It was so atomized in Synanon. Most of the patterns of life are much too large for you to have any perspective on them, so you can never see them, but patterns do exist. In an enclosed environment like Synanon, everything becomes magical because everything is resolved. You are not too far away to see the pattern. You can always see how it comes out. There's no anonymity there. There's no chance meeting that has no meaning. There's nothing that has no meaning in an environment that's so enclosed. Everything was always interacting. I now work in a place of business, and I know nothing about the personal lives of the people I work with except for a couple of individuals, and they pick and choose very carefully what they tell me. I've worked there for two and a half years, which is almost as long as I was in Synanon, three years and three months, and I've found out nothing. I can only speculate. I know that this slob is an insane megalomaniac, but he does not supply me with any details and I do not have the Synanon game, where I can pry it out of him or where I can insult him for being seventy-five pounds overweight and a snob. So Synanon is really very educational
There was no privacy in Synanon. The only way you could be private, unless you were married or there a long time, was to lock the bathroom door. Even if you had a private room in a dormitory, people could enter without knocking. That's just the way it was. I was not interested in any men, though there was once a possibility that I would relate to Art. I was so hungry for affection and attention, because I'm a very sexual person, that I really considered Art, who, I felt, was a kindred soul somehow.
I can't remember all the details of our friendship because Art practically became a public person to me, but there were a number of times we played music together, for the dining room, and he... He helped me. He was prompting me in this silly music we were playing, so that I would come in right, because I was very frightened for some reason or other. And he was very supportive. But he used to always complain to me. He was a friend to me, and it was possible to empathize with how awful it was around there. And when we worked over in the Industries office, we really carried on at great length. The black humor in that office! It was unreal. And Art had a great sense of humor. He had this radio he kept at work; he had it set to the jazz station. Usually we worked the day shift, but sometimes we worked odd shifts, and Art had a note on the radio that said something like "How can you touch this radio without feeling terrible pangs of guilt?" And he had such a reputation for being able to hold his shit and never cop out to anything and such contempt for those people who did. But he liked to play that game, using the Synanon jargon for his own ends.
Art was funny, but he has a sadistic streak in him that apparently only comes out in how he treats himself and what he says about other people. Like, during the Puerto Rican episode in Synanon, when we had two or three hundred Puerto Ricans in Santa Monica, none of whom spoke English, he used to say things like "I'd like to get a grenade and pull the pin and just roll it down the bus aisle." That's a terrifying thing to say, and he said it with such relish. He expressed so much prejudice all the time that it was really shocking. I know he used to object to me because I'm gay, but one thing I've always known about him, which always knocks me out, is that he can learn from anybody. He really has respect for other musicians or for anybody who has any kind of skill. It's unbelievable that somebody who can express such chauvinistic, racist ideas and violent thoughts and jealousy and envy can suddenly become like a lamb when he's in the presence of someone he thinks is a real musician or who he thinks he can learn something from. I play the flute and although I've never been a professional musician Art always showed that kind of respect for the things I could do. I've seen him express the same kind of attention and interest and humility-I guess that's where you really see the humility operating in Art-for other musicians.
But in the games ... Art is a person, to me, who is very unique in that you could never predict what he was going to say. He's always coming from left field or, you know, off the wall. His approach is so oblique that you don't ever expect it. And then he likes to get onto a theme, a leitmotif, and he just likes to beat it to death. He starts at a fairly slow tempo and intensifies it very slowly. Actually, he never really shouts but towards the end he's, like, bludgeoning; he's not hysterical. I remember a game that I was in with him because he nearly killed me. I can't remember why he did it, but he has done it to other people. It turned out one day that I was just ripe for it.
There was a certain tension between Art and Frank Rehak that kept them from being friends. You know, Frank was bankrupt when he came into Synanon, but he had been very successful. I never heard Art speak badly of Frank, but I think there was some competition between them. According to the experts in the place, Art had much greater improvisational ability than Frank. I was fond of Frank. He used to give me a back rub now and then. Frank was very affectionate. You see, Art isn't really affectionate. Art is standoffish, and he has an image to keep. He doesn't allow himself to be outgoing and to get the strokes that he actually wants. He wants to be the tough guy all the time.
