One Summer night while at the Whiskey A-Go-Go on the Sunset strip in Hollywood, one of those events just so happened to take place. I was there with my friends band, Adult Theater, who was playing there later that night. I took some equipment over in my Vega station wagon and was helping them set up for their sound check. Nights like that one were always special to me. The Whiskey is such a legendary club and I remember countless nights waiting in line for hours to get in. So when I was able to be inside before anyone else and have a roadie pass, it was pretty cool. I drank for free, had access to the backstage area, got to be on stage. It was like a country fan standing under the lights of the Ryman. I was on sacred ground.
So I had finished setting up and was throwing a few beers back with the band. Around six they start letting the women in. They fill the place with as many females as possible first and then somewhere around nine they begin letting the guys filter in. It was hard being a guy in Hollywood back then. The women got in first, and never paid a cover. They never paid for drinks. They got backstage, got loaded and got rides home. Us guys had to fight and scrape for everything. We would come home broke, beat up and far from in one piece. I remember leaving the club one night to follow someone to an after party and was I so loaded that I side-swiped a parked car right in front of a cop. The officer never even bothered chasing me because he was too busy tending to another guy, who had slammed his Corvette into a light post and was blocking traffic. It was a different time to say the least. Three D.U.I’s in six months, all pleaded down to unsafe lane changes. No way that would happen today.
Anyway. While I was talking to my friend I notice two girls sitting at the corner of the bar. They were smiling at me and flirting. Now I wasn’t a stranger to such actions, but I certainly was to the rank in caliber. Now I always had a plan whenever I entered a club. I would seek out the best looking girl in the place and go up to them right away. Just walk right up to them with a shot in hand and a smile on my face. My theory was that even though nine times out of ten they would do the shot and tell ya to get lost, (They always did the shot), but every eye in the place would be on you while you did it. So every girl in the place would see that and take it as confidence, (or at the least think that I knew the girl, which was just as good), and therefore would feel complimented when you approached them. It wasn’t flawless, but it did work an awful lot.
So I walked up to these two women and started talking them. After a few minutes one got up to talk to someone else and I was left alone with this absolutely stunning Italian girl. She spoke quietly and not very good English. So I was constantly leaning in to hear her over the noise and the music. She told me that she had just recently moved to the states and was out with her model friend who was trying to get her work there in L.A. She had curly dark brown hair with blond high lights, green eyes,tan skin and was simply breath-taking. Why I had been talking to her for almost an hour and she had not tried to escape yet was beyond me. I had to question the motive.
She suggested that we get out of there and go to another club. I didn’t even think twice, I left with her, as well as the car which was supposed to carry home the bands equipment. We drove across town to the Viper room. I told her that there was no way we were getting in. The Viper was a private club not open to the public. But she said that she knew someone and sure enough, she did. We walked right through the front doors. Not even shuffled in through the rear entrance in some dark alley. But right in plain site.
As I walked through the place I recognized almost everyone. It was like a scene from a movie. I couldn’t believe I was actually there. We sat at a small table near the bar. Right next to me was Tom Araya and Mike Muir. Two of my favorite vocalist ever. This girl never broke her gaze from my eyes. She looked right at me the entire time. All these rock stars and movie stars around us, as well as two of the coolest guys ever right beside us, and she was only interested in me. I wondered if she thought I was someone else by any chance. I thought I might be in a dream, or at least a drug induced coma. Tom and Mike started talking to us. To Us! Okay her. When she got up to use the rest room they both asked me how the hell I got a girl like her. And I was not even insulted. Not in the slightest. I was thinking the same thing. For it seemed she was even out of their league. Who the hell was I but some gas station attendant from Orange county!
Around four or so in the morning I began trying everything I could to get this girl back to my place. Only my place was over two hours away. I just wanted her all to myself. She suggested we go to her cousins place in San Pedro. We could bring a bottle back there and relax. When we got back to his place it was a little strange. Her cousin was there and introduced himself to me, it was Scotti D who was the drummer for Pretty Boy Floyd at the time. He looked at me funny and said that he had company over but if we wanted to be alone we could use his sound room. So we went into this room which consisted of foam walls, a huge drum kit, and a couch. We sipped whiskey out of the bottle and ate nachos and talked on the couch until the sunrise. It was incredible. I fell deep. So deep that I didn’t even bother calling the band to see if they were ok, so deep that I never bothered calling work and making up some excuse as to why I wasn’t there. Pitch black core of the Earth Deep.
We walked down to the pier and watch the sun come up over the ocean. We laid on the sand and drank a warm bottle of champagne we found in the room. I was still in my ripped jeans and Slayer shirt. And then it hit me, I was in the Viper room wearing a Slayer shirt while sitting next to the singer for Slayer. What a tool. She was still in her white leather mini dress and heals. I wanted to stay with her on that beach forever. She told me that it was her mother’s birthday and she needed to get home and cleaned up to take her out to eat. But had no idea where she should take her. I said that I would go home and get cleaned up myself and take them both out to dinner. She agreed. I was afraid that if I slept that I would wake up and none of this would have been real.
I drove home in just under two hours. Showered, took the last four hundred dollars I had left out of the bank. Who needed to pay rent anyway. I threw a twelve back of bud cans in the passenger seat and drove off down highway one. I was going so fast that a cop pulled me over. I had a beer in my hand, no driver’s license, no registration and no insurance. A bag of weed in the glove compartment and a bong in the back seat. I tossed the beer under the seat as he approached the car. He asked for my licence and I told him that I had it been stolen out of my car just moments before while I was gassing up at the Seven Eleven. He asked me if I had been drinking. I told him just one. He asked me to get out of the car. Just as I did he got a call over his radio about an accident just up the road. He told me that it was my lucky day, to go somewhere and sober up, then got into his car and drove off. Indeed it was my lucky day.
I picked up her and her mother up around five. Her mom didn’t speak any English what so ever. I took them to Mid Evil Times in Anaheim. We drank, ate with our hands, watched knights joist in the arena. Afterwards I drove them back home to San Pedro. Broke, tired, unemployed and probably evicted. As I stood on her front porch looking into those beautiful green eyes a car pulled into the driveway. A very large Italian man rose from the driver’s seat. He had slicked back greasy hair and wore a three-piece pin striped suit with shiny wing tip shoes. There was a bulge just under the right side of his vest that I was sure was a gun. I asked who that was and she replied with absolutely no urgency what so ever…”My husband”.
There was no good-bye, no see ya later. Not even a handshake or a nod. Just a look on my face that said gone. I never saw anything else except my white L.A. Gear high tops in front of me, the steering wheel and the road ahead.
Half way home on PCH my engine blew. I stood out on that road on that breezy Sunday evening, thumb out, trying to catch a ride back to normalcy. I did lose my job that weekend, I did get evicted from my apartment as well. I was stuck riding a Schwinn for three months and my friend wouldn’t talk to me for six. But as I am sitting here today writing about that weekend twenty-four years later, and I can still remember her name, Silvana Callou, and I guess I can honestly say …it was worth it.