16-3 �Brighton beach memoir�

 

 16-3   “Brighton beach memoir”

 

Next day an excited Johnny Bates came into the Her Majesty’s and told us a prominent Labor politician had invited him to stay.

 “He’s got a house at Brighton Beach and he’s rich and he thinks I’m gonna let him f**k me. I told him I was homo and he gave me the key to his house.”

Like children, almost as one, we said,

“Let’s go have a look.”

A dozen of us piled on a train to Brighton looking for the house. It took two hours walking the streets asking directions.

John was proud his bullshitting skill had found a “rich person’s” house to stay in. He explained,

:”He’s comin’ back in three days and told me to make myself at home and wait for him to come back from Canberra”.

. Very quietly, so not to alert neighbors, we entered the luxurious house, sampled the cocktail cabinet, watched the brand new 21 inch black and white TV, played his records and ate his food. The house had 10 rooms but we thought it prudent just to live in the kitchen and lounge.

‘’He might get mad if we use the bedrooms”

“Yeah, and we better not mess up the joint.”

 Bates worried.

“What if he comes back and wants to f**k me? I like schoolgirls. I’m no poof.”

(sorry all you lovely gay folk but even hippies talked that way in ’65.)  

 

Bates was a likeable rough featured bloke about 30 with a great sense of humour and a broken nose. The Push was his only family.

Heald told him,

“Don’t worry Johnny. By the time he comes back we’ll be gone. He’ll never know we were here.” The rest of us joked,

“Yeah mate: we’ll protect ya.”

“We’ll make you a chastity belt.”

“And block your bum with cement just in case.”

 Johnny joined in,

“I’ll sue him for child support if I get pregnant.”

That night we got stoned and, with me again dressed as an old lady, flogged grass at the University Hotel then returned “home” and smoked as much as we’d sold. I’m not sure who held the money but it was probably Heald. The rest of us were too busy enjoying the lovely house.

 The politician had an exotic Egyptian bubble pipe with 4 extensions and we used to the max. I’d never smoked grass much but that night I over indulged. About one a.m. I began floating. The intricately patterned Persian rug turned magic carpet. It took me right up through the ceiling  and through the roof to where I floated above the house tops. Then I thought,

“This might be what dying people experience.” I forced myself to go back down to the lounge room..

 Someone was talking about self improvement. My mind flipped into self examination and I searched for inhibitions and weaknesses. I worked out there were two fears I had left.

One was: the fear of violence.

The room became a Tibetan temple where I was to face the master’s test of courage. Buddha said,

“Examine your fear then lose it.”

Five samurai entered. They glowed with a maroon radiance and looked fierce but I sensed a  love for humanity. I stood to face them,

“I am ready to fight.”  

Back in the real world five innocent hippies must’ve thought I was joking or out of my freaking brain. One told me,

 “Cool it Cass. You’re very brave but you don’t need to fight anyone.”

(the saying “chill out” hadn’t yet  been invented)

 Another patted me on the back saying,

“Cool it man. Peace. Everything’s OK.”

 I relaxed into self satisfaction. I had passed the “ritual rite of passage” and was “OK”

 Half an hour later I slipped into the twilight zone.

“There’s one more fear. I’m afraid of being forced to suck c**k. I must rid myself of that fear too.”

In front of me big Chris Heald was holding his long thick.errect c**k.

“Here, try this one for size” he smirked. Lesley said, “yeah Cass, wrap ya lips around that!”

 I knelt before him and (after a slight hesitation) forced myself to put it in my mouth. It almost made me gag.

Then Chris’ dork turned into the biggest joint (of pot) I’d ever seen.

 I’d overcome my fear and felt higher than ever.

Suddenly I was out in the country beside a tranquil lagoon. I recalled one more fear. As a child I’d been afraid to dive head first off Henley jetty into water. Oh, well...here goes.... I swan dived into the pool. Just as I hit “the water” it morphed into the lounge room carpet..

