mangozeen: 1984

Showing posts with label 1984. Show all posts

Monday, July 6, 2026

Couvre-feu A Paris

The environs of Paris have been inhabited since 10000 BN ie Before Now.

The banks of the Seine have provided life to the last of the Neanderthals, the Cro-magnons, the Celts, the Romans, the Franks, and then for the French.

After conquering northern France Adolph Hitler's army declared a curfew and the City Of Light was dark from 9PM in the evening until 5AM.

No curfew was declared during the 1968 Uprising.

The Mitterand government hadn't needed to enforce a couvre-feu in the early-1980s.

No one had money.

Les Citoyen stayed at home after dark, but not us.

At night the city belonged to my friends and me.

Paris was our playground.

Fuck the CRS.

We owned the 1980s and then heroin and AIDS stole it all back for the rich and their heirs, until COVID hit Europe.

Two days ago the PM appeared on TV to announce a curfew with an end date.

A city without the sound of humanity like 10500 BN, but I had been there in 1982.

I have been in an empty Paris.

One person.

And they we were two.

Candida et moi in 1984

With her I knew the world was destined to dance again.

Not like Orwell's world, because love will always ignite the light.

Not not today.

But close.

Close is good enough for me.

A bas les premiere Estate.

And long live the light.

Thanks for your support. In order to avoid ads, please donate to blogger.com.mangozeen through Venmo. Any amount will help us. I do have a large family. My Venmo account is @Peter.Smith.18

Much more to come.

Saturday, February 7, 2026

WIN AT ANY COST by Peter Nolan Smith

In 1968 the Baltimore Colts entered Super Bowl III as 18-point favorites over the New York Jets. The NFL champions were led by Earl Morrall in place of Johnny Unitas, while the AFL underdogs were quarterbacked by the flashy Joe Namath and the Alabama native boasted in Miami, “We’re gonna win the game. I guarantee it.”

The Colts were infuriated by this brash statement and quashed the first drive by the Jets, however big games are won on injuries as much as luck and after the bruising fullback Matt Snell knocked out the Colts’ safety and the secondary was open by the deception of the injured Don Maynard, allowing George Sauer to score 2 TDs.

The NFL champs never really challenged the upstarts, as Unitas replaced Morrall, who had missed several opportunities to hit receivers in the end-zone. The legend fared no better against the Jets defense and the victory acted as a turbo-charged boost for the AFL, however the Jets never again competed in the Super Bowl.

Betters lost millions on that game. No one ever questioned the outcome. The Jets seemed to have simply outplayed the NFL juggernaut.

In 1984 I ran into Bubba Smith at the Deauville Film Festival. The Colt defensive lineman was in France to promote the film POLICE ACADEMY, while I was attending the event as a journalists for the French magazine ACTUEL.

After the screening most reporters were huddled around Steve Guttman, the star of the comedy. Bubba was off to the side. He wasn't on my list of interviewees, since ACTUEL was more interested in my speaking with Rock Hudson about acting with James Dean in GIANT.

That rendezvous wasn't until after tomorrow's screening of George Stevens' epic and I introduced myself to 6-7 280 pound ex-NFL All Star as a longtime admirer. His fearsome tackling at Michigan State had earned the enormous lineman the motto 'Kill Bubba Kill'. I half-expected him to crush my hand, but he smiled when I told him how much I liked his acting.

"Just playing myself."

Neither of us had anything scheduled for the afternoon and I suggested that we retire to the Bar of the Hotel Atlantique. It had a great view of the beach and the bar served great wine.

After ordering oysters and a chilled Chablis we spoke about his being in the film and his hopes to become an actor before moving onto football.

You ever play?"

"No, I ran track. Once jumped eighteen feet."

"Not bad."

"I'm a Patriots fan."

"Tough luck."

"yeah, tell me about it."

Last year the Patriots went 8 and 8 last year. The Baltimore Colts beat them twice. Both games were close, but I was more interested in the past and I asked Bubba how it was to play with Johnny Unitas. He said great without any reservation, but I was dodging the real question.

After our second bottle of wine Bubba said, "Go ahead."

"Go ahead what?"

"Go ahead and ask the question."

Bubba was a big man. The Colts had won Super Bowl V. I took a breath and said, "You won Super Bowl V, but you don't wear tat ring."

"Nope. I won't wear that one, because we lost against the Jets in Super Bowl III." His Texas drawl was more pronounced and I deepened by Boston accent, asking, “The Colts were such a favorite in Super Bowl 3, how did you lose to the Jets?”

“They got to the quarterback,” Bubba answered without caring who heard that accusation.

Not that it mattered.

Most everyone in the bar was French. None of them had ever heard about Joe Namath's boast about winning against the Colts. They were frogs and they worshiped soccer. Not football.

“The game was fixed?”

A shrug indicated that the answer was mine to decide and I remembered Unitas throwing the ball to the Jets defender and Morall’s three interceptions.

“Who fixed the game?”

It was a stupid question undeserving of an answer and Bubba stood away from the table.

"Excuse me. I gotta get back to work." Bubba Smith went over to watch Michael Winslow delight the reporters with his imitations of a helicopter. I laughed at him too.

"No worries. Best wishes with your movies."

"Thanks."

A few of the froggies gawked at him exiting from the restaurant. They had never seen a man or woman that huge.

The retired footballer avoided me the rest of the festival, especially after spotting me dining with Rock Hudson.

Back in Paris I didn’t mention Bubba's confession to the editorial staff of the magazine Actuel. None of them were interested in a rumor about a football game in 1969, plus the editors were having trouble with my article with Rock Hudson. My typing was atrocious.

While I've never seen a replay of Super Bowl III, I have mentioned Bubba Smith's statement to several bookie friend, who have mumbled under their breath about how the Mob had threatened the lives of Earl Morrall’s and Unitas’ families.

It made sense, especially considering Broadway Joe Namath's claim.

“We’re gonna win the game. I guarantee it.”

Joe Namath's words were carved in stone thanks to strong-arm gangsters. Neither league complained about the fix, since the win saved the AFL from extinction. Everyone made more money. Even the Colts, however these days games are never fixed by players. They make too money.

Refs on the other hand control the game from start to finish.

Not that I'm pointing any fingers.

In truth I don't know nothing and I'm happy that way.

Knowing even less would only make me happier.

ps Anita Bryant sang the National Anthem in 1969 whose later anti-gay campaign was immortalized by David Allan Coe’s 1978 song “Fuck Anita Bryant”.

Friday, December 26, 2025

Naked Fight A Paris 1985

On a Friday morning in January 1985 an Air France flight from Los Angeles landed on time at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Sharon and Amber exited from the 747 and proceeded through the terminal to pick up their luggage. Four big bags packed with exotic dancing costumes.

Male and female travelers stared at the slim brunette in tight leather and the buxom blonde tomboy dressed in North Hollywood erotica, then again men stared at them everywhere. No surprise. They were world famous XXX starlets. The two had been invited to shoot several adult films by a Paris porno production company and also educate the French male porn stars how to speak English. Basically Fuck Language 101.

A young man from the production company greeted them outside of the customs and led them to a Renault limo. He placed their bags in the trunk and introd his name was Rene. Sharon and Amber laughed at how he said his name. So very French. They slipped into the back and he sat up front with a surly unshaven driver. Both women smelled that the driver had not bathed today and maybe not this week or month.

