Straight Life (11 page)

Art, of course, and the other guys subsequently went back to the States, and I didn't hear from them again until 1951, by which time I had become a name pop singer in England. I had won all the popularity polls and I had made a few recordings; some of them had sold very well. And, travelling around, I worked with a few cats from the States, and they suggested I try my hand in the States. I decided to do just that. Late in 1951 I emigrated. I brought all my records with me under my arm and a lot of press clippings and whatever money I had and off I went. A few days after I got to New York, I saw an ad that the Stan Kenton Orchestra was going to be playing at Carnegie Hall. I had every one of his records I could lay my hands on, and the thought of seeing the Kenton band live was just too much. I bought tickets in the first or second row and sat there waiting for the band to come on. When they walked on, who was sitting right in the middle of the sax section playing lead alto but Art Pepper! I was thrilled to death. I ran around backstage afterwards and we had a big backslapping contest-"How are you? What the hell are you doing in the States?" And that was actually the last time I ever saw Art.

I got an engagement as a singer in a nightclub in Washington D.C. and was very well received, and was then signed up by MGM Records. I had a few near hits, or near misses, whichever way you want to look at it, and my career went very well for me. I never got to star status, but I did very well until the advent of rock-and-roll which brought me undone like a lot of other people.

WE lived right by St. James Park in one of those old, four-storey tenements, across the street from King Peter of Yugoslavia; he was in exile or something at the time. At first I worked at the Marlborough Street jail. We stayed there for twenty-four hours and then we were off twenty-four. The prisoners were American soldiers who were AWOL and deserters. If they had a long time to do, we would transport them to Paris because they didn't have space enough in London. We'd fly them to Paris carrying sawed-off shotguns and .45s. I'd fill a small suitcase with soap and nylon stockings and cigarettes and razor blades, things you could get through the army that people in Paris couldn't get at all. We'd deliver the prisoners to the Paris detention barracks, and then we'd get a three-day pass. Somebody had given me the name of a woman in Pigalle, so I'd go to this lady and she'd buy whatever I had. She'd give me francs and I'd stay in Paris for three days and spend them.

They put us in some billets the army had taken over, miserable but cheap. I never went with any of the other guys. I'd stay by myself, wander around, riding the subway, drinking cognac, and every now and then I'd run into some pot. They had what they called Gunje, which was black, and I got some absinthe a few times, when it was the real stuff, and got wiped out.

Once in Pigalle I went into a club where there was a group playing jazz; they were from South Africa or Morocco. One guy played saxophone. I was drinking, so I went up and talked to them. I got across to them that I was a musician and that I would like to play. The guy let me use his horn, and they were amazed that I played so good. After I finished, this beautiful French girl smiled at me. She didn't speak English, but we sat together and I bought her a drink and then we left together. We walked until we came to a gate. She said, "You have money?" I said, "A little." She rang a buzzer and a light went on over our heads. A buzzer rang back, and the iron door opened, and we walked in.

It was a whorehouse. It was a place where the women take their tricks, but she didn't seem like that. I'd been to Tijuana when I was a kid and I'd been to San Bernardino when there were whorehouses there, and they were really a drag. This was different. I gave them a certain amount when I checked in, and that paid her; it paid for the room and it paid for the drinks. We had a couple of drinks and went upstairs to a room with one of those little French balconies. It was really like making love. It was almost like being with Patti. The girl was gorgeous. She had short, straight, black hair with a little wave at the bottom; beautiful skin; small, perfect breasts; and a beautifully rounded ass. She was really a woman. She seemed to have character and depth. She had little lines around her eyes, and she had such soul and such feeling. We made love all night long. She talked to me in French. She had a beautiful voice, and afterwards I thought about her a lot. I went back to Paris once more after that and looked all over for her, but I couldn't find her. I never saw her again.

