Straight Life - Art Pepper [191]
These chicks were rebelling against their parents. Their parents are weaklings who care only about money and anything to stay out of trouble. Who never stand up for any ideals. Who have no morals. Who don't make their children respect them. Who set such bad examples that the young white girls from Brentwood and Beverly Hills think that it's hep and right to go out with black people to show that they aren't like their parents. Their basic premise is commendable, but it's taken advantage of by these black guys that are full of hate. These guys have been oppressed for years. Now they're just using these white chicks for their own ends. They ball them not because they love them or want them but to satisfy their hatred against the white people, against the girls' parents.
I saw that I had to some way get rid of my hatred or it was going to kill me. For the blacks, it's beautiful to hate because everywhere they turn they've got people to support it and to join with them. And they can talk about it. It's a badge of honor, a badge of courage they can wear on their sleeves, and I admire them for it. But there was no one to join in with me. No one. The people that had the nerve and would be freethinkers were on this other kick of trying to undo the injustices they felt their parents had done. I was alone.
Before I left San Quentin, I became friends with a guy there, Joe, who had a sister living in Hollywood. She was a singer. Joe had written her thinking she could help me out and I could help her professionally. He gave me her number and wrote and told her I was coming out. I came in on the plane and got a bus to the parole department in West L.A. I got a parole officer and some money to get a place to live. I walked from the parole department down to Olympic and La Cienega. I was still debating whether to call Christine or not. I wanted everything to be completely new and open. Diane was in CRC. I thought, "Maybe I'll call. She can help me find a place." And I wanted to get laid, too. It had been a long time. I called her, and she said she'd pick me up. She told me she had a little yellow Anglia with a red stripe on it. I waited, and she drove up, and I looked down into this little car. Her skirt was almost to her pants line. I noticed that she was tall; she had red hair; and she looked pretty sexy to me-especially after doing all that time. She said, "Hi." And I said, "Hi." And she said, "Well, get in." She said she'd been hoping I'd call. She said, "What do you want to do?" I told her I had to get a place, and she said, "Why don't we go to my place? You probably want to relax."
We're driving and I'm glancing at her and she doesn't make any attempt to pull her dress down. She has long legs. They seem pretty nice. I looked at her face. She had a little black thing above her upper lip. It looked like a mole at first, but it was a tattoo. She had a hard, cold look about her, a bluesy, floozy kind of look, and when she talked and I looked in her eyes I could see that she'd been through a lot and was kind of bitter. But then I also felt compassion for her. She was like a whipped dog that still had a lot of guts left.
She lived in Hollywood in a teeny wooden house in back of another house on Gordon Street. We went in and she said, "Would you like a drink?" I said, "Well, I'd like to have some brandy." She said, "I've just got wine. I'll go to the store. You take your coat off, take your tie off. I'll be right back." She went out and