"You are so French." Sharon almost expected them to be wearing a berets. The slender brunette had never been to France , but she had been born in Italy where her mother gave her up to adoption to a Catholic Family in New Jersey.

She always said that explained why she have become a porno actress. Her blonde buxom companion had different reasons. Amber came from Orange County California. The closest Amber had ever been to France was at Disneyland's IT'S A SMALL WORLD in Anaheim. Out the window was country flat farmland plowed brown dirt as far as the eye could see and not a single American car was on the highway.

“Rene, I wish you were wearing a beret, so I thought you were French.”

"I am French, but not that French." Rene smiled from the front passenger seat.

"Are you an actor?" Amber hoped he was in the movies, because most of the men she had seen in French XXX films were hairy cavemen. Rene was young and cute.

"No, I work in production, but I'm your daytime guide to Paris."

"What do you do at night?" asked Sharon.

She was already fantasizing about a menage a trois between the three of them. She had learned that phrase for two women and men in bed from her cousin Sean, who lived in Paris and presently worked at a nightclub called La Balajo.

"No, I work in production, but I'm here to be your daytime guide to Paris."

"What do you do at night?" asked Sharon. She was already fantasizing about a menage a trois between the three of them. She had learned that phrase for two women and men in bed from her cousin Pete, who was living in Paris and presently worked at a nightclub called La Balajo.

"I go out sometimes."

"My cousin Pete works at the Balajo and a couple of other clubs."

"Monday night. I know the club.”

In 1982 Sean had fled New York to avoid an Internal Affairs and FBI investigation into the Continental Club, a notorious after-hours haunt in West Chelsea. He hadn't been back for three years, except for the holidays. They had been fuck-buddies since 1978. .

"You talk about him all the time. You don't sound like cousins." Amber smirked having heard about their sexual exploits in New York.

"Oh we're cousins all right." They weren't really cousins but saying that they were saved time from explaining how they met at The Nursery, a sordid after-hours Club on 3rd Avenue in the East Village. Lovers ever since.

"He lives on Ile St. Louis."

“That address is very chic. In the middle of Paris, an island in the Seine." Rene lifted his eyebrow, impressed by her cousin.

"Funny, Pete lived in a slum in New York. So did I. These Village was a great place for the young and restless."

"Still is," added Amber, who had a couple of rock and roll boyfriends on the Lower East Side. New York was an always a fun town for her whenever she was dancing at Show World in Times Square. It was not Los Angeles and as they entered the Paris suburbs, she was sure that Paris was in Los Angeles either or even California or anywhere in the United States. "I'm looking to have a good time here. Are you single?"

"No, I have a girlfriend, but she likes to how you say swing with girls."

"With girls like us?” asked Sharon.

"Oui, with girls like you."

"I knew I would love Paris." She had been dreaming of this trip since the phone call from Paris in December. She had called Pete. He had promised to be a good guide and they both knew what that meant as did Amber.

The limousine drop them at a small hotel in La Marais, the Jewish quarter by the Seine. Pete had suggested the hotel. He lived on an island in the Seine not faraway. Rene unloaded the bags. The proprietor was a sweet Jewish woman, who laughed to see them.

"Tu es la cousine de Peter."

Sharon roughly translated what she said to understand that she was a cousin of Peter. She knew that he had been a guest here many times and the old woman must have loved him. Everyone loved Pete, except for those who did not love him. He was only trouble he to himself, but he was able to survive that danger. He was the luckiest man Sharon knew.

Madame Gruntuch lead them up to the top floor, a duplex with a large king bed and its windows overlooking rooftops with Notre Dame in the near distance. There was no phone and Rene translated to the owner had said they could call him downstairs and she will take your messages. He pointed to a business card on the bed table. The old woman left wishing them good luck.

"This isn't far from where your cousin lives." Rene dropped their bags, looking completely exhausted. He gave them a stack of Francs and said, "This is for you to get comfortable. You must be exhausted after your long flight. I have work to do, but I know my boss, Jacques wants to meet you at 5:00 over in St. Germain. Le Deux Magots. It's a famous cafe. I'm sure your cousin will know where it is."

"Not at all. We're ready to rock. I'll call my cousin. He's waiting for us. He'll be our guide." Rene seemed to relieved by this news and wrote down his phone number.

“I have work to do, but I know my boss, Jacques wants to meet you at 5:00 over in St. Germain. Le Deux Magots. It's a famous cafe. I'm sure your cousin will know where it is."

Rene left and the two women were alone for the first time since they entered the LAX terminal. They had made love in the jet's water closet over the Atlantic, just to claim another flight for the mile-high club.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a shower." Sharon stripped off her clothing

"Together?" Amber unbuttoned her shirts, baring her small breasts.

"Of course." Sharon and Amber were free. They were on the frontline of the Sexual Revolution . Sex was their gift to the world.

Any plans to do a morning tour of Paris ended after the shower the two fell into bed cuddled and fell asleep, despite Sharon's snoring. It was good to be in Paris.

The two woke to the rain at 10:01. All the rooftops were grey and wet from the rain. There was no threat of sunlight. Sharon got out of bed and padded across the cold wooden floor to the window. Down below the Narrow Street was empty. The Twin Towers of Notre Dame for shrouded by the downpour she turned to Amber and asked, "Did you bring any rain gear?"

"We live in LA. Why would we have rain gear?"

"Because we're in Paris and I remember my cousin saying to bring wet weather gear."

"And did you?"

"I brought flip-flops, but it's not flip flop weather out there. We're going to need an umbrellas and raincoats and maybe even boots."

Amber slipped out of bed and joined Sharon at the window. Both of them were shivering in their nakedness. She had been brought up in New Jersey. This cold was not like that damp cold. She felt it in her bones.

"I was not born to be in weather like this." Amber had seen rain like this in California during monsoon season and she hated that time. Nothing was ever dry.

"Don't worry I'll keep you warm."

The two returned to bed and pulled up the duvet over their naked bodies. Sharon looked at her watch and realize it was still on LA time. The only time she knew it was was daytime.

"You stay in bed I'll go get umbrellas and raincoats. Maybe Madam Grinch will bring us up some breakfast when I come back."

"Some good news finally."

Sharon dressed quickly in a warm-up suit and a leather jacket. Her only boots were leather thigh high stiletto heels. All her other Footwear were sneakers and sandal. Kissing Amber she left the hotel room and walk down the stairs to the front desk. Madam Grand took was there and smiled to see her guest. The old woman glance at the clock. It was ten to 11. She handed Sharon an umbrella and a note. It was from her cousin. He had left his telephone number and address, plus where he worked, the Balajo on Rue de Lappe. Madam Grintuch informed her where to buy raincoat and shoes on the nearby boulevard.

"Merci." the only other words she knew in French were Bonjour and Bon nuit.

Sharon stepped out onto the sidewalk the rain wasn't as heavy. She unfurled the umbrella and walk down Rue des Ecouffes to a broad boulevard. A pretty young woman pased by and regarded her with a disapproving scowl and Sharon wondered if her color blindness had cursed her with a crazy quilt of red yellows and purples. Her reflection in a pane of glass revealed nothing and she hurried down the street. The store was where Madame Gruntuch said it was. After telling the keeper that she wanted to look like Paris, she stripped out of her clothing and tried on a simple yet short gray skirt and a tight black sweater. Her outfit was completed with leather gloves, black raincoats, and shoes as well as two berets. THe other red for Amber who like bright colors. The shop lady approved of the change-over and said in broken English, "Now you are a Parisian."