 Everyone gathered around to help me to my feet. The shag pile had grazed the skin of my knee..

I was told,

“S**t man, you’ve had way too much gear. Better go sleep it off.”

I awoke paranoid the house would be raided so I strolled the deserted streets of Brighton until I realized I was lost. There were 4 buses parked in a yard so I climbed through a window and had a nap in a  back seat.

About 7 a.m. I was woken by a driver who told me to get out.

It took me a long time to find Brighton beach as I was too paranoid to ask directions.

Waiting on the hot sand I telepathed to my pals hoping a psychic one would come and find me. They’d gone for a dip yesterday so I thought today would be the same.

Around 5 p.m. everyone came down for a swim and I gleefully went “home” with them.

 

That night I didn’t smoke any grass and hung around Lesley to make sure no one else tried to woo her.

Two days passed in comfort. Then we ran out of food, money and grass. Johnny Bates was afraid his politician would call the cops when he discovered so many freaks inside his mansion. We prepared to split..

 

 We’d smoked a lot of pot in the last week and taken a fair amount of Methedrine. Now we were  cold sober and seedy so Chris Heald took charge,

“We’d better sell some of these antiques and get back to Sydney. You don’t wanna attract attention so only grab as much classy stuff as you can carry in one arm.”

 We argued with him. Most of us didn’t want to steal but eventually some grabbed a chess set, a mahjong set, an oil painting, a cutlery set, a cuckoo clock, a pearl necklace and a samurai sword.

 

We split into three groups and walked two miles to the railway station “to avoid suspicion.”

After getting to Melbourne CBD the others, paranoid of cops, sold their swag at different hock shops. They didn’t haggle over the price and received a fraction of what it was worth. I was scared of going to jail so I took nothing.  Heald (as usual) stole the best items and made enough to go by train: the rest split into pairs and hitched to Sydney.

 

CHPT. 16-4   “Tim Bristow and Jack”

 

Back in Sydney, Les returned to university to study medicine and I returned to Paddington. Every weekend Les would visit and we’d indulge and experiment with whatever substance she’d managed to smuggle out of the university. We were still a happy and relatively innocent bunch. No one yet had any “habit” so we thought the occasional indulgence was just an extra way of enjoying life.

Usually Lesley arrived with small amounts of LSD but one weekend she came with scopolamine.( An alkaloid used to treat nausea and to dilate the pupils in ophthalmic procedures )

Six of us took the stuff.  We were quite clinical. Les insisted there were a few not using so that someone would be observing the effects as a safety measure..

 I don’t recall much except small things (like pencils or combs) began to dissolve into smoke if you looked at them for long. Then I saw my father, (who was in Adelaide and I hadn’t seen for years), walking about the house. I recall nothing of the next 6 hours but later I was told that everyone split up and did their own thing.. American Jack (who had abstained) said,

“Cass went out into the back yard searching for cabbages that we don’t have.”

 We decided scopolamine was “not pleasurable enough” and never used it again. Les said,

“Well I warned you it was just an experiment.”

 

                        Lesley and I became a couple. On "the scene" anyone in a permanent relationship were invited to more social functions than “still looking” folk. One couple could ask another couple to join them in an intimate gathering and not have to keep a lookout that the invited would try and steal their partner. Single "push" men from "the George" always tried to seduce a woman-be she a single entity or one of a pair. Any chick was fair game.

"All's Fair In Love and War" was often quoted by the Sydney Push. Although believing wholeheartedly in women’s liberation, my male friends could be quite chauvinistic in some matters. Unattached men pontificated,

''Stealing chicks is a way to keep romance alive,"

“No man should make the mistake of taking his chick for granted."

"Anyway…it's the woman's choice. If the partnership is strong enough no one will be able to split them up," said the Free Lovers.

As soon as Les and I became "as one", my radar was switched on 24 hours a day .I knew from my time spent with my first girlfriend Glen that perpetually prowling carnivorous males would pick up the scent trail of any woman they thought they had a chance with. Cave-man instincts were alive and active in the "Push" jungle.