The English girls had blotches on their legs, red blotches from a lack of protein. The English people never got eggs or anything like that. When I was in Bournemouth we'd have dances, and to get the girls to come, the girls from the surrounding territory, they'd get out all the old cheese and salami and "horse cock" bologna and make these godawful sandwiches using dry bread and stale mustard. They'd have old fruit all messed up and no good. They gave this stuff out, and no one was allowed in the dances except the girls. And the girls would come, and you could see them sneaking the food inside their clothes and then going over by the door, where their mother or grandmother or a little kid would be hiding out in the bushes. They'd sneak them a sandwich. That's how the girls got paid off. Some of them would ball you for a bar of soap, a pack of chewing gum, a piece of chocolate, a stale piece of cheese or salami; they'd cut the mold off.

It was very hard to get liquor. The English would line up by the pubs because at a certain hour each pub would have two or four fifths of gin which they'd put in the spigot and start selling, first come, first served, and that would be it for the evening. The' soldiers used to get Old Kuchenheimer 100-proof rye whiskey at two dollars a quart; it cost us ten shillings (we got paid in English money). I'd buy it and I'd buy up the rations of a couple of guys that didn't drink so I always had my footlocker filled with alcohol.

I had been transferred to patrol duty in Picadilly, and when I had the day off I'd wander around the parks or Picadilly Circus, get drunk, observe things. This one time I went over to St. James Park, and there was a girl there, very pretty; her skin wasn't like most of them, pale, pasty, sickly looking; their teeth were all bad. This one looked pretty good. She was sitting on the grass. It was morning, around ten o'clock, and I had a sack with two quarts of whiskey in it. The girl smiled, and I noticed that she had a beautiful body, so I walked over and said hello. She said hello, and I said, "What are you doing?" She said, "Just relaxing. What are you doing?" I said, "Nothing. I got the day off." She said, "What have you got in the sack?" I said, "Oh, I have some goodies. Do you drink?" She said, "Yeeeesss!" I'd even brought a couple of little paper cups so I could drink outside. I went and got a cup of water from the drinking fountain and sat down beside her on the grass.

It was a pretty day. There's very few days in London that are warm and pleasant, so when you have one it's a joyous thing: everyone's outside and happy. I filled the other cup with Old Kuchenheimer and we started drinking and talking, and I told her I was a musician, and I think she had heard of me. When I was in London I played at the Adelphi Theatre. George Shearing was on the card. They had jazz concerts, and I was the young American, the Yank. I played at the London Palladium as a guest star with Ted Heath's band, so my name had been in the subways.

We talked and drank, and the time went by. She was pretty and I was very lonely. I balled only rarely, and then I'd suffer terrible feelings of guilt. And I'd look at myself every time I'd urinate. I'd be afraid there would be something dripping out the end of my thing, that I'd have a disease. But this girl appealed to me and I'd already made up my mind. We started lying close and goofing around with each other, and time kept passing. I asked her what she would like to do and she said, "Oh, don't worry about it; everything will be alright." At one point I said I could rent us a room but she said, "Don't worry, everything will be fine." It got later and later. At last I said, "There's no point in laying here in this park. Why don't we find some place that's a little more private?" And she said, "Alright, let's go

She lived way on the outskirts of London, so we got on the subway and rode and rode and rode, and by the time we got there it was dark. Then we walked. And as we're walking, all of a sudden she says, "Well, it was nice meeting you. We'll have to get together again." I said, "What are you talking about?" Here I'd spent the whole day! We'd drunk almost the whole two quarts of Old Kuchenheimer! And I'd given her cigarettes! I said, "What do you mean? Yeah, naturally it's been nice, but where are we going?" So then she said, "Well, I've got to get home, and my parents are home. We can't go there." I said, "Why didn't you tell me? I told you I would have rented a room." She said, "But I just met you." Here she'd been rubbing up against me and spreading her legs! It was outrageous and I thought she was joking. I said, "Look, I went through all this thing with you and spent all this time, I'm not going to waste it. We're going to make love regardless!" She said, "No, we're not!" And she started to get snotty. I thought, "This fuckin' broad is not going to make a chump out of me! No!" I really hate prick teasers.

We were walking. I looked over to the right and saw a church there and a cemetery. We were way out in the country and hadn't passed anybody since we got off the subway. I said, "We're going to make it one way or another; either you're going to do it peaceable or ... Suit yourself! She really got indignant and she started to pull away from me, but I held on to her and dragged her to this cemetery and threw her down on the ground. I said, "Come on! Are you kidding?" I thought she was playing a game with me. She said, "No, I can't! Please believe me! I would if I could, but I can't." I said, "Are you having your period?" She said, "No, I can't!" I said, "Well, you're going to!"

