First 16 pages of 600 pages novel (WOW!!!) book.

[Guest guest]

Like, The Misunderstood

A NOVEL

 

by Rick Brown & Mike Stax

 

 

CHAPTER ONE: Terror Express

 

 

DING!!! Oh my God! The bell! Round One, New Mexico State Golden Gloves,

welter-weight division (that's 147 lbs for all you non-boxing geeks).

OK, lets go and box this guy. But jeez, I'm only 15, and the other guy

is a grown man…gulp! Boxing? Forget it! This guy comes out like a wind

mill - like the chain-saw from hell - whoosh, whoosh, zing POW! Crack!

I see stars. Thud! Blood!?? I'm on my hands and knees staring at my

blood dripping on the canvas. He broke my nose!!! Damn!! Major

bummer!!! Anyway, it was OVER!!! And that's the last time I ever

stepped into a ring.

 

My god brother, Bhu, is driving and listening. " Shit, Hrisi, why did

you ever start boxing? " Good question. I just laugh. We are driving

along a curvy canyon road on our way to meet a " UCLA Certified " lady

psychic, Jo Ann Dunn. Originally from England, she’s long since living

in Southern California out in the sticks, near Lake Ellsinore, about 30

miles inland from Laguna Beach.

 

" Bhu, if the last 12 years is any indication, then the next 12 years

will be anything but boring " I quip. Bhu laughs, " Hrisi, your story is

a rock-and-roll adventure… it should be a movie! "

 

I’d recently snuck back into America across the Mexico border at TJ.

Bhu picked me up in a car and we drove across. Yeah, it was plenty

scary!!! I was sweating bullets when the border guard asked me to state

my nationality. You see I have been a fugitive from the Vietnam War

draft for the last 12 years, a deserter from a senseless and LOST war.

I'm still a fugitive and it's 1979, the case isn't settled yet. So I'm

lying low until my hot shot charity-case lawyer, Laurie Belger, works

it out with that friggen 'Uncle Sam.'

 

Jeez, UNCLE SAM; The Vietnam War's evil-looking poster boy, with his

message, " Got my bell I'm gonna take you to hell (Nam), I'm gonna get

you! I'm coming for you! Hells Bells!! " Ironically HIS bell is the

Liberty Bell. The one with the BIG CRACK in it. That about says it all

for my liberty so far.

 

By the way, I'm Rick Brown, lead singer of International pioneer psych

band, The Misunderstood! And if you can dig THAT, then you're one hip

CAT!!!

 

" This windy road is making me feel sick, when will we get there? " I

ask. " Just hang on, Hrisi, we're almost to the lake… then it's straight

road to her place. " Her place was a trailer home. We pull into the

front and knock on the door. The door opens and, like wow!!! She’s

awesome! No, actually she looks, like, totally ordinary, but I knew her

reputation from Bhu, and that was already inspiring. I've come to find

out from her about my legal case… what's going to happen in my future??

 

After some small talk Bhu went into her study with his little cassette

recorder. I just wait in her living room and try to imagine what I

would ask her. He took about 45 minutes, then he came out with tears in

his eyes. Wow! I never saw him cry before! " It's your turn, Hrisi " Bhu

choked out. OK, here goes.

 

As I enter her room she seems very peaceful, or maybe she’s tired? I

don't know, do psychics get worn out? Yeah, sure. I also had a small

tape recorder with a one hour cassette. Jo Ann had me sit opposite her

and told me to start the tape. OK…click! running…

 

I guess she'll do something radical to get into a trance. I remember

those Kris dancers in Bali, coughing and spitting before leaping up in

a fierce trance, attacking Rangda, and trying to stab themselves with

their snake-like curvy Kris knifes. Their bodies were like iron. The

blades would not pierce their skin, the blade would bend from the

force. That was exciting. But all Jo Ann did was close her eyes, take a

few slow breaths, and suddenly sit up straight, with closed eyes, and

in a slightly different voice, she says, " Greetings, traveller! " What

could I say? " Uh, hi! "

