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 prettified Tompkins Square Park.
Tomorrow it would be cold dirty slush.
January 1985. East 10th Street - East Village.
This morning I had $200 in my wallet. Nothing in my bank. My subleasee wasn’t moving into my apartment until month’s end, when I was flying back to Paris. Two weeks to klll in the subarctic of New York City. Florida was 1200 miles away. Airline ticket $149. Hitchhiking to Miami Beach took as long as the 24 Hours at Le Mans race, especially with the Federal speed limit set at 55 mph.
In the winter of 1975, I had hitchhiked to California. Nearly froze to death in the back of a pick-up truck crossing West Texas. The first stage of a trip south now would be freezing well into the Carolinas. Hitchhiking to Miami was out, but not staying in the city. At least my apartment had steam heat.
An hour later, my phone rang. It was Clark Hoseman, a New York fashion photographer. I hadn’t seen him since last autumn in Paris.
During October, I had assisted him during the pret-a-porter shows. He had shot the fashion models backstage. Sometimes catching them in states of undress. At night, Clark had brought the girls to the Bains-Douches, where I worked as a physionomiste or doorman. The French were experts at having a good time, and aside from le Privilege under le Palais disco, Les Bains was where to be.
"What are you doing in New York?" asked Clark
"Waiting to sublet my apartment and then going back to Paris at the end of the month."
"You ever been to Jamaica?"
"Only seeing 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 from frozen New England to a world far south of Florida. A Rasta world of Jah, guns, and ganja, with 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 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?" .
"Daryl Hannah was in BLADE RUNNER."
"Ahhh, the Blonde clone." I loved her performance as an acrobatic killer in Ridley 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? I’m shooting her for the cover of Life Magazine. I need an assistant who can dive and handle a camera underwater. $150 a day, plus hotels and food."
"Then I'm your man." I was an ace at faking expertise, especially if it meant being warm on a tropical beach.
Three days later, the Life Magazine team departed snowy New York from JFK on an Air Jamaica direct flight to Kingston, Jamaica. Customs was a breeze. Clark hired a small prop plane to fly Bernadette, the Life reporter, Irwin, the make-up artist, Deb, the fey hair stylist, and the two of us to the northern side of the island. Far from Negril, the # 1 party resort on the island along with Negril. We were meant to meet the star in the terminal. Clark led us to a small hangar. For island-hopping planes.
"Where's Daryl?" My eyes scanned the grassy runway for a blonde movie actress.
"A change of plans. She'll be here tonight." Clark was also disappointed by her no-show. "According to the stylist, she's having trouble with Jackson, which might give me an opening."
"An opening?" The word held one meaning for a photographer. Most of them slept with their models. Offering career advancement. Daryl couldn’t need any from Clark. She was a movie star.
"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, but let him believe I was Iceberg Slim.
I understood I had no chance. I was a very unknown poet. An actor friend had once explained the male pecking order of Hollywood.
"At a party, the producer has first shot at the actress. Fifteen minutes later, it's the director's chance. The next 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."
A quick rain burst drove us into the terminal. A propless C-47 cargo plane sat in the weeds. A driver appeared in a van. His name was Dave. He took us to the Trident Villas and pointed to a flowered villa. "That's where Errol Flynn lived. He was good for Port Antonio."
You ever meet him?”
”Mon, I ain’t that old.”
Errol had been a star in CAPTAIN BLOOD, the quintessential sword-swashing movie. Jamaica had once been a pirate island. Port Antonio had once had history.
At the Trident Villas, we headed to our rooms. Mine overlooked a cliff. The waves smashed on the rocks. Next door was a famous Broadway choreographer. We knew each other from the disco 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. Give whatever's left to the next person."
Tim and I hit a bowl. I didn’t smoke too much weed. Not clean weed like the local herb.
That evening's dinner was a ganga fog. I don’t recall speaking with any of the other crew. Clark was talking enough for everyone, but there was no movie star. As the assistant, I was cleared to say nothing. Only to follow orders.