It wasn't even enjoyable. I spread her legs and got my thing out, and as soon as I got it in her she started fucking, and I came real quick, and it was nothing, and after I finished I said, "Oh, shit." She said, "You're going to be sorry." I said, "Fuck you." I hated her guts and I really despised myself. I would have liked to have killed her for causing me to go through such feelings as that. It would have been bad enough balling her if we'd been in nice surroundings and she'd wanted to ball. She walked off and I found my way back. I felt sick when I went into my billet. I showered and scrubbed myself as if I could wash the filth off me.

Right after that, word came that we were going home. I was so happy. They give you examinations before you go, and they found out I had the clap.

I tried to get out of going back but there was nothing I could do. And in those days you had to wait three months, period, before you could ball again or you might give it to the other person. So I had to come home to Patti and tell her that we couldn't make love. She cried, and, oh, I cried, and I told her that the girl didn't mean anything, and she knew that that was true. Patti marked the days off on the calendar. We went a month and three days, and it got so bad I had to do chin-ups on the doorsill of the bedroom because I hurt inside, because I wanted to make love so bad. Then finally the time came, and she forgave me. But that's retribution.

5

Heroin

1946-1950

WHEN I CAME HOME Patti was staying with my dad and my stepmother, Thelma. And when I came to the door my daughter, Patricia, was there; she was walking and talking. She didn't respond to me: she was afraid of me. I resented her and I was jealous of her feelings for my dad. Naturally, she'd been with them so she didn't feel about me the way I wanted her to, and that started the whole thing off on the wrong foot.

I was bitter about the army and bitter about them making me have a kid I didn't want, bitter about being taken away when everything was going so good. I was drinking heavily and started using more pot and more pills, and I scuffled around and did a casual here and there or a couple of nights in some club, but nothing happened and I was getting more and more despondent when finally, by some miracle, Stan Kenton gave me a call.

Stan Kenton was incredible. He reminded me a lot of my dad, Germanic, with the blonde, straight hair. He was taller than my dad; I think Stan was about six, three, slender, clothes hung on him beautifully. He had long fingers, a long, hawklike nose, and a very penetrating gaze. He seemed to look through you. It was hard to look him in the eye, and most people would look away and become uncomfortable in his presence. And, just like my dad, he had a presence. When he spoke people listened. He was a beautiful speaker and he had the capacity to communicate with any audience and to adapt to any group of people. We would play in some little town in Kansas and he'd talk to the people and capture them completely. We'd be in Carnegie Hall and he'd capture that crowd with another approach. We'd be at the Kavakos in Washington, D.C., a jazz club filled with the black pimp type cats and the hustling broads and the dope fiends-and he'd capture them. He would observe, study the people, and win them.

One time we did "City of Glass" at the Civic Opera House in Chicago. It was written by Bob Graettinger, a revolutionary composition, an incredibly hard musical exercise; it was a miracle we got through it. Bob conducted it, a tall, thin guy, about six, four: he looked like a living skeleton conducting, like a dead man with sunken eyes, a musical zombie. He took us through it, and he finished, and he turned around to the people, and he nodded, and the people didn't do nothin'. The place was packed; we'd played the shit out of this thing and now there wasn't a sound. They didn't know what to do. We didn't know what to do. I'm looking at Stan and I'm thinking, "Well, what's going to happen now? What's he going to do now?" Stan looked at the audience. I saw his mind, you could see it turning, and all of a sudden he leaped out onto the middle of the stage, gestured at us to rise, swung his body around again to the audience, and bam! They started clapping, and they clapped and clapped and clapped, and then they stood up with an ovation that lasted for maybe five minutes. He did it all himself. Stan did it with this little maneuver.