 

During the course of one hour I asked her about my late Gurus in India,

and about my legal case. In an amazing display she describes both my

teachers and said they were " well pleased " with me, and she also left

no doubt that my legal karma was coming to an end. God, she seems to

know everything about me, so I take her seriously. Finally she asks me

if I have any final question. Hey, THAT is a good question in itself,

“final question!?” Wow!!! Heavy!! " Yes, " I prompt, " what was I in my

last life, and, like, how did I die? "

 

After a slight pause she told me I was East Indian in my last life and

was killed during Indo-Pakistan partition riots. Hey, lets see!? that

was around 1947, the same year I was born!?? As she spoke of my past

life I could imagine the whole scene, like a flash back; she was really

jogging my memory to the core of my being. As if I could see down a

long road into the past. I lost track of her speaking… I was

transported.

 

A time of rioting. Shouting. Noise. Bloody hell!!! I'm an orange-robed

sadhu or mendicant, about 80 years old when I bit the bullet. The

British partitioned India's West Punjab and East Bengal into West and

East Pakistan. Millions are displaced, forced by religion to switch

countries, leaving everything behind, or else!. It was too much

emotion, and the whole country snapped. While Mahatma Gandhi was

fasting amidst rioting in Calcutta, the whole of North India and Punjab

was turned into a blood bath. So much for non violence.

 

I'm sitting on top of a train heading for the temple town of Rishikesh

on the bank of the holy Ganga River, trying to escape the violence. I

watch as the train moves on. Parched North Indian landscape. A

broken-down temple in the foreground, several areas with smoke rising

in the background, Sun beating down. “Ugh!”

 

The roof of the train is crowded with people squatting, their backs

facing toward the steady stream of black smoke pouring from the engine.

It’s overflowing with terrified passengers trying to flee the

slaughter. Elsewhere, the Muslims are killing the Hindus, the Hindus

are killing the Muslims. Millions were up in arms. Who the hell is

who!?? Blood is ALL red, regardless of religion!

 

Crowded among the passengers on the roof, I sit on my thin bedroll and

hold a silver trisula (trident)...I have long white matted hair, a long

beard, and my old face is covered in ashes. Hey, 80 years old is no

picnic, especially on the roof of a moving locomotive.

 

Jo Ann recalled my previous name was like, Whoa!!! get this, BOIIING!!!

" Hrisikesh. " Oh brother!!! How could she know that was my nick name? I

asked Bhu, and he didn't tell her anything about me. But she knew

exactly. And the SAME name!? Bizarro!!

 

It's late afternoon and the old train puffs and clacks through sparse

landscape and crosses over a river on a wooden bridge... Oh gross!!! In

the river are dead bodies, some headless, floating in the current.

Among the corpses are the dead bodies of women and children. Dead

animals, too! Shit! Would a Muslim Cow kill a Hindu Cow!?? It's

sickening, but I'm too weak to vomit. Besides I've seen too much

already. It's just a blur anymore.

 

The train begins to slow for the next station stop; great! I gotta take

a leak. But wait! Looking ahead I can see smoke!?? There is a riot at

the next station… It's in flames, and swords are swinging; bodies, some

limbless, are strewn about the area up ahead; a bullock cart has been

placed on the tracks by the mob to stop the train. The mob sets fire to

the blockade... SHIIIT!!!

 

With a jerking sensation and sounds the train gradually picks up speed

again; there is no alternative but to keep going and crash through the

barrier. Whoa!!! Hang on!!!

 

With a violent crash the train charges into the blockade throwing fire

everywhere. We're all jolted on the roof. Some passengers fall off the

roof. I can see fellow travelers impaled by crude spears and hacked

with swords of the raging, rioting mob. Man, I got to hold on here.

HOLD ON!!! Unnh!!!

 

The train is too strong, the engine knocks aside the burning bullock

carts and keeps on going, faster and faster, towards the Holy Land,

Rishikesh, which lies ahead at the foot of the Himalayas.