Back out in the boulevard Sharon started to hurry back to the hotel. She felt warmer and the boots She spotted a cute cafe with an awning. The middle-aged woman behind the bar waved for her to come inside. Sharon nodded, but sat outside under the awning. No one else was sitting outside. Sharon wanted to see Paris in the rain in order to a cafe and a cognac. They came fast and she admired her reflection in the window. She looked very European, as she should having been born in Napoli far to the South. Here's world in Her Eyes. This is my continent my country is to the South i'm back home. Where I belonged. Sharon picked up a a napkin buried her face in the white cloth. The older woman came out and asked if everything was okay. Sharon nodded and said, "It's a long time since I've been in Europe. I'm happy to be home."

An hour later Madame Gruntuch clucked her approacl at the newe look and handed over the telephone, dialing her cousin's number, then passed the receiver. He was happy to hear that she had gotten rain gear and said he was coming over to give them a tour of the Left Bank whatever that was. Sharon went upstairs, followed by Madame Gruntuch with the breakfast tray.

Amber look like a movie star dressed in a pink and black catsuit high black boots and a leather jacket. Madam Grand took a remark how she was 'si belle'. Of course she was beautiful she was only 20 years old. The two of them ate the long stick of bread with butter and jam and drank the strong coffee with hot milk and plenty of sugar. The two of them hadn't done any cocaine since leaving LA. They had partially agreed to this trip to get away from the drug scene in Hollywood in the Valley. Drugs were everywhere in the porno industry in in Sharon suspected it was the same here in Paris.

"Does your cousin speak any French?"

"Yes, he says he learned it from the English subtitles of movies and his girlfriends, who he calls them the sleeping dictionaries and sleeping with someone was the best way to learn a language."

"Maybe he can teach me some French, while we're here. You're not possessive, are you?

"He's he's my cousin. Not my boyfriend. Thank goodness."

"Nothing worse than boyfriends."

Amber was lucky with Jamie, a veteran XXX actor. He was crazy sexually. More a boyfiend than a boyfriend, but Paris wasn't LA and they were free to be with whomever they wanted to be.

A knock on the door announced her cousin's arrival. Pete was dressed in black leather gloves jacket boots with a Black Beret. No umbrella. He never liked them. Amber stood across the room to kiss him on the lips and pressing her body against his, as if she didn't want to see Paris. He kissed her back for more than a second. The attraction was Mutual.

"Normally I'd say go get a Hotel, but we're in a hotel." Sharon wanted them both. He looked at the brunette and understood her desire but said, "Let's go see Paris."

Her cousin led them out into the rain. Amber also got a raincoat and sensible shoes. Sensible but sexy. They crossed the Seine onto Ile St. Louis. He pointed out his apartment and said ancient wooden beams cross the ceiling. Quasimodo could have lived there.

Amber look puzzled and Sharon said "The hunchback of Notre Dame."

"Which which is first on the list."

Both Sharon and Amber happy to have umbrellas and dry feet. They swiftly toward the gothic Cathedral, Pete pointing out the various Saints in the multi-colored stained glass windows. Patrick's in New York was magnificent, but Notre Dame was Heaven on Earth for Catholics. Above the choir with a small black statue.

"Black Michael, the archangel. He defeated Satan. Across the river is another greater statue let's let's like candles for our sins and we'll go there next."

Once more across the Seine in a light drizzle. None of this look like la or the valley or Malibu. There was no sun. Just a million Shades of Gray. He led them into a bookstore ancient smelling of old paper. Shakespeare and Company. He nodded to the clerks pretty girls, and walk to a small bookshelf.

"This is where they hide all the old porno. Great books from the 50s and 60s some even older. We can look at them and even take them if we want. No one thinks anybody would steal these books. These books are the first ones to teach me about sex. Here. The Itch. A classic by Stephen Hammer covering all of the major sexual deviations. Especially love Page 83."

Peter read that page to them both Amber and Sharon rubbed against both sides of his hips. The brunette bit her pouting lower lip. The XXX director of Personal Touch 3 had tutored her on that look She had been nineteen. All men loved it, but Peter's cousin kept reading the stroke book, as if it were the Bible. She wanted a line. nothing about this moldy bookstore said drugs and she said, "Lets get a drink."

"I know just the place.

Wednesday, December 24, 2025

CROSSING THE CHANNEL 1984

I had moved away from Boston in 1971, but every Christmas of my adult life had been spent with my family on the South Shore. This streak of thirty-three years was broken in 1985, when n art dealer invited a female French singer and me to his cottage on the Isle of Wight for the holiday.

I phoned my mother to break the news on December 23.

“Oh, really.” The hurt was audible over the trans-Atlantic static. “This will be the first one you’re not home.”

“I know, but I will be flying to Boston on the 26th.” Our club in Paris was closed until after the New Year. My bosses had given me a good bonus. We were more friends than co-workers.

“Where are you going for Christmas?” My mother was worried about her second son. The rest of my brothers and sisters lived within ten miles of our parents.

“The Isle of Wight.”

“Didn’t Queen Victoria have a palace there?” My mother was extraordinarily well read and I had inherited that love. My father liked to travel. I was his son too.

“Yes, and I’m staying at a cottage on the grounds of the former royal residence.”

“Osbourne House.” My mother had a bear trap of a memory for details.

“Yes.” Victoria had lived in Osbourne House with Prince Albert, from where she had ruled the vast British empire. The Italian palazzo was visible from the windows of the cottage.

“Sounds very grand.” My mother had loved visiting the big cottages of Newport, Rhode Island and robber-barons' mansions along the Hudson River. She breathed the history with her senses. “Supposedly when her husband died, the Empress went into mourning at a pavilion on the beach.”

“That’s what I heard too.” I refrained from mentioning that the empire had languished without her participation in its day-to-day governing. Finally Her Majesty’s ministers approached the Scottish gillie, John Brown, to bring Her Majesty out of her grief.

My mother offered no knowledge about the rumors of the Queen’s affair with a common huntsman. Sex was for procreation. She had six children. Queen Victoria had had nine.

“After her death it became a convalescent home for navy officers. They still walk around the grounds.”

“That is so fabulous.”

“I suppose it is.”

“I love you and we’ll spent our Christmas together a day later. They will be plenty of left-overs.” She was succeeding in seeding guilt into my heart.

“I’ll see you on the 26th.” I fought off the urge to take a taxi to Charles De Gaulle Aeroport. There were direct flights to Boston, but the beantown had not been my home for a long time.

I hung up the phone and called the singer.

The singer and I had met at an after-hours club in Lower Manhattan. Her friends were starting a fight in the decorated loft. I was security. Stopping them was a matter of a single punch and bum-rushing them out of the club. Lizzie liked telling her friends about that incident. She really was a punk

We had been having an affair for the past month. Neither of us pretended that we were serious about our time together. She and I were free spirits. Our paths met and joined in many cities. Paris was just one of them.

“I’m ready to go.”

“No more mama and papa.” The petite brunette had a vicious streak tempered by an adoration for danger. She had been the first punk in France and she had scored a # 1 hit in 1984. I had bought her a bottle of Chanel # 5.

“For Christmas." I mentioned the flight leaving Heathrow on the 26th.

“And how do I get back to France?” It was a good question.

“Vonelli will take you back.” It was my only option.

“And is he a gentleman like you who abandon helpless women in a foreign country filled with beef eaters.” She had never met the bearded Floridian.