Once when I was interviewed for down beat they asked me about Stan, and I told the interviewer, "If Stan had entered the field of religion he would have been greater than Billy Graham." And Stan didn't like it. But he didn't understand it. Maybe he thought I was putting him down; maybe he thought I was belittling religion and ranking him for being a phony, but that wasn't my intention. I was talking about his strength. He was the strongest man I ever met.

I traveled with the band: Shelly Manne was playing drums; Conte Candoli was playing trumpet; Bud Shank was in the sax section; June Christy was singing; Laurindo Almeida was playing guitar; and I was featured with the band. We played a lot of different places, and I was getting a name, a following. At first Patti came along with me, so it was fun, but one day in New York, while we were working at the Paramount Theater, Patti got a telegram from my father saying that Patricia was sick. I don't remember what she had. I didn't even pay attention to it, I was so angry. To me it was as if Patricia had gotten sick purposely to rank things for me. So Patti left, and that was it. For all intents and purposes that was the end of our marriage. Patti started feeling it was her duty to stay with Patricia.

It was impossible to take Patricia with us. We tried to take her once to Salt Lake City. We drove instead of traveling on the bus. I bought a car, but all the oil ran out of the car, and we got stranded, and then Patricia got sick. It was impossible. It was too impossible. The mileage we had to cover was too demanding. They both went home, and I sold the car, and that was the last time Patti was on the road with me.

I really became bitter then because I was so lonely and I couldn't stand not having a woman. There were chicks following the band that were very groovy, that really dug me; they'd send notes and hit on me and wait for me after the job, but I'd rarely have anything to do with them because I felt so guilty when I did.

In 1948 we were playing the Paramount Theater again in New York. Vic Damone was the single attraction. Sometimes we'd play seven shows a day, and there were a bunch of young girls who used to come around to all the performances. One day after a show, four of these girls came backstage and left a note. They wanted to meet me. I went to the stage door and said hello to them. I brought them into the dressing room and talked to them; they were sixteen, seventeen. They said they wanted to form an Art Pepper Fan Club. Would I mind? I thought they were joking at first, but they were serious, so I told them no, I wouldn't mind, that I'd be flattered. But I couldn't understand what a fan club would entail.

We had just started at the Paramount. I think we played for thirteen weeks, and it was jam-packed. I was living at a hotel on Forty-seventh and Broadway, and these girls kept coming around so I'd take them out. We'd go to the drugstore. I'd buy them sandwiches, and they took pictures of me. They were fairly nice looking, and they must have been from the Bronx because they all had that accent. Finally they told me that they really cared for me, that they had a crush on me, and they would like to, you know-they'd work it out among themselves and come and visit me one at a time. I said okay, but I was thinking, "They're pretty young." And I didn't know for sure if that was what they wanted. The next day, the one they had elected president of the club was at the Paramount after the first show. This was in the morning, and we had two, two and a half hours between shows. She said, "Shall we go to your place?"

The president was about seventeen. She looked Jewish, and she had a slender body but nicely shaped. She had pretty eyes. She was the most attractive of the four, with lovely skin, dark coloring. We left for the hotel. The guys in the band were watching, giving me those looks. The president was really enthused. She had a pretty dress on, and her eyes were all lit up. Her whole manner had changed. She'd suddenly become sexy and sure of herself and very womanly.

We got out of the theater and it was chilly so I helped her on with her coat. And that was the part I felt bad about. Because when I'm with a woman and I'm very polite and mannerly it becomes like a love situation. I felt guilty when I put her coat on. And then she clutched my arm and it was as if we were lovers. I was hoping we could have got where we were going without all these formalities, walking on her right on the sidewalk, helping her across the street.

It was too cold to walk to the hotel. Ordinarily, it was a nice walk, and I had hoped it would relax us, although she seemed completely relaxed. I was the one who was nervous. I hailed a cab and opened the door for her, and there was another little pang. We walked into the hotel and I really felt strange. I started feeling that the house detective was watching or the guy at the desk. Walking from the elevator to the room I thought, "What am I letting myself in for? Maybe this is some sort of weird plan to blackmail me or take pictures. Maybe somebody is going to break in and beat me up." I remembered all these stories I'd heard about people being in the big city and getting taken; there were a lot of young people mixed up in terrible crimes. We got to the room. I closed the door. Locked it. My heart was pounding and I was almost to the point of telling her, "Let's forget it." But I had gone too far to stop, and I had been away from Patti for a long time, and I was going to be away from her for five months more, and the girl seemed so clean and nice.

