Blurbs from THINGS WE LOST

I could barely see who it was through the blinding stage lights until … Jesus Christ! That’s Debbie Reynolds pulling on Dave’s leg!

“Sing it, baby, sing it!” Grinning ear to ear, the movie star screamed encouragement to Dave standing high above her on the stage at Caesars Palace. He’d been bracing himself to hit the big full voice note near the end of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” when a silhouetted figure had suddenly appeared below the stage in Caesars’ new Nero’s Nook lounge. We’d seen Debbie Reynolds, along with most of the Rat Pack and many other major celebrities when we’d peeked through the curtain. She’d been seated at an aisle table with her husband then. Now, as Dave’s ringing tenor swept high, and then slipped into a dramatic falsetto run, she stretched on tiptoe to grasp the only part of him she could reach, his left pants leg just above a white patent leather boot. Laughing joyously, she shook it back and forth like a dog with a sock puppet.

THE PROPHET AND THE LAWYER
The Pink Carousel, Downey, California 1967

“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS? Jesus, Mark, where will I ever find that kind of money?” I exploded with frustration. We were outside by the pool the next afternoon.

“I know, I know”. He nodded. “But now we’ve got an idea of what it costs to keep you from dying in a Vietnamese jungle.” He put a mournful smile on his face.”That’s not the way I want to go. I plan to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car did.”

“Goddamn it.” I laughed in spite of myself. “That’s not funny.”

“Which is why I’m still working as a bartender and not a comic.” He stretched out his palms. “If God’s watching, the least we can do is be entertaining.”

SUNSET SESSIONS
Hollywood, April 1967

Nothing compared to sitting behind my Hammond B3, starting the motor and feeling it purr to life like a giant, breathing creature. The power of the organ came from the sound produced by the draw bars, or the stops. Ever hear of “pulling out all the stops”? The harmonics and beefy volume depended upon these sliding levers. The B3 sounded so cool it made me seem like a far better player than I was; even a mistake could sound pretty damn good. Spin up the vibrato from the Leslie horns’ in their separate six-foot high cabinets, the other half of the B3 sound, or slow them down, and the lazy Doppler effect on the notes made them sound so damned sexy no matter what I played. With the drawbars set to a hard edge, I added rhythm to the drums and bass when Les took off on a solo, or I could adjust them to fill out the vocal harmonies with rich organ chords. I never became an accomplished soloist or gained much independence with my left hand, but I’d achieved a meaningful role in the musicianship of the band by owning the right instrument.

ISLAND GIRL
The Lemon Tree, Honolulu, March 1968

“Trade winds,” Theresa said, shaking her hair away from her face.
“Haoles,” Charlene said, with a sardonic smile.
“What?” I said looking back and forth, uncertain of the reasons for their deprecating tone. “What about the trade winds, and what’s a howlie?”
“Trade winds blow all the time, lolo haole,” Charlene said , waving her hands exuberantly in an imaginary breeze. Theresa put a hand in front of her smile and said, “The trade winds always blow across the island. They blow some rain onto us and then they keep blowing to dry us off.” Her smile grew wider, her face was made for laughter. “And Charlene called you a crazy white person from the mainland.” I had to smile.

THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN
The Guardian Shrine, Las Vegas, June, 1970

In desperation, I did it. I put my puny heart and soul into it, almost doing St. Vitus dances during my morning prayers, leaving the sanctuary each morning with the feeling I’d really given it my all. “Oh most holy apostle, St. Jude, etc., insert “Please intercede with my wife Theresa and show us the way to heal our marriage …”, I would read and pray following the brochure’s instructions.

But of course I’m not Catholic and it was undoubtedly way too much to ask a Catholic Saint to pay attention to me. I like to imagine he tried though, maybe asking his supervisor, “Ah, look I’ve got this guy down here and he’s following all the requirements. I mean he’s done his nine days and he’s been really creative with the part about his wife, ah, ah, wait a minute, got the name right here …. , Theresa, a good Catholic name. So maybe we should cut him a break. It’s been pretty rough year for him so far. No can do? Not Catholic enough, or at all? Hasn’t really been at it the prayer thing for that long? All right, whatever you say. Let the bastard suffer, then.”

HAWAIIAN HEARTACHE
Above Oahu, Hawaii, October 1970

As the jet hurtled into the Hawaiian sky, I looked into the hands I’d cupped reflexively in front of me. After all I’d endured, I reverently clutched the memory of last night’s precious, fragile few hours , carefully, as if I held an injured little bird, delicate and quiet. No sudden moves; don’t hold this fragile moment too tightly, but can’t let it get away into the unforgiving light of reality either. Here it was, the unbelievable possibility. After I’d gone beyond all hope, maybe fate would give us a story book ending. If I could just hold everything together gently, lightly …