“Much more of a gentleman than me.” .

“We will see.” The singer could take care of herself. She had lived in the Lower East Side in 1975

"Meet me at the station.” The train left from Gare St. Lazare at 4:45pm. The station was across the Seine from my apartment on Ile St. Louis.

I showed up at the train terminal a good half hour before departure. The holiday queues at the ticket booths were breaking down into mobs. I spotted Vonelli at a news kiosk. He was looked smitten by prosperity in his tan cashmere coat and his beard had been trimmed to a respectable length.

“Where is she?” Vonelli had our tickets. The art dealer was excited to meet the singer. He liked beautiful women.

“Women are always late.” I planned on any female companion to be at least thirty minutes behind schedule. “But not my friend.”

The singer was running through the crowds of homeward-bound travelers to Normandy. A cigarette hung from her mouth. Her unruly hair was wrapped under a scarf. A heavy coat hid her petite body. Doc Martens shielded her feet from the cold. She lifted her head to acknowledge seeing us. A shroud of tangled hair fell onto her face. Her gloved hand pushed away the matted strands and the singer kissed me on the lips and then pecked Vonelli on both cheeks. Other passengers stared at her. She was famous.

“Let’s get on the train before I have to sign an autograph.” The singer dropped her cigarette on the ground. Her left boot extinguished the embers of the discarded butt. She had studied ballet in Lyons and that the gracefulness of that training showed with her most insignificant gestures.

“I saw you sing on TV.” Vonelli offered to carry her bag. It was twice the size of mine and the singer liked to travel with thick books of philosophy. The art dealer grunted , as he hauled the heavily laden bag over his shoulder.

“French pop stars never sing on TV. We lip-synch the words. It’s good for our voices.”

The Paris-born singer handed her bag to Vonelli and lit a cigarette. She was a heavy smoker and her naked skin smelled of tobacco. The Gitanes were hell on her throat and she made no effort to stop. “But I am on holiday and we are taking a big boat. So no more talking about music.”

The three of us boarded the train and Vonelli had commandeered a 1st Class compartment. The singer was very pleased with his arrangements and I noticed the warmth in her smile. The same glow had greeted me the first time that she had seen me in Paris. I thought about whether I should be jealous, then decided that Vonelli and the singer made a good couple.

The train pulled out of Gare St. Lazare on time. The French were very German that way. We were comfortable in our compartment. It was cold outside. Tomorrow would be Christmas.

“Here’s to Noel.” Vonelli poured champagne into three glasses. The bearded art dealer had come prepared for the journey. We ate foie gras on crispy baguettes, as the train rocked on the rails through the night. Vonelli amused us with humorous tales of sales at the Hotel Drouot auction house.

“They have their own Mafia. The cols rouge in the black uniforms with red trim come from the same region of the Alps and nothing gets shipped or stored at the Drouot without their okay. This morning one of them said that he couldn’t transport a painting to London, because it was in violation of Christian holiday traditions. 200 francs converted him to atheism.”

Vonelli fawned on the singer and she adored his manners.

“You know how I met your friend?” She pointed at me.

“I stopped her friends from having a fight at an after-hour club.” I hated people bringing up my past as a bouncer. In Paris I was deemed a physionomiste for my talent to recognize faces as much as my ability to decipher if the person was a welcome addition to the melange of personalities within the club. It was not a skill learned in schools.

“You stopped them and then threw me down the stairs.”

“I didn’t throw you down the stairs.” I couldn’t remember the particulars of that night.

“Yes, you did, but I forgave you.”

Vonelli shook his head.

“Bad boy, but that’s why we like you.”

I sulked in my seat for several minutes. The singer sat at my side and admonished me in baby language.

"You want everyone to love you like your momma loved you, but only one woman can do that."

Vonelli thought that she was very funny and I had to admit that she owned a biting wit. My anger dissipated with another glass of champagne. Snow drifted against the windows. The darkened landscape was covered with white. It was beginning to look like Christmas.

At le Havre Vonelli steered us out of the station. The city had been heavily damaged during the Battle of Normandy and he joked about how the church’s Belgian architect was awarded a medal from his government for his masterful uglification, “Le Havre is the most dreary city in France. Think grey and grim. Concrete and more concrete and no building in the city has more concrete than the Eglise of St. Joseph.”

“But even this city has some charm.”

We ate dinner at a fantastic fish restaurant. Several diners asked Lizzie for autographs. The singer was in a better mood than Gare St. Lazare. She even posed for photos with her fans. Vonelli and the singer engaged in a conversation about Sartre. They ignored my comment about his collaborating with the Nazis. I was becoming the third wheel.

It was a short walk to the ferry.

We boarded the ship. So far neither the singer nor I had put our hands in our pockets. The three of us rendezvoused at the stern railing and watched the ferry slip from the harbor.

“Fuck you, France.” The singer gave her native land the finger.

“Its better than America.”

“But not New York.” The singer had been introduced to the scene at CBGBs by a legendary singer of a punk band. Forkhead had shown her his world. In 1975 the East village was the only place to be in the world for people like us. I got there one year later.

“New York is special.” The veterans at Max’s considered me a late-comer. My pinball play won friends at CBGBs, but no one ever called me ‘Tommy’. I was just me.

“I want to wash up. I’ll meet at the bar.” Vonelli returned to his suite. It was a double.

I stood with both hands on the railing. The singer leaned into me. The ship’s wake glowed with froth and the stars shimmered with increasing numbers, as the ferry left the light of land. Its prow cut through increasingly larger waves. The singer gripped the railing and leaned over to kiss me. I put my arm around her and we walked back inside.

“Your friend is very generous.” The singer shucked her heavy clothing in the cabin and entered the shower room. It was too small for two people, but she left the door open. The ferry was pitching from bow to stern in heavy seas. Tonight’s crossing promised to be a rough one.

“I guess he had a good year at the Drouot.” I had the feeling that his extravagance was aimed at impressing the frail-boned brunette.

“He seems like a nice man.” Her voice was sappy with dreams.

“He is a good friend.”

The singer and I had been on a train to nowhere with our affair. It had just pulled into the station and I was getting off. The singer had a new destination and I asked, “Do you like him?”

“He’s cute.” She lathed her body with soap. It was a show with one purpose.

“Really?” No one had called me cute since I was a kid.

“Almost like a Santa Claus in training.” The singer was my age, but looked much younger in our cabin's dim lighting.

“It must be the beard.”

I reminded myself that she was in my cabin this evening and not his. I took off my clothes and staggered into shower. It was big enough, if you stood close.

Thirty minutes later we went to Vonelli’s cabin. We drank a bottle of wine holding onto the table to stay in the chairs. They had been screwed into the deck for just such weather. This was the Channel. The Spanish Armada had been destroyed by this stretch of water and I was beginning to understand why.

“I suggest that we skip dinner in this weather. Always better for the stomach.”

The singer and I concurred with his suggestion. The uneven motions of up-down-sideways-back was testing my constitution and I put down my glass without finishing the wine. This was going to be a long night.

Vonelli suggested that we visit the midship casino.

I hadn’t gambled since losing big time at Reno in 1974, but we sat at the blackjack table together. Two other players greeted us with green faces. The crossing was not agreeing with their stomachs. The dealer wasn’t much better and our first five hands were winners. The slick-haired pit boss replaced her and succeeded in cooling the table.