I had a bottle in my room, a bottle of vodka. I poured some in a glass and some orange juice. I asked her if she wanted a drink. She said, "Just a little one." I drank mine down and then took a great big, straight shot of the vodka. She's just standing there waiting for me. She's still got her coat on. I took her coat and hung it in the closet. She's still standing there, looking at me with this adoring look, and at last the feeling that was coming from her, this admiration, started getting to my ego, and I began to relax, but I didn't know exactly what to do yet. I didn't want to do anything that would spoil it-make a mistake or seem foolish. I sat down on the bed and started making small talk, "It's a shame this isn't a nicer place but being on the road we just have to take a little place like this because all we do is sleep in it." She just kept gazing at me. I rattled on and on, nonsense, talking and talking. All of a sudden she sat down next to me, put her hand on my arm, and she said, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

She had her hand on my arm and her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and she shuddered. I could feel her whole body vibrating. She had short sleeves on her little dress; it was a jersey dress, and you could feel her body through it. I rubbed her arm with my hand and she shuddered and pushed herself up against me. She put her hand on my leg, and I immediately got an erection. She smelled good. A lot of times I've been out with a woman that looked good, but when I got close her hair didn't smell nice or her breath, and it would turn me off because it would seem like she wasn't clean. This girl smelled good; her hair had just been washed; and she was so soft.

There was no mistaking at that point what was going to happen. I bent down and turned her chin up so I could kiss her, and she started to squirm and tremble. I probed gently in her mouth with my tongue, and I could tell she was really inexperienced, but little by little she relaxed her mouth till I could feel the tip of her tongue touching mine. We kissed for a long time. I started kissing her eyes and everything, and she just flipped out and lay back on the bed. I put my hand on her leg and started rubbing really easy. She had stockings on, but she had them rolled, which has always turned me on. I pulled her dress up. Her skin was beautiful. I bent down and kissed her leg just above her stocking, and I ran my tongue around her leg. She starting moving and grabbed my hair. I looked at the crotch of her panties. They were soaking wet. She had a great smell. I started kissing the outside of her panties. I don't know if she'd ever had anybody do that before because she really wigged out: she started murmuring things, "I love you." I stuck my tongue inside her panties where her lips were, and it was so moist. I rubbed my tongue up all around her, and then I pulled back her panties so I could get at her. I licked her really slowly, and she started quivering, and she grabbed hold of me, and she came immediately; almost as soon as I put my mouth on her she came. Then she said, "Wait a second!" She said, "My mother will see my dress." She got her dress off and her bra, and she was really beautiful. She had small breasts, but the nipples were hard. And she was very cute. I started to take my clothes off and got everything off but my shorts, and they were just standing out, and she said, "Come here." She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me over to her and started caressing me through my shorts, and then she pulled them down real slow until my joint popped out, and she put her head against it and hugged me and put her arms around me and rubbed her face and her hair against me, and she started licking me. I could tell she didn't know how to suck on me; she just kissed it and licked it. I didn't want her to give me head because I was afraid I would come immediately, and she was so passionate I wanted to put it in her.

I put her on the bed and got over her and gradually put it in, and it felt wonderful. She was tight and moist. I finally got all the way in, which was hard to do at first because she was small, but she was completely turned on. I kissed her breasts, and she kept hollering, "I love you! You're the most beautiful man in the world! This is the greatest thing that ever happened to me! I'll never forget this moment as long as I live!" And I thought, "Wow! This is my fan club, and there's four of them!"

Usually when I'd ball the chicks that hung around the band, the minute it was over I'd have to leave. I'd have get away from the girl because after my need for sex was satisfied I couldn't stand her. Her smell on my body was like a curse on me, and I'd have to wash myself and scrub because I felt so dirty. But this girl was so sweet that I felt some love and warmth for her, so later I really felt guilty, a million times more guilty. Because I felt like cuddling this girl, because I cared for this girl, I'd really betrayed Patti.