The next morning I woke wanting to sleep more. Someone had been talking in my dreams. It wasn't me. The room smelled of an old woman. I opened the doors to the Caribbean. The sea was blue and the sky was overcast with threatless clouds. I felt no rain in the air. January was not hurricane season.
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 worked to perfection, and our film had nicely chilled in the minibar fridge.
"Ready?"
"All systems go."
"Is she here?"
"She?" I was thinking of an old woman.
"Daryl." 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."
Daryl appeared tired from her overnight trip, as was to be expeected from four flights; LA-Miami-Knigston-Port Antonio, No one introduced me. I sat with the driver. Our first location was on a wave-tossed beach. 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. Clark hadn't been lying. She was a goddess.
Clark shot hundreds of photos. None of them were overkill. Daryl possessed an unquenchable beauty, although we would not see Clark’s shots until we returned to New York.
That night I sat at the end of the table. No one spoke to me. I ate spiny Jamaica lobster. They had no claws. They tasted nothing like a Maine lobster. The water of Casco Bay bred a delicious succulence not gound in the Caribbean.
Clark said, "My assistant's from Boston. They have the best lobster in the world there. Tell her."
I replied with New England pride, but added for the sake of the crew, "This is wicked Lobstah."
It had been a long day. All I wanted was to hit my pillows. Clark had another long day planned for every day of the shoot.
It was not true.
The only wicked Lobstah came from Maine.
Back in my room, I smoked a big joint. Really big. Across the rocks, Paul Newman was staying at the villa. I thought I saw him for a second.
The iconic movie star looked small in the dim tropical night and I wrote a poem about COOL HAND LUKE.
Even on the chain gang
He was cool.
Cool Hand Luke
After I fell asleep, a woman whispered in my ear.
It was not Daryl, and I fell asleep in another Ganga stupor.
The next morning I rose early. I ran into Erwin at breakfast. He looked tired and said, "I didn't sleep last night. Fucking ghost."
"Ghost?" Coming from New England, I was familiar with ghosts, even though I had never seen one.
"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. She was an old woman. Not that I have anything against old women. Just ghosts," Erwin sighed with relief, then added, "Say nothing to anyone else. They'll think I'm crazy."
His secret was safe with me. She had only whispered in my ear. I said nothing to anyone about anything. I knew how to hold my sand. I sat at the end of the table and listened to Clark tell Daryl about his many trips to Paris. He mentioned I worked the op nightclub there. I said nothing, but smiled. Daryl nodded her head. The rest of the crew ignored me. They had their own work to do.
The sky over Port Antonio cleared after breakfast.
Dave the driver had found a trampoline, which the hotel set up on the lawn.
Daryl had been a gifted high school acrobat. Clark shot two hundred shots of her bouncing off a trampoline into the air. I changed film like a machine gun ammo boy during a kamikaze attack. We broke for lunch in the hotel at noon. Clark ordered me clean the cameras. Clark and Daryl and the Life crew laughed in conversation. He came over to me and whispered, "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 Daryl on the rocks. Erwin struggled to freshen her make-up after every suit change. It was easy. As a star, she knew how to give hereself to the pros. I checked the lighting and changed film with increasing skill. I was a fast learner.
During a break, Daryl said, "I heard you're a poet."
"A bad one."
"Could I read something of yours?"
"Maybe later." I shrugged harmlessly. Clark glared at me, as if I was poaching on his turf.
Daryl went back to her barefoot perch on the rocks. A statue of beauty in a bathing suit. The shoot was meant to compete with Sport Illustrated’s bathing suit issue. The magazine had hired Clark, because he was one of the best in the business. I checked the light and obeyed his every command. He was the boss.
Daryl and I didn’t speak the rest of the day.
Clark made sure of that.
“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 to the Trident Villas. I smoked a another joint before joining everyone in the restaurant.
During dinner, Clark told the table about his shooting the Rolling Stones, Lou Reed, and Iggy Pop.
"I love Iggy." Daryl hummed I WANNA BE YOUR DOG.
