Straight Life - Art Pepper [249]
By the third day there were only a few that hadn't broke yet. I was one. During this time we went for walks together, we gathered in the ballroom and played charades, we performed skits, we went to meals, we went to the Woodshed and watched lightshows and movies. We had a Ouija session, and the Ouija talked to some of the people on the trip. It talked to me: "There's someone who's trying to hide the fact that he's desperately in need of love. He has to give in and accept people into his life. He has to give of himself. That person's name is Art Pepper."
During the last game they worked on the people who hadn't broken. Tom came in and ranked me and put me down some more, and everybody in the game group joined in, and finally I just stood up and started screaming, "Fuck the world! Fuck all you people! No one cares! Everyone's phony. Nobody cares about me! I've spent ten years in prison because of a fuckin' rat, supposed to be a friend of mine! My mother never wanted me! My wife left me as soon as I went to jail!" I went on and on. "Because I was white I was never really accepted in jazz! I've suffered all my life, and I've never done anything wrong!" Frankie said, "We know that's a lie. No one is that perfect. No one is that perfect. What have you done?" I tried to think. I started to tell him about the girl I'd raped in England but I said, "She led me on!" Frank just laughed at me. He said, "You don't feel bad about that. What have you done?" I told about slapping my daughter's hand when she wouldn't eat her dinner, and then I remembered that my father had done the same thing to me. That was wrong. I said, "But I never ratted on anybody! I never burned anybody!" He said, "You must have done something. Everybody's done something wrong. Isn't there anything that you'd like to tell us about to ease your conscience, something that's bothering you?" And all of a sudden it hit me about Wally:
I had gotten out of Tehachapi with a five-year tail. Diane was working at a TV station as a receptionist and telephone operator, and we were living in an apartment behind Otto's Barbershop on Sunset toward the Strip. I was on the Nalline program. I lasted for about three months, and then I couldn't make the tests anymore so I went to stay at Ann's house down in Manhattan Beach, to hide, because I was afraid my parole officer was going to pick me up and send me back to the joint with a violation.
One day Diane called me up in Manhattan Beach. A friend of mine had called and wanted to score an ounce. Diane was going to do it for him, and we would get a portion of the stuff for scoring. Ann and I decided to go up to town to make a taste. We drove to Hollywood to my place. Diane wasn't there. On the door was a note from my parole officer saying that if I would call him he'd give me a break. The note was dated that day so I figured he'd gone home. I figured it was probably cool to go into the pad. I opened the door with my key. We waited and waited. Finally we hear a noise, we hide, the door opens, and it's Diane. I hadn't seen her for several days, and she's supposed to be my wife, you know, but there's no thought of hello or a kiss. It's just, "Have you got anything?" "Yeah, let me go first." "Ohhhh, man!"
We went into the bathroom and cooked up the heroin, and I hit her. Ann says, "Why don't you let me go next?" "I'm next." After I'd fixed and fixed Ann, Diane said, "Something awful just happened." And she told us this story.
"I copped from Wally. This friend of yours came by, left the bread, and I called Wally. I went over and laid the bread on him." They went to East L.A. and scored and came back and gave the guy his ounce. He'd given them four hundred fifty dollars and Wally had gotten two ounces for a hundred ninety each. Then they'd taken the other guy's ounce and cut it with milk sugar; so he got about two-thirds of an ounce for four hundred fifty dollars and Diane and Wally split the bread and