg joined me as we tried to sneak up to Carole’s dressing room, but there were always men guarding her door.

That wasn’t about to stop me.

The Tuesday after Sunday’s closing night show, we were sitting in Greg’s kitchen eating the buttery, doughy balls dusted with powdered sugar that his grandmother always baked—since her last name was Sapperstein, we called them “Sappho cookies.” That’s when inspiration struck.

“Do you have two empty notebooks?” I asked, wiping the powdered sugar off my chin.

“I think so. Come on.” Greg got up from the table and sashayed toward his faux knotty-pine bedroom. He found two empty binders that lay on a shelf in a dusty pile next to the complete set of Anaïs Nin’s diaries. We each cut out a picture of Carole from a music magazine and glued it to the cover of our binders.

“What are we doing?” he asked, rubbing the extra glue off the edges of his picture into little balls.

“THE KING CASE,” I declared. “Only we can’t write that on the cover. Our covert operation could be exposed. We have till the end of summer to accomplish our mission.”

“Uhh…Just what
is
our mission?” Greg asked.

“We find Carole King and become friends with her.”

THE KING CASE

Tuesday, May 25, 1971, 5:00 p.m. PST–Sunday, June 13

The last few weeks before summer vacation!! YIPPEE!! Greg and I have been doing research on Carole at the library and newsstands (writing down info from music mags). Too bad I can’t get school credit—I’m working way harder on this than any homework I’ve ever done!! HA! We’ve found out that Carole King was born Carole Klein, in Brooklyn, and she wrote some of the ’60s greatest hits with her husband (#1), Gerry Goffin. I’ve compiled a complete discography of every song she’s ever written (in a separate notebook—too long to put in
here). I also wrote letters to her old record labels, using a fake name. Example:

 

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Madelyn Evans, and I’m a reporter for the L.A.–based music magazine,
Beat City.
I am writing an article on Carole King and it would be incredibly helpful if I could make mention of her out-of-print albums. If you’d be so kind as to send me one for the purpose of research, I’d greatly appreciate it.

Sincerely, Madelyn Evans

 

Beat City!
Isn’t that a good one?!? It worked!!!!! I was sent a rare album from 1964 called
Dimension Dolls
(or as Greg says, “Dimension Dolllllllllls”)!!!!!!! I’m also pasting in some photos I found of Carole and her NEW husband (#2), Charlie Larkey—he plays with the band Jo Mama (I LOVE Abigale Haness, the lead singer!!!!) (But not as much as Carole!). The pics are with their kids, at home. So maybe we can use them as reference to help find their house. Some clues:

I’m also pasting in a MAP OF LAUREL
CNAYON
CANYON, where everybody lives. I read an article in
Rolling Stone
that says Laurel Canyon is populated by the crème de la crème of Woodstock Nation’s aristocracy. Not only Carole lives there but Carly, Joni, James, Frank Zappa, Crosby, Stills & Nash, and I think two Mamas and one Papa. If that’s not crème de la crème, I don’t know what is!!!

And guess what? The guys in Jo Mama are also Carole’s backup band, YEP!! So I got all their addresses out of the phone book (too bad Carole’s wasn’t listed!!). The members are:

 

Ralph Schuckett

Danny “Kootch” Kortchmar

Abigale Haness (Did I mention I LOVE HER?!?)

Joel O’Brien

 

We’re sure to get some clues from them.

Friday, June 18

DONE WITH SCHOOL! ADIOS JUNIOR HIGH!!! Greg and I spend the weekend marking up our maps and listening to Carole records. “So far away, doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore. It would be so fine to see your face at my door.” Cool. Cuz, Carole, YOU’RE GONNA!!!!

Monday, June 21

This is REALLY the first day of THE KING CASE. The other days were just prep. So let’s try that again….

DAY #1

Monday, June 21

9:00 a.m. While all our friends go off to camp or are wasting their time at the beach, Greg and I head to Laurel Canyon. Mom’s the only one we tell about THE CASE, since she’s gonna drop us off and pick us up every day. YOU RULE, MOM!!! She says she’s cool to take me anywhere as long as I don’t end up like my brother—IN TROUBLE! HA! We drive out of Bel Air, cruise down Sunset Boulevard, through Westwood and Beverly Hills. At Doheny, the gi-normous rolling lawns stop as we hit the Sunset Strip. We pass Pat Collins the Hip Hypnotist’s Celebrity Club (SHE’S SO FUNNY! She was on
Lucy
and made everyone act like washing machines!), then Gazarri’s, then the Whisky a Go Go, and then we hit Laurel Canyon Boulevard, where we make a left, and then it feels like we’re suddenly in the country. Not bandanas and wagon wheels—more like rolling papers and tie-dye!! I’m wearing cutoffs and a peasant blouse, and Greg’s in his famous plaid grandpa shorts and one of his vintage gabardine shirts, all our clothes scored at the Goodwill for under a dollar (!) so we blend right in with the hippies here.

Mom drops us off “right smack dab in the middle” (a Carole lyric from “Up on the Roof”!) of the canyon at the Laurel Canyon Country Store. Our first in-depth investigation of the day is on Stanley Hills Drive, where Carole’s keyboard player, Ralph Schuckett, lives.

I knock on his front door, and Ralph opens it!!! SIMPLE AS THAT! He’s wearing jean shorts and a white T-shirt, looking way more casual than I’ve seen him in concert.

“Hi,” I jump in. Greg isn’t sure about what I’m up to yet, so he just stands there. “Sorry to bother you. We’ve been walking a long way from Sunset Bou
levard and have a long way to go. Would it be possible to use your bathroom for a minute?”

“Sure, come on in,” Ralph says.

Even though the Manson Family murders happened at Sharon Tate’s house not that far from the canyon, Ralph is cool and trusting. Not that swishy Greg and fat-ass me look like murderers!!!! Tee hee.

I motion to Greg to use the bathroom first. I get a chill when I peek into the tiny living room and see Ralph’s electric piano.

“So, are you a musician?” I ask, acting clueless.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Cool. Do you play in a band?”

“Yeah, it’s called Jo Mama.” Ralph says it like he doesn’t think I’ll recognize the name. But he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with!!!!!

“No way?! I’ve seen you play! I saw you with James Taylor and Carole King.” I say her name as if it’s any old name, and I say it fast. “You guys are great!” I add.

“Thanks.” He beams. “Hey, since you’ve still got a long way to go, would you like some cold lemonade?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

By the time Greg walks out of the bathroom, Ralph is serving me lemonade and chatting up a storm. It’s hysterical! On any other day, on any other “case,” I might find sitting on a low couch covered in paisley material, talking it up with one of L.A.’s coolest keyboard players exciting, even memorable. But we’re on a mission, and we have just the summer to complete it. The clock is a tickin’, Ralphie baby!!!

Then Greg says, all brilliant, “Since you’ve played with Carole King it must be nice for you to see all the success she’s having with
Tapestry.”