I think what brought Art to Synanon was complete and total debilitation and, frankly, not another option at the time. And I think the reason he stayed there was that he could operate there. I mean, it was like jail except that there were women and clothes and adulation from fans and considerably more freedom and really nothing to worry about. And he loves gossip and intrigue. He likes to hear the dirt: that's his cup of tea. And what better place? He loved those games because they offered him so much. And as far as music, I don't think he ever played better.
One thing that was really very apparent about his playing in Synanon was the health that exuded from it. He played with a wonderful, buoyant tone, and since he felt, probably, pretty secure, it certainly showed. He played with wonderful crispness and clarity. I've never heard him play better than in Synanon. We had some bands come in, and he was featured with them-Phil Woods, Frank Rosolino. Art was truly a star. Of course, he's such a pro. He plays all this stuff, he plays it in spite of himself: he can't not play it. I don't know how that works. He couldn't do wrong.
Frankly, I've heard Art since then, and sometimes I've heard a deterioration. Because you have to be healthy. You can't play a wind instrument ... It's an athletic feat. When you have to fill up an alto saxophone with air and make it sound and do all the things you have to do muscularly and somatically with your gut, you have to be in really good shape.
Art is a hypochondriac. And, in Synanon, he always had a pained expression on his face. Now I know that he arrived with some serious problems, spleen and so on, and he was always complaining about stomach trouble, problems with digestion, and I always felt he was an invalid. I felt like a lot of special care should be taken of him. I always had the impression that they weren't doing right by him in the environment and then I'd think, "Oh, this asshole, demanding all this!" But actually he looked quite handsome. He has beautiful hands. They always seem to be tan, and his nails are usually manicured, and since he has a lot of vanity, you know, he dresses nicely whenever he can. I had the impression that he was a kind of handsome hypochondriac who had something wrong, but of course he wants to make you feel that it's really bad. Maybe he thought he was going to get some morphine! Ahahaha! Or sympathy. I always gave him sympathy. Every now and then, I'd give him some special food. I'd bring back some yoghurt, and it would make his stomach feel just perfect!
As for Laurie, she was working in the school. She was completely overshadowed by Art. I had the impression that she had to confer about her relationship with Art with a lot of people because it was so difficult. It was very obvious that this was a great love affair, and Art quickly became obsessed by it.
I have a bad attitude about straight women. You know, I assume they can't read and write, that there's no other thought in their minds than this man they're in love with. I don't know how I can be so patronizing because as soon as I fall in love with a woman, I can think of nothing else but that woman. In love is in love.
I know that Art thought Laurie was the most wonderful thing in the world. He just thought she was so defenseless. Well, she's so small physically. She's the kind of person, she opens doors for herself. Wherever she goes, I'm sure people like her and love her and want to help her. And I know that's the way Art felt about her. He idolized her. He thought she was the most wonderful lover he'd ever had. Not only did she afford him a great deal of tenderness and love, but she was one of those people that are extremely lovable.
And I have a theory about men. Particularly macho men. And that is that they absolutely must have a woman because they have no one to be a baby around. You can't keep that act up twenty-four hours a day. Art needed to have a ma. In love, you can recapture that moment of infancy. That's what everyone wants back. That's what Art wanted.
I would describe Art as egotistical. He makes great demands on himself. He doesn't recognize the importance of cooperative effort, for instance, and, well, one night, long after Synanon, I was talking to him about AA. He came over to my house. He was in great stress: he would never have come otherwise. And I told him that the only thing that would help him would be belief in a higher power. It didn't have to be some sentimental figure out of the Presbyterian or the Methodist or the Catholic church. It could just be a higher power. After all, you know, somebody's keeping it all going. He said, "No. I'm it." That's what he said. Well, that's a lot to take on yourself, to be it. I believe people are fractional realities of God. But that's all people. Not one person. So he feels responsible for everything. And, of course, he has that naive belief in substances, which is the paradox of it all. "I will not believe in God, but I will believe in heroin or cocaine" or whatever it is. That's a great handicap, too. He's truly astounded me. I don't understand how he became a musician. How did he acquire the skills? Obviously, God and Art are playing when they play, and it's too bad that Art can't realize it. He'd be able to do so much more if he didn't have to feel this tremendous responsibility.