Clark winked at me. I left before dessert. Three was a crowd in this group and Clark had to get rid of the rest of the crew..
Something woke me after midnight. The room was dark. The door was locked. Outside, waves crashed on the rocks. I went out on the terrace with the joint. Across the cove Clark's room was dark.
Someone whispered behind me.
"Daryl."
I turned. There was no one there, then Dave the Driver appeared out of the deep night below the balcony.
"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. 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 soon blue heaven ruled the sky. I took breakfast in my room. Clark showed up ten minutes later and drank my coffee.
“So today 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 Daryl underwater.”
“Sure.” Twenty years ago I had seen Lloyd Bridges save a friend on the TV show SEA HUNT using the same method. I was hoping to get some lessons from the dive team.
"It's like soul kissing without the tongue. Let's go to Blue Lagoon." Clark was a man on fire. He had two missions. I coouldn only help underwater.
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 and explained at the end of the twenty-minute ride to the Blue Lagoon, "But I turned it down. I thought I was too old"
I did some quick math. She was twenty-four. BLUE LAGOON had been shot in Fiji in 1979. Daryl had been nineteen. Brooke Shield had been fourteen. Darryl was right. Fourteen trumps eighteen for young.
“You dive before, man?” Dave stood with the boatman. I shook my head.
”Don’t worry.”
I only had a movie star to keep alive. What me worry.
A dive crew sand boat was waiting at the pier. Dave spoke to the dive master. A young Rasta, Ernest. He gave me a five-minute lesson.
”No worry”
"I got it, man." A Boston accent couldn't fake Rasta.
The 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 or sea sickness.
“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, "That the Old Lady. Everyone see her. She no trouble. She only lost in this world. No ghosts on water. Sleep now. We dive."
Underwater was another world. Sea turtles floated past us. Ernest rigged the Scuba gear on my body. Tanks, vest, fins, mask et al. I felt weighted down and wondered, if I would sink to the bottom. The head diver master geared up Clark had earned his dive certificate from the Chelsea YMCA. The dive master instructed us in safety signals and how to buddy breathe with Daryl. He gave me a thumbs up.
”Not worry. Under you have no weight.” Ernest stuck the breathing apparatus in my mouth. “Breathe and help she breathe.”
I sat on the gunwale. I knew what to do from SEA HUNT. I fell backwards into the warm water. Fish of vivid colors floated past my mask. I was at ease with the aqualung. The lagoon was shallow. Daryl dove in. An explosion of bubbles. She posed as a mermaid and swam to me. I passed her the mouthpiece several times. I was surprised that she trusted me. It was a good thing I had never spoken with her, otherwise she mihgt have asked my qualifications. I had none. Clark frantically snapped shots. Her spit tasted better than mine.
After ten minutes, we returned to surface. The dive crew pulled out Daryl first. Clark and then me. Daryl was in good shape. I had survived the test and thanked Lloyd Bridges from SEA HUNT .
Back at the pier, I packed the equipment while Clark walked down the beach with Darryl taking candid shots.
She wasn't walking close to him, but we had three days left on Jamaica and three days was almost half the time it took God to create the world. I gave him zero chances.\, but I wasn’t a betting man.
We got back to the hotel at sunset.
During dinner, everyone discussed the ghost.
Daryl 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. I had already cleaned the cameras and went outside to our van. I was ready to see Jamaica. On my own.
"Where's there to go?" I asked Dave. "For fun?"
"The Roof Club. Sometimes they have trouble there.
I got in the van.
”What alright. I know when to leave.”
I rub-a-dubbed with fat women and skinny girls to old school reggae. I sang along with JOHNNY TOO BAD. I drank with everyone in the bar; rum and Red Stripe beer. I didn't remember getting home, but recalled an old woman by my bed. She didn't say a word, but shook her head with disapproval. I apologized and fell asleep. No dreams of the old woman.
The next morning was bright. Clark woke me with a shove. It was the last day of the shoot. Tomorrow we were leaving for New York. I had yet to swim in the sea. No time.
"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 Daryl." 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."