 

I pick myself up after being thrown on my back by the loud crash; many

of my fellow squatters are gone. They have fallen into the madness. The

roof is half empty. Oh, thank God! He saved me again.

 

Looking back I see the burning station growing smaller as the train

moves on... I cling to the roof of the train, the engine smoke choking,

catching in my throat. I cough… and cough!! “Akh Akh!!”

 

What could I say to myself in Hindi? Probably, " Hey Bhagavan, meri

raksha koro!!! " (Oh God, protect me)

 

The Sun sets quickly as the train continues chugging along the open

landscape and darkness overtakes the sinking daylight. God, it's

getting cold!!!

 

In the distance I can see small and large fires glowing like fireflies

in the blackness of night. I sigh and try to sleep on the roof, but my

old body is so skinny. Laying on my back I look up at the night sky,

flaming with stars, full of evil omens.

 

As the terror express starts to gradually climb up the foothills of the

Himalayas, the engine works harder trying to thwart gravity, and the

rapid pace of the train slows to about 25 KM hour… The sounds of

puffing and clacking fill the air…

 

I can't sleep; what a bummer!! Every bone in my old body aches. The

train clacks and clanks up the hills, clouds of black billowing from

the engine's smokestack… Jeez, this kind of smoke I don't need.

Eventually I conk out. Zzzzzzz.

 

As the Sun begins his rise in the East my eyes flutter open. Oh God, I

feel cold and stiff. " Ugh! " I grunt as I roll onto my side. With the

dawn glowing brighter the train nears its destination. Eventually,

FINALLY, we start to slow down. I squint at the old train sign,

RISHIKESH. We're here. YEAH!!! I can only thank God by folding my hands

and bowing my head. I'm safe!!

 

 

CHAPTER TWO: Blown Away!

 

As I struggle to climb down from the roof I hear religious chants and

Indian music, and loud running river sounds... the GANGA! " Jai Ganga

Mata ki jai!!! "

 

" Ugh " , with pain and difficulty I fall over with a groan as I reach the

ground. Thud! Ahhn! What could I say? " Ram teyree maya!! " - Oh Rama,

this is Your illusion!

 

I struggle to get up, and as I approach the river I look up at the

majestic temple towering above me... " Om namo Narayana!!! " I utter in

deep respect.

 

I finally reach the river and climb down the stone steps to the bathing

ghats on the river bank. With difficulty I strip down to my kaupin

(loin cloth), and wade my rickety old body (I'm 80, remember!) into the

freezing waters. I take three quick dips in the current. It's ice cold

and my old heart begins to tighten. As fast as possible I emerge from

the rivers edge and wipe the freezing water off my bare body. I'm

racked with shivering. Aah aah Hhhhhhh! Quick heart beats; breathing

fast.

 

Shaking like mad I struggle to sit cross-legged on the red stone ghat,

and then I count my gayatri mantra, silently meditating - sitting with

a straight back, with my sacred thread wrapped around my right thumb,

as I count the mantras on my finger tips. So peaceful. The running

water. Ommmmmm!!!

 

" HUH? " All of a sudden I hear truck and bus engines above. And what the

hell? Blam! Bang! Bang! Crash!! I'm startled by the sounds of shouting,

gunfire and breaking glass. People are screaming.

 

Just above the ghat, two or three truckloads of hooligans have invaded

this pilgrimage town and the local people are screaming and running

down the steps to the river where I'm seated. Are the hooligans Muslim?

Man, what's the difference between hooligans?

 

Holy shit! Bricks and big rocks begin to rain down onto the ghats where

I'm seated. Some of the Indian women jump into the river, God, their

going to die!!. Some people are hit by the rocks and bricks. There is

pushing and some of the crowd begins to fall into the river. Others are

trampled under foot as the evil bastards invade this sanctuary,

striking at any one they can kill. I look up and see some of the

hooligans running down the steps.

 

How can I stop them? Oh God, am I ready for this? I stand and hold my

trident and beg the rioters to stop killing. Suddenly a certain shot is

fired into the crowd. Wow! It's like all sound stopped except THE echo

gun blast, Blam!!! I hear nothing but a zinging sound, and I see THE

bullet coming, spinning in slow motion, toward me.