The latest edition of Life magazine featured an 8-page article (in colour) on the "new spiritual and psychological effects of LSD ". The subject fascinated Lesley. At Sydney University, she befriended a group of experimental young chemistry students who were intent on importing pure liquid D-Lysergic Acid known to the popular press as L.S.D.

 

At the age of 19, Lesley finally convinced her over-protective parents she was “mature enough” to move away from the luxurious family home in Randwick.. They rented her a nice little flat in Darling Point.. Her father was Jack Armstrong, a greatly respected horse race price assessor who did the Friday “Sun odds” column in the Sun newspaper and sold racing information to SP bookies. He only charged 20 quid a month for his service and (all over Australia) his clients loved him for his talent. He knew how to find out if a horse was “trying” or whether it was “just having a run”. This gave him a better chance than most mug punters to find winners but it was not infallible.

..In the 60s horse race pricing services for illegal bookies was frowned on by the law so Jack lived in a Damon Runyon type environment and knew the hoodlums, wise guys, jockeys, private dicks and politicians who loved to gamble. He did not like hippies.

 

      Jack got the idea that to protect his only daughter from the "dope smoking hippie" he'd either pay me to piss off to another state, or have me bumped off. He asked his old friend and well-known private detective Tim Bristow,

 "Take the little prick for a ride and scare the s**t out of him. Offer him 500 quid (these days equal to $7000) to piss off. If he won't--dump him in the bloody harbour."

 On a balmy spring evening I was walking jauntily through the 'Cross, thinking how great my life was now I had a groovy chick and was a well-respected hip cat. Opposite the old Village Wax Museum a bloke began walking along side of me. He looked like Frankenstein, except he was bigger and scarier. I sped up. So did he. I slowed to cross the road. The big bloke stayed beside. Thinking it was just some square deciding to "kid the beatnik" as they sometimes did, I turned toward him and imitated the beatnik Maynard .G. Crebbes of television's “Dobie Gillis Show". I quipped,

"Like, hi man."

 The big fella stopped in his tracks, towered over me, and in a voice from hell said,

"Get in the bloody car."

He took my arm and guided me toward a black sedan parked outside the Paradise strip joint. As he bulldogged me into it's front seat, I saw the spruiker of the Paradise turn away so as not to be a witness. Bristow snarled,

"Shut your face and don't move." Adrenaline pumped through my system .He drove slowly along Bayswater Road.

 I waited for my chance to jump out of the car at a traffic light, but they were all green! I imagined how his massive mitt would reach out to yank me back in if I did try.

At the rear of White City tennis courts, he stopped the car where it was dark and silent. Bristow turned toward me and began,

"The sheilah you're seeing is the daughter of a good mate of mine. There's 500 in it for you if you piss off tonight and never see her again. ( note : would be worth $7000 in 2008) Go to some other town, start your life again. If you don't I'll just have to give you a nice pair of boots. There's only one thing wrong with them. They're heavy 'cause they're made from cement. You can't swim in them. Do you get me drift? 'Cause you won't be driftin'--you'll be on the bottom of the sea, just outside the heads. The fishes will eat out your eyes and your hippie mates'll think you've gone fruit-picking.''

That was true. None of my acquaintances would think twice about it if I weren't around any more. I'd often gone interstate on a whim. But my head couldn't wrap itself around the idea of just leaving Lesley. She loved me and I could never take the money and not see her again. I thought of getting the money and then telling Les--then we    could go away together somewhere. I was just about to say to Tim,

"OK man, give me the bread and I'll split," when the thought hit me that perhaps this was a trap to see if I was scrupulous enough to not take the money. Maybe Les' dad was testing me to see if I really did love his little girl! Maybe if I took the money then I'd be bumped off.