Vonelli and the singer were more interested in each other than the cards in their hands. Their inattention gave the pit boss an edge and the odds of the house shifted against the six people at the table. The balance shifted a minute later, as the power of the sea overcame the inescapable grind of blackjack.

Casinos are constantly on the watch for card-counters, but my mind was calculating the time between troughs. The ship rode down one wave and struggled up another for the same length of time. The spray covered the windows with foam, almost as if the ferry was a half-submerged submarine.

The rhythm of the waves stretched into an extra long descent to the bottom of a nautical chasm and the deck shuddered, as the ferry’s engines fought to climb the steepening slope of a ship-crushing wave. Everyone’s eyes went wide and the bow cleared the crest and the ferry dropped into the next trough in a free fall. I grabbed my stack of chips before floating out of my seat. My head grazed the ceiling and then I fell right back into my chair. Vonelli and the singer were also lucky, but the pit boss landed on the table.

“I think it’s time to call it a night.” The pit boss was visibly shaken by his flight. The rest of us nodded assent to his suggestion. “Go to your cabin and we’ll cash you out in the morning.”

He shouted to close the casino and ordered the passengers to their cabins.

“Sorry about this.” Vonelli helped the singer to the door. He had wanted everything to be perfect. We separated to enter our rooms. For a second the singer seemed ready to go with him and if this had been a voyage from Southampton to New York instead of Le Havre to Southampton, then tomorrow night she would have made the move.

“See you two in the morning.”

The singer stripped off her clothing and slipped into bed.

“You like Vonelli?” I asked lying next to her. I hadn’t bothered to take off my clothes. If the ship sank, I wanted to be ready to abandon ship.

“Yes.” This question only needed a one syllable answer.

“I mean more than like.”

“Yes.” At least the singer was honest.

“Then I wish you luck.” Vonelli was a complicated man, then again men are much more simple than women.

“You do?” Her surprise was tempered by relief. No one liked a nasty ending.

“It’s obvious that you two like each other in a way that we would never come close to.”

“It is?”

“I think so. Remember I’m a professional physionomiste.” I could divine everyone’s future, but mine. I caressed her shoulder without daring to touch a more intimate stretch of flesh. This was it. “I’m happy for you. For you both.”

The ferry shuddered with a wave slapping the port-side.

“You think this ship will survive.” She was frightened by the ocean.

“Ships make this trip all the time. They are built for La Manche. Everything will be fine. Go to sleep.”

It was easier sad than done, but after two hours the sea surrendered its fury and the ferry resumed a gentle course to England. The singer kissed me on the cheek and went to sleep. I followed her within seconds. We woke with the announcement that the ferry would soon be docking in Southampton.

“How you sleep?” Vonelli was waiting at the railing. The low coastline lingered under a low grey overcast. We were approaching England.

“Good once the storm ended.” The singer stood between us, although a little closer to Vonelli. She made her choice. I watched the ferry about Southampton at half-speed. The captain had brought his ship to safety. Tonight was Christmas Eve. The day after was Christmas. I would fly home on Boxing Day. My mother would love the Chanel # 5. It was just her style and like all men I loved left-overs.

Wednesday, December 10, 2025

December 10, 1984 - Journal - Paris

I'm totally wiped out after a week of drinking around Paris. After a last gin-tonic with Claude Aurenson, the manager of the famed nightclub, I walked from Le Privilege to the Hotel Louisiana on Rue de Seine well past midnight oblivious to the few other staggering pietons or pedestrians. No tourists out that late. Only my fellow boure or dead drunk wastrels. I love the French language. Charger la mule or overload the mule. So poetic. I took the key to room 301 overlooking the dormant market. I didn't look out the window, but later heard the grocers setting up their stalls for the not too distant morning. Sleep drove me past the dawn.

I woke to discover that I had lost a leather glove. Not both. Just one. Also my silver Cross pen, a gift from my father. My new Agnes B shirt bore grease stain revealing that I had eaten a crepe from the crepe stand at the corner of Rue Montmatre and the Grand Boulevard. Not the first time. The woman at the dry cleaner or nettoyer à sec will shake her head. Same as always. I go back to sleep. It's Monday night. The Balajo will open at 9. Later on I'll leave early to take the vapours at Saint-Paul Hammam on Rue Des Rosiers in the Jewish Quarter. Nothing like a steam to exorcise Demon Rhum from your blood.

Friday, February 21, 2025

Delusional Deja Vu - Le Abbee of Saint Michel de Cuxa

In 1988 I spent the summer in Perpignan, France. My good friend, Olivier Brial, arranged my stay with his cousin, Jacques Vial. The family house on the Quai Nicolas Sidi Carnot was in the center of the old Catalan city. The River Basse coursed past the fourth-story mansion east to the sea in Olivier's parents were out on Carnet-Plage, a middle-class beach resort. Nothing special and certainly not the Riviera. Still it was free accommodations and the house was the office for the Vial law firm and every day we gathered a hearty lunch and then sprawled throughout the first floor on the sofas and chairs. Everyone had their favorites.

It was a quiet city that summer.

Everyone was at the beach or on holiday. I was writing a short story collection set in the East Village 1978-1980. I took the train the Colliure on the border of Spain. The Mediterranean waters were warmer than the Rockaways and the rocky beach more pleasant than the wide commercial strand of Carnet Plage. I still went there by bus. It was close and Madam Brial always was happy to see me.

At night I wandered through Perpignan. I never found any place to drink. Not in the Gitane quartier of St. Jacques or next to the Caserne Joffre, the Foreign Legion barracks. I was 36. The age limit was 40. I was never tempted to join, even though the Legion offers a place to sleep, a uniform, and food without any questions. I was no longer in hiding.

Thankfully Jacques invited me on two day trips to Barcelona. Lunch with Catalan business associates and stopping in Cadaques to play blackjack at Le Perlata. I never really won or lost. The Vial family owned casinos on the Core de Rousillion, but his one-armed uncle banned all family members from visiting them.

"No one wins at gambling," he told us at a family dinner outside town. Oliver and his redheaded Californian girlfriend Cindy came down from Paris with another friend. It was a good weekend. After they left, I felt stranded. At least it wasn't Lille.

One Friday after lunch Jacques led me outside and said he had to ask me a favor.

"Anything."

At least until I heard the request.

"Tonight my wife wants me to attend a chamber music concert up in the Pyrenees at an ancient monastery. Le Abbee of Saint Michel de Cuxa. Part of he Pablo Casals Festival. After the Civil War in Spain the cellist found refuge in Prades. He hadn't play again in public until 1950."

"Fourteen years."

I had heard his LPs in high school." Franco had seized control in 1936.

"They'll be playing Bach Bourrée tonight."

As a revolutionary these quartet concerts sounded like a musical reprise accompanying the ablutions of ancien regime.

"Normally not, but anything attached to him is a go." Pablo Casals was a genius and a revolutionary.

"Please, just come. They'll be playing Bach concertos tonight I'll being a great bottle of wine. plus you'll get into the mountains. I'll drive and you can sit in the front. The women will behind us and we'll roll with the windows open

"Who's the woman?"

A friend of my wife."

"This better not be a blind date."

He didn't understand that expression and I explained its meaning.

"Une rendez-vous à l'aveugle. Would I do that to you?"

I wasn't sure, but he had been a good friend this summer and agree to accompany them.

How bad could it be?"

We met at the cafe in the center of town. Olivier's sister ran the bar. I fortified myself for the ordeal with two Calvas.