 

Thaaap! Ulp! I feel chocked as something hot rips through my neck…Akh

ghh!!! The force of the bullet knocks me backward off the bathing ghat

into the swirling current, Splash!!! Everything is BLACK. Was I

blinded? " Huh? Kya hum mar chuke hai? " (What, Am I dead?)

 

I can make out a shaking light and hear the approach of suction noises.

Like howling wind. I feel racked with a chill, " Ah-huh!?? " My rapid

fearful breathing, fast thumping heartbeats, growing fainter...

 

I grasp out. Where am I?? It feels like I'm holding onto a cliff made

of black ice. Cold. I helplessly slip off the icy cliff with a

sickening falling sensation…

 

Then the noise! Oh Man! Talk about scary! Howling wind and suction

sounds. I see the blackness forming into a glowing orange-pinkish

winding tunnel, and I'm helplessly swept through the twisting flow.

Past old lost memories, ALL HAZY, flashes. Orange robbed sadhus,

forests, Indian family members; baby stuff; the kind face of my Indian

mother turns into ice.

 

I'm being dragged, rushing through the glowing tunnel… On the left side

I'm being beckoned by devilish beings to come into the infernal

regions. Flashes of hell. demons beckon me to enter… GROSS!!! Not only

NO! But HELL NO!!!

 

I can only hear howling winds... as I'm swept past hell, down the

glowing tunnel…

 

On the right I see a glowing angelic doorway welcoming me to enter

paradise. Angels calling. I reach out to enter heaven but I can't see

myself; I'm helplessly carried away, down the winding tunnel

 

Whoa!! Huh? I feel so sleepy all of a sudden. What the?? " Bahut

durbaal! Aab sow-jaigaa! Sow jaigaa! sow.... " (So weak, so sleepy,

so..). That was IT!

 

 

CHAPTER THREE: Born in the USA

 

Two hearts beat in the darkness. I don't know zilch, Nada. But I'm

being squeezed out, pressed so hard; I feel choking, the pressure is

unbearable, " Unnh! Ahnnnuh! "

 

It's a hospital delivery room, and I fall into the hands of a doctor.

The light is intense… Ohhh! I'm blinded with bright-light, and I hear

and feel a striking sensation, SMACK! Baby crying… Is that me? Man, I

don't know!

 

Slowly my vision accommodates the light and clears. Over me I see the

misty faces of a man and woman, looking down so concerned! The women

speaks to the man, " Dick! He looks so helpless! " - Yeah, better believe

it!

 

OK, screw the kid stuff! Eighteen years later I'm surfing with my band

mates at Swami's reef near San Diego. Man, the tides getting too low,

that reef is sharp.

 

Anyway, here we go, " My wave! " – I paddle into the peak, drop in,

fading left on my 9.6 Surfboard's Hawaii with the cool paint job. I

crank a bottom turn, right, take two steps forward to line up the wall.

Shit! It's closing out! Too late! A ton of violent water takes me and

my board over the falls onto the reef just 5 feet deep. I’m pulled

every-which-way, whoaaaa!!! Ummph! Under water struggle...I barely miss

the reef. Shooting up, out the top, I'm gasping for breath.

 

From the surface of the ocean behind the broken wave, I see the

grinning face of my friend 18 year old GREG, lying on top of his board.

He's our guitar player. Great guy!!!

 

" Man! You got hammered!! " he laughs!

 

" Tides too low. I lost my board, I'm goin in! " I shout over the

thunderous waves breaking around us. We surf and swim ashore, I get my

board, and me an Greg run up the beach to join our 17-year-old drummer

MOE. Moe tosses me a towel, " Hurry up, man! We got a Battle of the

Bands to win tonight!”

 

" HAR HAR, No sweat! " I assure him. " Yeah, us against who's army? "

 

The three of us walk up the steps, all carrying long boards, and

wearing baggy surfer shorts and striped T shirts… we're cool!!!