THEY called them glut raids. I'd been in Synanon for about eight months. I was living in the Clump in an apartment with three bedrooms. I shared one of them with another guy. It was about 2 A.M. We were sleeping. All of a sudden somebody just grabs the door, flings it open, smashing it against the wall; at the same moment the lights go on, and here are two or three of these elders charging into the room screaming, "Get up! Get out of there! Don't touch anything! Get in the other room!"
They went through our closets, opened our dressers, took everything and threw it on the floor. Then they called us in. "Where'd you get this? How many of these you got?" Razors, underwear, socks, record albums, books, pictures. They looked through the mattresses and pillows just like narcs. "What's that? Only old-timers are supposed to have those!" These were guys I worked with! Alan Connors-I'd laughed with him about Synanon policies, but here he was caught up in this thing. Playacting. And here was this punk I'd seen in jail, just a little sissy guy; here he was hollering, "Get up against the wall! I'll have your hair! Bastards!" We were at the mercy of these animals, who suddenly had power over all these people and could exercise that power by treating them like dirt. Suddenly they'd received word from Jack Hurst or whoever was running the house at that time: "Alright, we're gonna disrupt the rabble! We're gonna have some fun!" They planned it. "Synchronize your watches! Let's go!" And they descended upon the Clump and came in screaming.
This was going on in every dorm. After they went through all our stuff somebody got the bright idea of taking the entire population of the Clump out to the swimming pool. They gathered us around the pool at three in the morning. It was cold. I saw these young girls-they'd never been into anything, maybe they'd run away from home-they were standing around in their nightclothes shivering, scared to death. The elders were standing around the edges of the crowd or on this L-shaped stairway that led to offices above the coffee shop. They were using the angle of this stairway as a podium or a stage. Joe Gianelli, an animal dopefiend from New York, got up there and started screaming insults at us, raving and shaking his fists. They took turns berating us and threatening us: "Alright! Who has done what? I know you've been out there shooting dope! I know you've been stealing!" And they wanted to know who had too much-too many things. They didn't want you to get pleasure out of owning anything. We were sup posed to live on a more spiritual plane. Everybody knew that the elders owned all kinds of stuff: silk underwear, color TVs, cameras, stereos. But they demanded that people cop out on each other and on themselves, and these terrified young girls would raise their hands, "I saw So-and-so take two soaps from the Store instead of one!" "So-and-so has a record player and he's only been here ten months."
After a whole night of this they made us go back to the club in buses and jitneys and cars, and they divided us into groups to play games. In each game, they put one or two of these elders to get us to cop out on each other. "I saw him take two mouthwashes!" In the warehouse where I worked they had hundreds of thousands of cases of mouthwash which had been donated. After one of these glut raids I saw them fill several huge trucks with TV sets, beautiful stereo equipment, cameras, lamps, chairs, clothes, an upright piano-I had been trying to get access to a piano to write music on and they'd told me, "You can't have that"-they took this piano and thousands and thousands of dollars' worth of stuff, loaded it onto these trucks, and, I was told, took it to the city dump, and threw it away. And this happened more than once.
After the games they brought us down to the ballroom, where they had all these people sitting on the stage: guys with their heads shaved, girls in stocking caps. They berated us some more, and then they took us back to the Clump and paraded us around. One of the main attractions was right upstairs from where I lived. They had these five girls in stocking caps stand around while we all marched through their dorm. Each girl had a TV and a record player; shelves full of perfume, jewelry; closets stuffed with clothes from I. Magnin and Saks Fifth Avenue; hats; silk bedspreads, curtains; books, pictures. There wasn't a bare spot in the place. It looked like a Persian harem. After we finished with the tour we went to work, and then that night, when we thought it was all over, we were yanked from our beds again and taken to the club for a "general meeting" and more games.