"So you are going with Jacques?" Marion's voice confessed that she had refused his offer.

"Yes, he's picking me up shortly."

"Bonne chance."

Jacques arrived on time. I downed by third Calva and ran out to the Peugot 505. His wife and the other woman sat in back. She was my age. Attractive and I politely introduced myself. I was new blood in an old town. Her name was Sylvie. She was blonde and wore a wedding ring. She told me that she didn't speak any English." "D'accord. On parle en Francais." I had taken two years of the language in grammar school. It was my second second language after Latin.

Jacques drove west into the mountains. D615 to D66 folliwing Tet river. Numerous dry riverbeds scored the valleys into the Lac de Vinca, a large reservoir. The women spoke in the back. Jacques and I smoked cigarettes with the windows open. It was a beautiful evening and even more sout turning off onto the D27 leading to Le Abbee of Saint Michel de Cuxa. The peak of Canigo rose to over 9000 feet. Higher than any mountain in New England. The smell of pine forests.

"C'est tres belle ici." I was content to have come.

Sylvie smiled back. Conversation was unnecessary with the windows open. It was turning into a pleasant evening, until the monastery hoved into view and I gasped.

Sylvie asked what was wrong and I explained in bad French that I had been here before and that I have seen this place before."

"Vous etes de New York?"

I explained I lived there and she laughed saying in good English, "You have not been here before, but one of your millionaires, John D. Rockefeller bought and transported half of the monastery and a good deal of its art to the tip of Manhattan."

"The Cloisters."

Sylvie explained my mistaken deja vu to the Vials. We had a good laugh. The evening was better than expected. A young woman performed Bach Suite #1. We later drank a good bottle of Cote de Rousillon at the Les Halles du Conflent. Sylvie was fun. A good time for all.

Yesterday I traveled on the A train from Clinton Hill in the freezing cold to visit Professor Bertell Ollman in the far north of Manhattan. West 190th Street. Only 55 minutes. The elevator ascended to street level. I strolled across the Bernard Baruch park. Below the Hudson filled the fiord. No snow in sight, but the temperature was 21 and windy. I walked into Fort Tyron Park. Alone, except for a dog walker. The Cloister tower was far away. I had only been here twice. Once in 1980 a friend and I had walked from the East village to here. The hike took a little over two hours. Today I was satisfied to view the medieval monastery from the Linden Terrace. I tried to recall the taste of wine and the music. I heard Miles Davis' KIND OF BLUE instead. I shivered for a few minutes and walked back to see the Professor. He was in good shape and happy to see me. I told him of seeing the Cloisters twin a long time ago back when wew not so much young, but not as old as now. I showed him a photo of both places."

"They do look alike."

They still do and I only say that shit about chamber music to bug pseudo-intellectual. I never play it in the bathroom, then again I'm not royalty. SA for Perpignan and my family there. One day I will go. And this dream is always deja vu.

Saturday, December 28, 2024

MAIS OU SONT PASSES LES GAZELLES Lizzy Mercier Descloux

From 2012

Lizzie Mercier Descloux pioneered world music with her 1984 "Mais où Sont Passées les Gazelles ?" ('But where have the gazelles gone?') base on her travels in Soweto. The punkette was a good friend and we miss her always.

To hear MAIS OU SONT PASSES LES GAZELLES please go to the following URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0mVxwhw00k

Saturday, November 4, 2023

Autumn en Ile St. Louis

November Paris 1984
Early morning
Cold wet rain
On Rue des Deux Ponts
On Ile St. Louis in Paris

A gray morning
Comme chaque autumn
Sur le Rue Des Deux Ponts
Kicking leaves into the gutter
Heading to the corner cafe
With my mistress' Scottie in tow
Angus
Sniff sniff sniff
For the scents of dogs.

Arrive at the Cafe Louis IX
Push the door open
Angus I enter.

Inside thick with Gitane smoke
Three workers a le bar
There
Chaque matin comme moi et Angus

On their third Calvados
A nod
A nod back.
Another nod to the barman.
Henri serves a cafe, croissant, et Calva.

Rain outside
Angus rests his head
On my boots
The floor smell of Gitane cigarette ash.
Tobacco and other men's boots.
Outside
Cold wet rain
No hurry in none of us
Except Angus
Eager to press his nostrils
To the gutter
To treasure the bouquet of dogs.

Pas encore
A nod to Henri
Un'autre Calva
Si vous plait.
The three workers nod approval.
We have never spoken a word.
Just that nod.
We all believe in Sloth.
Especially with the autumn rain
Sweeping the Rue des Deux-Ponts
Paris
Autumn
1984
Une bonne matin
Le pluie
Angus and me
Ile St. Louis.

Sunday, February 6, 2022

NOT A CHANCE by Peter Nolan Smith

In 1984 I flew home from Paris for Christmas in Boston.

After the holiday I headed south to New York.

The East Village to be exact.

New snow prettifying Tompkins Square Park would be cold dirty slush tomorrow.

My apartment was cold. The heat sucked. I had $200. Florida was 1200 miles away. Hitchhiking to Miami Beach took as long as the Le Mans Classic race and most of the trip would be cold.

My phone rang. It was Clark Hoseman, a New York fashion photographer.

I had assisted him at the Paris pret-a-porter in October. He shot the fashion models back stage. At night Clark bought the girls to the Bains-Douches, where I worked as a physionomiste or doorman. The French were experts at having at good time.

"What are you doing in New York?" asked Clark and I told him, "Waiting to sublet my apartment and then return to Paris."

"You ever been to Jamaica?"

"Only in THE HARDER THEY COME." I had seen the reggae movie in 1973 at the Orson Welles Cinema on Mass. Avenue in Cambridge. Jimmy Cliff transported me to a world far south of Florida. A world of Jah, guns, and ganja with a few palm trees and white sand beaches.

"Do you know how to scuba-dive?"

"Sort of. Why?" I had snorkeled in Florida and the South of France.

"Because I'm shooting the cover of Life Magazine with a young movie actress in Jamaica." He mentioned the very American name.

"Never heard of her."

"She's going out with Jackson Browne."

The singer was on the cover of the Rolling Stone. He had protested against the nuclear plant in Seabrook. Ground zero was about 40 miles from my hometown of Boston. Jackson Browne was cool.

"Is she good-looking?" .

"She was in BLADE RUNNER."

"Ahhh, the Blonde clone." I loved her performance as an acrobatic killer in Ripley Scott's transformation of DO ANDROIDS DREAM ON ELECTRIC SLEEP? by Philip K. Dick. "She was very cool. "

"So how'd you like to come to Jamaica, because I need an assistant who can dive and handle a camera underwater."

"Then I'm your man." I was an ace at faking expertise.

Three days later we departed from JFK to Kingston, Jamaica. White people were the minority at the arrival terminal. None of the islanders paid us any mind. We were just tourists to them.

Clark hired a small prop plane to fly Bernadette, the Life reporter, Irwin, the make-up artist, Deb, the hair stylist and two of us to the northern side of the island.

"Where's Darryl?" My eyes scanned the grassy runway for a blonde movie actress.

"She'll be here tonight." Clark was clearly disappointed by her no-show and said, "She's having troubles with Jackson, which might give me an opening."

"An opening."

"I want a shot at her. You help me and I'll double your bonus."

"Help you?"

"You're a poet. Make me look good."

"I'll do what I can." I was no pimp and a failed writer stood no chance with movie actress.

An actor friend had once explained the pecking order of Hollywood.