Looking Bristow in the eyes and using my “sincere” voice, I told him,

"I am scared of you man but I am not pissin' off on Lesley. I'd rather be dead than leave her wondering why I'd gone. I love her gigantically. Her dad may think I'm a dope fiend or something but I've never taken drugs. I hate them. I'm into Buddhism and I'll plead guilty to being a bit of a hippie, but that's no reason for him to do this. Tell him I'd never hurt his daughter and I'm starting work next week as a salesman at David Jones and I'm getting a hair cut!"  

A glint of humanity crept into his eyes and I prayed he was thinking I wasn't garbage after all.

Suddenly he started the car. I thought,

“Oh s**t! He's going to take me to The Gap and chuck me over the edge into the cold dark salty sea!"

 I wondered,

"If he throws me straight in, I'll be able to swim and might be able to climb ashore someplace. But if he tries to kill me first, I’ll go for his eyeballs and stick my fingers right into his brain and rip. Oh s**t, but he’s so big and strong. " 

Just as I’d psyched myself up, he turned the car around and, still silent, drove back to the 'Cross. I began to hope. Before he let me out he said,

"I'll tell Jack what you said and see what he wants me to do but if I were you mate, I'd take the dough and scarper."

 

 

Jack was worried. He'd always been overprotective of his only child and a couple nights a week Lesley would sneak out of the house. What was she up to? Was she out looking for a boyfriend? He set her up a date with one of his younger punter clients .Lesley wasn't impressed. Both a little embarrassed, they went to a drive-in and watched the movie in silence,

 A few days passed and Jack’s guts where churning with lurid imaginings. Was Les a nymphomaniac? Was she a marihuana addict? If only she’d talk to him a bit. Even the psychiatrist he’d sent her to couldn’t get her to open up.

Jack imagined her out there somewhere, bouncing like a pinball from man to man. He had to find out!

 One night he parked near his house determined to follow her. A taxi arrived and Lesley hopped in. Jack followed her Museum station. Les ran down the subway steps. Staying out of sight, Jack kept 30 metres behind. When he reached the platform level, he saw her disappear into the dark train tunnel where only trains and railway workers were allowed. Despite having friends on the wrong side of the law, Jack always obeyed signs of authority. (As a 9-year-old swimming in the harbour at Woolloomooloo he'd almost drowned after ignoring a no-swimming notice. He'd found it hard to disobey any sign since.) There was a notice near the mouth of the tunnel. "DO NOT ENTER"

Jack hesitated just long enough before plunging into the tunnel's walkway to enable Lesley to get 100 yards ahead. Determined to give Jack the slip, she ran up the stairs and into the night. Poor sweating Jack came out of the station thinking, “She’ll head for Kings Cross. I’ll catch her there.”

 Around midnight I’d just left the Piccolo Bar. An angry looking middle aged bloke was walking toward me. He stared right at my face so I moved over to give him passing room. As he got near he shot out a right jab that struck me on the forehead. Another punch scraped across my left cheek..

I skipped backward, tripped on the edge of the gutter, got up and scurried behind a parked car .With that mass between us I implored,

"What's wrong, man? What you after me for? What did I do?"

He tried getting closer but I kept dodging around the car. I had him beat for speed so I felt in control.

Customers came out from the Piccolo Bar to watch and barrack. One yelled,

“Kill him Casbah” and another “leave the kid alone you bully.” I was enjoying being the hero of this drama and I thought

 “We can play this game all night if he wants."

Jack calmed down and explained who he was. He took me to a pizza joint where, over coffees, I frantically tried to convince him I was no drug user and I cared about his daughter. He began telling me her problems, saying “she has no sense of consequences”. It took an hour but I finally persuaded him I was not the type who uses drugs and Les would be better off with me than some of the other ratbags around town..

 Jack came up with the offer that I could stay at his place. He laughed,

“Then I can keep an eye on you both and Les won’t need to sneak out at night.”I moved into the spare room at the rear of their large Randwick home. Three nights later Lesley left her bedroom and joined me in the little room and we slept together from then on .Her parents accepted the arrangement--at least to my face.

 

 ----to be cont------------

 

Author's Note

I was enjoying being the hero of this drama