Rivethead - Ben Hamper [117]
A few days later, the promo guy from Mother Jones called to tell me they had scheduled a series of television and radio interviews in Chicago. I was told that I would have to make this trip solo because Mike was busy back in San Francisco. I immediately balked. There was no way I could pull this off alone. After much grumbling, they consented to pay Dave Steel's way to Chicago.
We arrived there in the afternoon. The schedule called for me to do a live television interview at 6:30 the next morning. Dave and I both agreed that I'd never be able to function at that early hour. He suggested that we stay up all night and indulge in a nocturnal bar crawl of Chicago nightlife. Finally, someone who spoke sense.
We hit several blues joints and got back to our hotel around 3:00. Only a few more hours to go. I kept drinkin’ and tossin’ down the occasional Xanax. Dave was as drunk as I'd ever seen him. He insisted on ordering a pizza. When it finally arrived, he took about three bites out of it before hurling it, along with an empty fifth of rum, over the balcony and into the hotel swimming pool eight floors below. “Swish!” Dave yelled.
“Cool it, Laimbeer. Our mission still lies ahead of us.”
“Gimme a bourbon,” Dave snarled.
We sat around drinkin’ Jim Beam and water. Dave kept playin’ with the TV set until he ran across a channel that was showing Lost in Space. It was the episode where Dr. Smith found a machine which allowed him to pump out these armies of cyborgs which looked exactly like him. Old Zach was havin’ a great time. Alas, Dr. Zachary Smith's plans fell through. The end of the show found him squattin’ on this Styrofoam boulder weeping: “All I wanted to do was rule the universe.” Dave and I cracked up. Dr. Smith should have been the Chairman of General Motors.
Around 5:00, Dave started primpin’ for the TV show. He showered and shaved and began styling his sacred pompadour. It was hilarious. He had a hair blower contraption the size of a bazooka.
“Hey, I was under the impression they wanted me on the show.” I laughed.
“They may need a stand-in seein’ as how you're drunk and doped silly.”
“They'd never buy it. You look more like George Hamilton than a shoprat.”
Dave shook his head. “At least brush your teeth and comb your hair.”
By the time we arrived at the television station, I was pretty wasted. The door guard looked at me and refused to let us in. I stepped aside and let Dave do the explaining. Finally, a sweet-lookin’ gal appeared and ushered us upstairs to the set. Apparently, she hadn't seen the cover of Mother Jones yet. She kept complimenting Dave on his writing flair. I injected that not only was Dave a decent writer, he had hair stiff enough to dent beer kegs. Dave flipped me the bird and the two of them walked on ahead of me.
Remarkably, the show turned out fine. I didn't slur too badly or toss in any four-letter words. I remember the stage guys were laughing so hard that their cameras were shakin’. They were especially fond of my wrought-up tangent about going bowling with Roger Smith. As the segment ended, I stood up and almost fell straight on my face. The host gave me a big handshake and invited me to come back on the show whenever I came to Chicago.
My nerves were growing steadily worse. The Rivet Line, once my fortress and private lair, was now nothing more than a huge galleryful of paranoia and mayhem. All I did was stare at the clock, a suicidal gesture in itself. I threw away my notebook. There was no inspiration, there was nothing.
As if things weren't bad enough, they announced that the first group of transfer signees would be heading off for Pontiac within a month. Tony and Dave's names were on the list. I had drawn a temporary bye. Tony was elated. Dave was his usual uncertain self.
Meanwhile, in the wake of my Mother Jones piece, the phone began to ring again. A producer for The Today Show called expressing an interest