"Cool,how?”
”Cool like not sending out ‘I want to fuck you’vibe’."
”Okay. I’ll play it cool.”
I could only be right or wrong. The only cool people here were Dave, the Jamaicans, Daryl, and the old woman ghost. We left my room for the day.
On an idyllic beach, Clark caught Darryl in the money shot. She wore a red bathing suit. The light was 5.7 f-stop.
"That's the cover."
"I think so too." Daryl understood how to pose like she had never seen a mirror. She didn’t speak much and followed Clark’s direction to the letter. Clark view her through the camara and the camera recorded his vision. I just held the light meter and tried not to stare.
On the way back to the resort, we stopped to pet some goats in a field. I took a shot with my camera. An Olympus XA2. Nothing like Clark’s collection of cameras. A simple point-and-shoot. All I needed was the XA2. I had nothing else other than my eyes.
We went back to the van. I opened her door. She thanked me and gave a smile. Something about the way she moved exhibited a goodness. A deep goodness. She had been a pleasure model replicant In BLADERUNNER. I recalled her character. Pris’, line, I think therefore I am.” She say in the van.
"Dave told me you went to the Roof Club. Clark said it was dangerous."
"I was the only danger to me last night." I had dropped a split on the dance floor 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 signaled for me to get away. I obeyed his command, but not before saying to Daryl, "And maybe we can go to the Roof Club later. I’ll read you some poetry."
"I'd love that."
She wandered back to where Clark played nice with a baby goat.
I stood with Dave.
"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. Clark said to unload the photo equipment. Daryl went off with the LIFE journalist.
”Let’s go in thirty. Meet us at the desk.” Clark walked away to catch up with the two women. A little too fast for cool.
Once finished charging the camera batteries and correctly labelling the date and place on the plastic film canisters, I showered and dressed in a white shirt and jeans. It was never really hot in the evenings with a wind running off the sea. I came downstairs to the lobby. No sign of Daryl and Clark. Dave stood by his van.
"The nice lady left with your 'friend', but I know where. You want to go?"
"You bet I do." I had two big spliffs in my pocket. I wasn’t after anything other than a drinking companion at the Roof Club. Once I had two drinks, all I wanted from life was another. Nothing else.
Dave took his time driving into town like I was James Bond without any pursuit.
"That girl is an island beauty. A good soul. She deserves the best."
"Me?"
Dave's laugh hurt in a good way.
”Not you. But sure, not your friend.”
Dave found the two where he had left them at a record store. I got out of the van.
”You good?”
A nod. He parked up the street.
Daryl sat outside on a bench. Inside, Clark was flipping through LPs and 45s. Nothing like this vinyl was in New York. He loved his music. Across the street were the docks. All the fishing and tourist boats back in harbor. Daryl waved to me. I showed her a joint. She pointed to the piers.
I knocked on the window and motioned to Clark we were going across the smoke a joint. He wasn’t into weed.
Sitting on lobster traps, we smoked the joint. She didn’t cough. She spoke about loving it here, but that she wished she hadn’t had to do this shoot.
”I came to get away from my boyfriend.”
”I came to get away from winter.”
”There is no winter in LA.”
I looked back to the record shop. Clark ferreted through the LPs. He waved for Daryl to see his choices. She knew her role and walked over into the store and rapped on the window. She pointed to me and returned to the other side of the street.
”Where’s the Roof Club.”
”Not far.” It was almost sunset. Night dropped fast in the tropics. The town’s streetlights flickered to life. We strolled to the bar, smoking the joint. Not saying a word.
We're going to the Roof Club." I shouted to Clark, and we wandered to the docks, smoking reefer. I only took little hits and warned her it was strong. I rarely smoked in Paris or New York. She smiled, as if she had smoked something stronger. Darryl spoke about her Hollywood life. I listened.
"It's not easy being this beautiful. I don’t think I am. Everyone wants me." She dragged heavily on the joint. "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."
”Let’s hear a poem.”