"At a party the producer has first shot at the actress. 15 minutes later it's the director's chance. A half-hour is slotted for the leading man, but a writer never gets any play. An actress would rather go with the parking valet than a writer."

We arrived at the rundown airport of Port Antonio. A quick rain burst drove us into the terminal. The driver appeared in a van. His name was Dave. The black man drove us to the Trident Villas and pointed to a flowered villa. "That's where Errol Flynn lived. He was good for Port Antonio."

Errol had been a star in CAPTAIN BLOOD.

Jamaica had been a pirate island in the 1700s.

Port Antonio had some of that history in its blood.

At the Trident Villas we headed to our rooms. Mine overlooked a cliff. The waves smashed on the rocks. Next door was staying a famous Broadway choreographer. We knew each other from the old days. Tim was leaving the following day and gave me a bag of pot weighing over a pound.

"I'm not taking it. It's yours and give whatever's left to the next person."

Tim and I hit a bowl.

That evening's dinner was a mist, but there was no movie star.

Only Clark and the crew from Life.

The next morning I woke wanting to sleep more. Someone had been talking in my dreams. It wasn't me and the room smelled of an old woman. I opened the doors to the Caribbean. The sea was blue and the sky was overcast with unthreateningly clouds. I felt no rain in the air.

It was time to get ready for the shoot.

Clark appeared on my balcony. We examined the four cameras and seven interchangeable lenses. All the batteries were charged to the max. The light meters were working well and our film had nicely chilled in the minibar.

"Ready?"

"All systems go."

"Is she here."

"She?" I was thinking of an old woman.

"Darryl." Clark shook his head. I was a bit of a fool in his eyes. "Let's get breakfast and hit the road. We have photos to take and remember what I said. She's mine."

Darryl arrived at noon tired from her trip. No one introduced me and I sat with the driver. Our first location was on a wave-tossed beach. A few mulatto school children picked through the flotsam for sea shells. Erwin the make-up guy lightly powdered the actress' face. The hair stylist let the wind do his job. I checked the light. It was 5.7 f-stop. I stole a glance at Darryl. Clark hadn't been lying. She was a goddess and he shot hundreds of photos.

None of them were overkill, because Darryl possessed an unquenchable beauty.

That night we ate spiny Jamaica lobster in a restaurant filled with white diners served by Jamaicans.

Te lobsters had no claws.

Clark said to Darryl, "My assistant's from Boston. They have the best lobster in the world there. Tell her."

I replied with New England pride, "This is wicked Lobstah."

It was not true.

The only wicked Lobstah came from Maine.

Back my my room I smoked a big joint.

Paul Newman was staying at the villa across the rocks.

The iconic movie star looked small in the dim tropical night and I wrote a poem about COOL HAND LUKE.

After I fell asleep, a woman whispered in my ear.

It was not Darryl and I fell asleep in a Ganga stupor.

The next morning was overcast. I ran into Erwin in the dining room and he said, "I didn't sleep last night. Fucking ghost."

"Ghost?" Coming from New England I was familiar with ghosts.

"It came to my room and wouldn't leave me alone." Erwin was gay and I asked, "Did it try and get into bed with you."

"Thankfully no, it was an old lady." Erwin sighed with relief, then added, "Say nothing to anyone else. They'll think I'm crazy."

"No problem." His secret was safe with me, because.

The sky over Port Antonio cleared after breakfast.

Dave the driver had found a trampoline, which the hotel set up on the lawn.

Darryl had been a gifted high school acrobat and Clark snapped two hundred shots of her bouncing in the air. I changed film like a machine gun ammo boy during a kamikaze attack. We broke for lunch at noon. Clark had me clean the cameras.

"I think I have a shot with her."

"Of course you do." I ordered a rum and coke from the bar.

It ended up being my lunch.

That afternoon Clark photographed Darryl on the rocks. Erwin struggled to freshen her make-up after every suit change. I checked the lighting and changed film with increasing skill. I was a fast learner.

During a break Darryl said, "I heard you're a poet."

"A bad one."

"Could I read something of yours?"

"Maybe later." I shrugged harmlessly, for Clark glared, as if I was poaching on his turf.

Darryl went back to the rocks.

Clark made sure that Darryl and I didn’t speak the rest of the day.

Every break I had chores.

During lunch I had to pick up more film at the hotel.

“Your friend have his eye on that girl.” Dave the driver wasn’t blind. “But she have no eye for him.”

“Who she have an eye for?”

“Who know the mind of woman?” Dave shrugged with a laugh.

"Certainly not me."

"Then you are a wise man."

I laughed with him, because no man is wise when it comes to women.

After a long day we returned at the Trident Villas and I smoked a big joint before joining everyone in the restaurant.

During dinner Clark recounted to the table about his shooting the Rolling Stones, Lou Reed, and Iggy Pop.

"I love Iggy." Darryl hummed I WANNA BE YOUR DOG.

Clark winked at me and I left before dessert.

Three was a big crowd in this group.

Something woke me after midnight.

There was nothing in my room and the night was quiet.

I went out on the terrace with the joint.

Across the cove Clark's room was dark.

Someone whispered behind me.

"Darryl." It was wishful thinking.

I turned.

There was no one there, then Dave the Driver appeared out of the deep night.

"Nice sky." The Milky Way split the heavens.

"Lots of stars.

"More than any man can count."

"“Is that man your friend?”

He meant Clark.

"Yeah, why?” Whatever Clark's faults were mine were worst.

“Because he don’t talk to you like friend.”

“Yeah, he my boss now. You want some.” I handed him the joint.

And like that we grooved on the cosmos.

The next morning the clouds broke into threads of gray and the blue heaven ruled the sky. I ordered breakfast in my room. Clark showed up ten minutes later and drank my coffee.

“So this is the big shot.” Clark was breaking out the underwater cameras. “Have you ever buddy-breathed, because you’re going to be sharing your air with Darryl underwater.”

“Sure.” I had seen Lloyd Bridges save a friend on the TV show SEA HUNT using the same method.

"It's like soul kissing without the tongue. Let's go to Blue Lagoon."

Every island in the Caribbean has a Blue Lagoon.

Brooke Shields had starred in a film of the same name.

Darryl had auditioned for the role.

"But I turned it down. I thought I was too old," Darryl declared getting out of the van.

I did some quick math. She was 24. BLUE LAGOON was shot in 1979. She was 19 then. Brooke Shield had been 14. Darryl had been right.

“You dive before, man?” Dave stood with the boatman. I shook my head. Dave’s friend give me a five-minute lesson.

"You got it, man." A Boston accent couldn't fake Rasta.

The light-skinned boatman steered to a sheltered cove.

"Not to worry. Easy water dis." Ernest was on my team.

Irwin was back on shore. He had trouble with mal de mer.

“I couldn’t sleep last night. There was a ghost in my room.” Bernadette wasn’t joking.

“Ghost?” Clark stifled a laugh.

"Yes, she kept on speaking to me and wouldn't go away."

"Old lady?" asked Ernest and Bernadette nodded her head. The boatman said, "No ghosts on water. Sleep now. We dive."

Underwater sea turtles floated past us. Fish wore vivid colors. Darryl posed as a mermaid. Clark frantically snapped shots, as the current dragged us out of position. I passed my mouthpiece to Darryl. Her spit tasted better than mine.

After thirty minutes we returned to shore.

I packed the equipment while Clark walked down the beach with Darryl taking candid shots.