 

Above the cliff I marvel at the mysterious and grand Indian-style

temple, the Self Realization Fellowship, surrounded by its neatly

attended lawns and flower gardens. The surf spot is named " Swamis "

because it's below this temple

 

I stop to wait for GEORGE, our 18 year old lead guitarist; he's been in

a bad mood lately; beats me!?. " What's the deal with that place? " I ask

as he catches up.

 

" Full of weirdos, man! Just kooks! " He mutters!

 

" Man, your on such a bummer these days… what gives? " But he just

remains silent and brushes past me. Jeez!!!

 

Driving home in Greg's woodie on the interstate. In the car Greg turns

on the radio and it's the Beach Boys " Surfin' USA " . " Fuck!! Turn that

surf shit off! " I snap.

 

Greg turns it off and everyone laughs at the unintended irony of my

statement. Greg changes the radio to a rad Yardbird's song, " Psycho

Daises " YEAH!!! Rock n Roll!!!

 

Back of the van is stuffed with small amps, guitar cases and drums,

including a bass drum with the logo: Treadway & Company, indicating

we're a band.

 

" How come they don't play Slim Harpo on the radio? " Greg wonders out

loud.

 

" Because normal people are too square to know who Slim Harpo is! Look

around, " I reply.

 

We all look at the other cars on the freeway and their all American

crew cut passengers. “Yeah! No kidding!”

 

Moe, speaks up, " Shit, we're lucky if they even play the Animals or the

Kinks on the radio! Like this Yardbirds song is tits! But they hardly

ever play it. "

 

" What station is this? " I inquire.

 

" K-MEN! In Berdoo, they even got an English DJ! "

 

" Yeah? " I'm impressed!!!

 

" Maybe we shoulda just stuck to playing surf music! " Greg says glumly.

Yeah right! There's a short silence while everyone ponders this

statement, then Greg cracks a smile and says, " NAH! Surfing is bitchen

but… " - we all join in loudly, " SURF MUSIC SUCKS!!! " Ha, we all die

laughing, except George.

 

We've got the Surfboards conspicuously strapped on top. I can see the

freeway sign, RIVERSIDE. " Come on, step on it, Greg. " Moe says, " We

gotta pick up Steve and get to the gig. " " What do you suggest, I should

break he speed limit? " Greg shoots back. YEAH, Right ON!

 

Our van pulls up outside the YMCA on a downtown street. It is now late

afternoon. God, look how straight the rest of the world is: the people

walking down the sidewalk outside are strictly suits and ties and big

summer dresses – it could almost be the 1950s.

 

Me and Moe tumble out the back of the woodie looking cool and

longhaired. We're loose and happy and completely different to the

stiff, stern-faced figures walking by. God, planet of the apes!

 

We run up the steps of the building and a few moments later emerge with

STEVE. I got his amp and Moe is carrying the bass cabinet, while Steve

himself just carries his bass guitar.

 

Steve is tall, rugged and handsome in a classic square-jawed American

way, at 19 he looks like a grown man next to us. We're still in high

school. He carries himself with confidence and we kinda look up to him

in many ways. As we struggle to load in his amp, Steve pauses to coolly

light a cigarette, accentuating his 'grown-up' demeanor.

 

We're finally all in the van on way to the gig. Greg asks Steve, " So

how's life at the Y? " " It's OK, " Steve says, " I got lots of time to

practice my bass. "

 

" I still can't believe your dad kicked you out of the house! " Moe says.

 

" Well he didn't so much 'kick me out as force me to leave at gunpoint. "

 

At this, even George is surprised, " At gunpoint?! " he asks. “Man, what

a bummer!” We all start shouting in disbelief as the van continues down

the road. " And I thought my dad was mean! " I quip. “Compared to Steve I

guess I'm lucky.”

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR: Rock n Roll High School

 

Our van pulls up next to a similar woodie at the side of the school

gymnasium. Kids are milling about, heading to the dance inside.

