1995
Los Angeles
Beverly Hills to be exact.
May 29.
My birthday. No cake. No candles.
My life was not BEVERLY HILLS 90210, but the stars from the popular TV show came every night along with many others. The Milk Bar was something no one had seen in Los Angleles for a long time.
Yesterday Grace Jones performed in LA. Post-concert she stopped by the club in Beverly Hills. Dean Martin had once frequented the prior establishment. I worked as the doorman. Our mutual friend, Scottie, was co-owner.
She greeted each of us with a kiss. We knew her from New York. 1980. The Jefferson and Continental, two notorious after-hours clubs famed for flaunting wickedness till dawn. A fellow denizen of the night. We shared mutual friends. Arthur Weinstein, the Prince of the Night. Scottie told her it was my birthday. He didn't say which one. She didn't ask and gave me a hug, saying, "You put on a little weight. California suits you."
We had drinks at the bar. More than three. JZ, another New Yorker, a friend despite his coming from Wall Street. He came with two wealth management clients. He was in trouble, but only for banking irregularities. I introduced him to Grace. His clients were enthralled by the charcoal black disco queen. She was famous for the wilderness. At night's end JZ suggested that we accompany them to the Beverly Hills Hotel to party. I had nothing else to do and joined the bankers, two blonde starlets, and Grace for a short ride to the famed hotel.
We were seven in a limo. A gassed banker had a bag of blow for twenty. Inside the hotel suite Grace grabbed the stash and we locked ourselves in the bathroom rather than listened to three zooted investors brag about their millions to the coke-glazed starlets in a bad remake of Tony Montana from the last scene of SCARFACE.
Grace and I spoke about our friends from New York in the toilet.
Sex, drugs, and rock and roll
In Hollywood was only the drugs.
The two bankers banged on the door. JZ knew better. I opened it and told them to fuck off.
"Unless you want to deal with Grace."
They had all seen Grace in CONAN THE DESTROYER. She had been scary and not movie scary. The two bankers backed off. I slammed the door and then jammed my heel to prevent any entrance.
"I knew there was a reason I liked you."
Grace and I spent a few more minutes in the bathroom, then rejoined the party. Everyone was happy to be reunited with the cocaine. Not so much us, although the starlets conspiratorial winked at Grace. We were all on the same team. At dawn we shared a taxi home. Her to the Marmont Hotel.
A Happy Birthday wish and a kiss on the cheek.
Next me to a small bungalow I shared with Scottie over the Hills in North Hollywood. The driver had driven me there before. The sun rose a harsh desert morning. Both of us had sunglasses. Back in North Hollywood in bed I shivered to sleep until noon.
That was May 30, 1995.
Grace seemed to be my age.
44. It was my birthday. May 29.
Maybe my math is bad. About Grace's age.
Everyone lies about their age and weight after thirty.
Stars save the queen of Disco.
Fierce indeed.