”Walking on the docks
Port Antonio
Smoking ganga
With a woman who thinks me bad
But I no bad man
No good too
No man in 100% either way
All I want from her is a smile__
”You just make that up?”
I nodded. Daryl said not bad. She had a kind manner. I wished we were friends. I recognized I was just someone she had met at a photo shoot. I pointed up West Street. Some people stood on the sidewalk.
"There’s the Roof Club."
The door opened. They entered the club. We followed suit and climbed the narrow stairs to the bar.
"My back's killing me."
"Let me give you a massage."
"Please."
Her muscles were pliable to the touch. My fingers sought the taut muscles. Kneading them without too much force. After a minute, she shrugged off my hands. “Thanks, I didn’t want you to stop, but I am ready to fall asleep. It’s been a long day.”
I raised my rum. We clinked glasses and suggested that we leave.
Everyone was having a good time.
TClark walked through the door. He took one look at Darryl and me strode up to us and said, "We have to go. The others are expecting us back at the hotel for dinner."
"I'm cool here." I said. I liked this bar.
"Then you can stay here alone." Clark glared at Darryl and they left with me following them.
I didn't want to walk back to the hotel.
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Back at the restaurant, Bernadette asked me to order wine. They were the first words she had said to me since the Kingston airport.
"Why me?"
"Because Clark said you lived in France. You must know wines."
”Some.” My wine selections were usually price-oriented. I thought she was trying to embarrass me. Why I had no idea.
I read the wine list and chose two Côtes du Rhône. I figured them cheap at eight Jamaican Dollars to the US Greenback.Clark waved his hand and ordered more expensive Bordeaux, as if to trump my selection. LIFE was covering all expenses, although maybe not for me, so I was relieved by his taking over. I avoided any conversations. Everyone spoke about the ghost. I had seen ghosts as a child in Maine. New England is haunted by generations of the gone.. 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 and we can smoke some weed. I have trouble sleeping.”
”I don’t sleep easy either. “
Everyone at the table was surprised by her request, but none more than Clark, who glared at her leaving with me..
In my room, I tried to tidy up the room.
"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 raged, 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. Glad I didn’t order any."
He slammed the door shut. I totaled the bill, the price of a second-class ticket to Paris. No skin from my wallet.
I went down to the bar.I hadn’t been paid a cent, but had a hundred-dollar bill in my wallet. I was the only one there. The bartender and waiting staff cleaned up and prepared for the morning breakfast. Each of three rum and cokes tasted better than the last. I staggered around the hotel grounds to my room around midnight.
I crashed into bed like a 747 running out of fuel.
I dreamed about Daryl and me on the road. She was a good travel companion. She did most of the driving. We were crossing the desert somewhere out west.
A hand touched my shoulder.
I opened my eyes.
"Daryl?"
It was not her, but the shimmering woman.
She moaned. I tried to speak to her in 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. I had a dream about the glowing woman making love. Her name was Cheri. She had been alone a long time. She thanked me in French.
”Merci.”
The next morning the sea was calm beyond the terrace. My skin smelled of charcoal and mango. The old woman’s scent. I packed everything and headed to the desk with the bags.
Dave was waiting by the van. Clark helped with the bags. 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 and whispered. "I saw the ghost."
"What she say?"
"Don't know."
"That what everyone say."
"What about Daryl?"
"She left with the rest of them. It's just you and me." Clark slapped my shoulder to show there was no hard feeling and there was none.
It was snowing back in New York.
Clark paid my wages and gave me a bonus.
"You did a good job."
"Thanks."
We came as friends and parted at his apartment as friends. I left for Paris
A month later, Daryl graced the cover on LIFE . Her film was a box-office smash throughout the summer.
Clark became a big success.
I had never stood not a chance with her. I hadn't tried and I’m glad it ended that way.
At month’s end, I returned to Paris and remained a failed poet and a doorman at a nightclub in Place d'Opera, which suited me just fine, because poets knew their place in the world and the City of Light was made for people like me. At least some of us and Cheri, the woman I left behind in Port Antonio. I hope she gets home some day.