Decorated with banner, streamers, etc. Kids are dancing stiffly to some

tame rock'n'roll twist music (several years out of date) as we carry in

our gear. What a bunch of total squares!

 

“Shit!” I don’t even know any of these people! An I go to friggen

school here!

 

My bud, Rod Piazza and the Mystics are setting up. I take Steve over

and greet Rod, " Hey bro, this is Steve Whiting, our new bass player. "

 

Steve and Rod shake hands, " Cool man! I'm Rod! " " Yeah, man! Rock 'n'

Roll! " Steve responds.

 

I can see Rod is obviously impressed, figuring we must be getting

serious with this new 'older' guy in the band.

 

Rod asks me, " So you still going out as Treadway & Company? " " Yeah, I

guess so! " I reply, without much spirit.

 

" You're not playing surf music any more " Rod says, " You gotta get

yourself a cooler name, Rick! " Steve, who is reading Rod's bass drum,

says, " The Mystics. Now that's a cool name! "

 

The Mystics are finally on stage playing " MYSTIC EYES " . Rod looks good

and plays a mean harmonica. There’s Bob Sandell on the guitar. And Jeff

Rey playing a hot lead.

 

Most of the crowd are disinterested; but me and the guys are all up

close to the stage digging the music.

 

“These guys are pretty good!” Steve says. “Yeah, cool guys too. But

we're better!” chuckles Greg.

 

Finally It’s our turn to play. We open with She Got Me II. Wow! What a

bad-ass intro. Man, this song is bitchin! The scene is much like

before: the crowd are mostly disinterested but now the Mystics are

watching us closely.

 

Rod’s lead guitarist, Jeff, says: “These guys are pretty good. Check

the original song, Rod!”

 

“Yeah,” Rod replies, “but we're better! And they gotta do something

about that name!”

 

On stage we’re enjoying performing for our friends in the Mystics and

the few other people who are into it.

 

After the gig various members of the Mystics and our band are loading

up the vans. Suddenly Bob stumbles up holding his nose, which is

bleeding. We all rush up to see what's wrong.

 

Bob says, “Shit man, there's a big fight around the corner, some

Chicanos started trouble with some surfers. One fucker nailed me! And I

was just walking by.”

 

By now we hear some shouting from the distance where the action is

going down. Everybody is suddenly full of bluster, especially Rod.

“Fuck that, man! Nobody punches my guitar player!”

 

We all head around the corner ready to kick some ass. A couple of us

are holding pieces of microphone stands in our hands. Turning the

corner we see a crowd of large, fierce looking Chicanos facing off

against a few surfer types. Some of them have knives, others have

chains and baseball bats. One surfer is already down on the ground

getting kicked by two large greasers.

 

“WOAH!!!” We freeze in our tracks about 50 metres from the scene.

“Shiit!, Forget this, guys!” says Greg. “Er… yeah. Maybe they can mess

with Bob!” We all glance at Steve, the most physically imposing band

member. “Hey, Don't look at me!” He implores.

 

Suddenly one of the Chicanos spots us. He points and shouts something

unintelligible. Greg speaks for all of us, “I'm outta here!”

 

We all turn and run for the vans, scared shitless, but also laughing

wildly at our sudden cowardice in the face of real danger. The two vans

screech out of the parking lot just ahead of the Chicanos, one of who

manages to land a deafening blow with a bat on the side of Greg's ride.

As we drive away Steve hangs out of the window extending his middle

finger, and shouts,. “AND LET THAT BE A LESSON TO YOU! NOBODY MESSES

WITH BOB!”

 

God, we all crack up laughing. What a bunch of “wise guys.” Fuck

THAT!!! Violence sucks.

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE: English Band!??

 

One day me, Steve and Greg walk into this new Diner over in Fontana. As

we enter the restaurant, Steve politely holds the door open for an old

lady and this radical looking skinny young-guy with real long hair,

longer than a girl. He looks like an English Rock Star. Man, who is

that guy? We all look at each other. WOW!!!