She wasn't getting close to him, but we had three days left on Jamaica and three days was almost half the time God took to create the world.

We got back to the hotel at sunset.

During dinner everyone discussed the ghost.

Darryl asked about my poetry again.

Clark cut short my reply and said I had to clean the cameras.

I stood up from the table and said my goodnights, but I had already cleaned the cameras and went outside to our van.

"Where's there to go?" I asked Dave. "For fun?"

"The Roof Club."

"Sometimes there be trouble there."

"Nothing I haven't seen before."

"This is Jamaica."

"I know." I was tired of being with white people and got in the van.

I liked trouble.

I rub-a-dub with fat women and skinny girls to old school reggae. They called me 'White Chocolate'. They probably called all semi-cool whites that, but I sang along with JOHNNY TOO BAD and drank with the old men in the bar; rum and Red Stripe beer.

Happy."

I didn't remember getting home, but recalled passing an old woman by my bed.

She didn't say a word, but shook her head with disapproval.

The next morning was bright and Clark woke me with a shove.

"Where were you?"

"I wandered off the reservation to the Roof Club," I recounted the evening to the best of my ability.

"Lucky you. I'm getting nowhere with Darryl." He sat on my bed next to the camera bag. "I ended up alone."

"You're trying too hard. Chill your jets. Girls like cool."

"Maybe you're right."

I could only be right or wrong and we left my room for the day.

On an idyllic beach Clark caught Darryl in the money shot. She was wearing a red bathing suit. The light was 5.7 f-stop.

"That's the cover."

"I think so too." Darryl had exhausted her beauty on camera.

She wanted to be herself.

On the way back to the resort we stopped to pet some goats.

"Dave told me you went to the Roof Club. Clark said it was dangerous."

"I was the only danger to me last night." I recalled dropping a split to JOHNNY TOO BAD.

"Maybe we can go tonight. You have some weed?"

"A little." I didn't want to say how much.

"I'm dying for a puff."

"Tonight then."

Clark was signaled me to get away and I obeyed his command, but not before saying, "And maybe we can go to the Roof Club later."

"I'd love that."

She wandered off to where Clark was playing nice with a baby goat.

I stood with Dave.

The teenaged herders were anxious about their goats.

"Nothing better than baby jerked goat." He smacked his lips.

Before we got into the car, Clark came over to me.

"What were you talking about to Darryl?"

"She wanted to go into town. She's bored with the hotel." I didn't mention the Roof Club or reefer.

"So we'll go after we get back to the resort. I think your strategy is working."

"I know women."
In truth I knew nothing about them, but he didn't want to hear that.

Back at the resort I showered and dressed in a white shirt and jeans.

Dave was at the desk.

"Where's Darryl?"

"She left with your 'friend', but I know where. You want to go."

"You bet I do." I had two big spliffs in my pocket.

Dave drove into town like I was James Bond chasing Doctor No.

"That girl is an island beauty. She deserves the best."

"Me?"

Dave's laugh hurt in a good way.

I found Darryl on the sidewalk of a record shop. The stereo was pumping CRY TOUGH by Alton Ellis. Clark was inside flipping through LPs and 45s. He loved his music.

We're going to the Roof Club," I shouted to Clark.

"Me too." Darryl walked away fast.

We wandered to the docks.

The blonde spoke about her life.

"It's not easy being this beautiful, especially since I don't think I'm beautiful."

"Every beautiful woman does."

"Worst is that everyone wants me." She dragged heavy on the joint and her eyes rolled into her head like cherries on a broken slot machine. "Your friend thinks he's going to get me. Not a chance. You probably think the same."

"Not me. I'm a poet." Dave's laugh echoed in my ears. "I know my place."

"Good, let's go to the Roof Club."

We were the only white people in the bar.

Darryl bought two rum and cokes.

"My back's killing me."

"Let me give you a massage."

"Please."

Her muscles were pliable to the touch and she writhed, as we danced to THE HARDER THEY COME.

The girls in the bar taught her to rub-a-dub. I drank white rum with the locals. They toasted the return of "White Chocolate'. We grooved to Lee Perry's ZION BLOOD. I was ready for a long night at the Rooftop Club, when Clark walked through the door. One look at Darryl and me rubadubbing and he strode up to us to say, "We have to go. The others are expecting us back at the hotel for dinner."

"I'm cool here."

"Then you can stay here alone." Clark snarled and Darryl shrugged surrender. I muttered under my breath, following them to Dave's van.

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Back at the restaurant Bernadette asked me to order wine.

"Why me?"

"Because you lived in France."

I read the wine list and choose the most expensive wines, figuring them cheap at 8 Jamaican Dollars to the US Greenback.

At the end of the meal Darryl sidled up to me and asked, "You mind if I come to your room. You can finish your massage.

Everyone at the table was surprised by her request.

None more than Clark.

In my room I tried to tidy up the bed.

"No worries. I live in squalor back in LA." She stripped off her shirt and lay face-down on the bed with my journal in her hand. "Is this your poetry?"

"Yes." I kneaded her shoulders. The tropical breeze was soft.

"On a heel I turned to the hell of here."

That was the only line she read of my hitchhiking poem.

Clark burst into the room.

"We have to clean the cameras."

"Darryl was a good actress and read this moment as her time to 'stage left'.

Once she was gone Clark was livid.

"You tell me to chill my jets so you can zoom into my place. Thanks a lot. By the way the price of wine was in US Dollars, not Jamaican.

"Opps."

He slammed the door shut and I totaled the bill. The sum was the price of a second-class ticket to Paris.

"Fuck Life Magazine."

I went down to the bar.

I was the only one there.

I asked the bartender to put on some deep reggae.

WINEY WINEY by the Kingstonians, SLAVING by Lloyd Parks, and dropping to the early 70s.

Each of the three rum and cokes tasted better than the last and I staggered to my room around midnight.

In my room I crashed into bed like a 747 running out of fuel.

I dreamed about Darryl and me on the road. She was a good travel companion.

A hand touched my shoulder.

I opened my eyes.

"Darryl?"

It was not her, but a shimmering woman, who moaned in pain. I tried to speak to her in English, French and German. Her speech was indecipherable and I said, "Listen lady, I'm too drunk to deal with this now."

I closed my eyes and the ghost was gone.

The next morning the sea was calm. I went for a swim. The sea was warm. The sun was hot on my skin. By evening I would be in winter.

Dave waited by the van. Clark was packing the bags into the back. I threw mine in the front.

"You ready to go?" He acted like nothing had happened last night.

"I guess I am." I turned to Dave. "I saw the ghost."

"What she say?"

"Don't know. What about Darryl?"

"She left with the rest of them. It's just you and me." Clark slapped my shoulder to show there was no hard feeling.

At the airport I slipped Dave $40.

"Thanks, White Chocolate."

"And you tell the old lady I said good-bye."

"She'll like that."

The prop plane took off and I spotted Trident Villas under the wing.

No one was in the water. Everyone was around the pool.

It was snowing back in New York.

Clark paid my wages and gave me a bonus.

"You did a good job."

"Thanks."

A month later Darryl graced the cover on LIFE.

I had never stood a chance with her, but neither had Clark.

But I had been close.

In February I went back to Paris and remained a failed poet, which suited me just fine, because poets knew their place in the world and the City of Light was made for people like White Chocolate.

Me too.

Toujours.

fotos by Peter Nolan Smith and Dustin Pittman