 

We didn’t know it at the time, but later, this long-haired guy would

change our lives and our music for ever.

 

We take the booth next to this kinda CIA looking dude. He’s facing the

other direction so he can't see us, but it turns out that he is

listening in and absorbing our entire conversation.

 

I’m complaining about George, “He's still got his hair all short and

slicked back with Brylcreem. He needs to get the English look!

 

“You know”, Steve pipes in, “ the American girls scream and go crazy

for all those British guys, but we go up there with the same long hair,

playing the same kind of music and they won't give us the time of day.”

 

Greg, “Yeah and the guys just want to beat the crap out of us!”

 

“If we were English it would be different, man!” I blurt.

 

Greg, “We'd be rich”

 

“Yeah and get all the girls we could ever want!” Adds Steve.

 

We laugh about this and start affecting English accents. The waitress

comes over with her pad and asks, “May I take your orders?”

 

Greg, in a phony English accent, says, “Yes, indeed! I'll have a spot

'a tea!”

 

Waitress, “Excuse me?”

 

In an equally bad English accent I say, “He'll have a cup of tea, as

you say here in America, luv.” I’ll ‘av some as well, thanks!”

 

The Waitress writes and turns to Steve, “OK! And you?”

 

Steve, also getting in on the ruse, 'll 'ave the same, luv.”

 

The waitress finally wakes up, and asks, “Are you fellas from England?”

 

Greg replies, “Why, yes, we're in a band. How could you tell?”

 

Ha! The waitress looks all starry-eyed and swoons, “Wow! You're the

first English men I ever served.”

 

In the back a couple of pretty teenage girls overhear some of this and

start nudging each other. Eventually they come over to the table, and

rather shyly chirp: “Hi, I’m Kathy, this is Tanny. Are you guys in a

band? from England?”

 

“Yes, and I'm Treadway! Gregory Treadway the Third” explains Greg in a

ridiculous British accent, trying to score some extra points.

 

Kathy asks, “Mind if we join you?”

 

I stand up graciously and gesture, “Oh! By all means…please DO sit

down.”

 

The girls join us at the booth and the flirting escalates as we lay out

our improbable story.

 

“Yes, I guess we are the ONLY English band in Fontana right now, maybe

even all America” Steve jokes.

 

Kathy says, “Wow! That's pretty cool. Ya know, my mom is in show

business and maybe she could help you guys out. She'd love to get

involved with an English group!”

 

We wink at each other, figuring the girl is probably inventing some

fiction of her own. Then she presents her mom's business card to Greg,

the obvious band leader. Greg takes the card and looks at it…

 

Lee Sexton, Artists Management & Representation, Riverside, California,

etc…

 

Whoa!! Now we're actually interested.

 

Kathy prods Greg, “You should give her a call.”

 

Greg, “Yeah, all right, then”

 

The tall chick, Tanny. Wow, what a bitchin babe! “Maybe I'll give you a

call” I purr. There's some chemistry between us… yeah, yeah!!

Cowabunga!!!

 

Steve asks Kathy, “Hmm… Tell me something, Is your mother as good

looking as you are, dear?”

 

Kathy looks taken aback for a second, then we all laugh like this is

just another strange example of English humor. In the course of the

laughter though Steve gives me a secret wink like " Hey, maybe the mom

is hot? "

 

Shit, I wonder what this CIA-looking guy sitting behind us is thinking?

I’ll bet he’s found the whole exchange pretty funny. I don’t know him

yet, but it turns out that he actually IS former CIA and he plays an

important part in my escape. His name is Glazer, Al Glazer. Remember

this guy for later. He’s one Cool Cookie!!

 

 

CHAPTER SIX: British Invade Fontana?

 

Can you believe our silly ruse? It was just a joke! But one thing led

to another, we meet this lady, audition at her house, and she sets up

this gig for us at a Fontana Night Club as a “British Band.”

 

Now, here we are up on stage playing " DON'T LET ME BE MISUNDERSTOOD " .

How about THAT for an opening number!?

 

TBC...

 

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