stay. One night we met some people from a commune outside one of the towns, and they invited us to stay at their place. It turned out to be a barn, and we slept in the chicken coop. The people we’d met collected the eggs—that was their role in the commune. They offered us warm food, but the place was such a wreck that I was reluctant to eat. Later, in the middle of the night, I woke up famished. I went into the kitchen to see if anything was left in the oven. When I opened it, a mouse scampered out.
Another time, two girls in a VW van pulled over and took us to spend the night at their place at the top of a mountain. It must have taken ten minutes just to get up the winding driveway. Their house was either not yet finished or derelict, and they offered us spots on the subflooring, alongside their dogs. As we were lying on the floor half asleep, one of the girls walked through the room stark naked. Gene opened his eyes, and I watched them follow her. I already knew that Gene tried to screw everybody and anybody. It was part of how he defined himself: possessed by and obsessed with pussy.
“If you make a move on her and she’s insulted,” I whispered pleadingly, “they’re going to throw us out of here in the middle of nowhere. We’ll end up freezing to death at the top of this fucking mountain.”
He held back. But the next morning he wound up trying it on with her—successfully. It turned out she wore a hearing aid, he told me, and whenever he leaned in close to her, he heard feedback.
Another weekend we ended up in a town that had already rolled up and gone to bed. We stood on a desolate street until finally a car came toward us. We put out our thumbs and the car pulled over. Inside were four tough-looking black guys. “Where you going?” the driver asked.
“Oh, us? We’re not going anywhere.”
The driver got mad. “You had your thumbs out. Where are you going?”
We told him we were trying to get to Grossinger’s, a big Borscht Belt resort. Gene knew somebody there we could crash with.
“Get in.” It sounded more like a command than a welcome.
The next thing I knew, we were winding down an unlit dirt road and I was starting to get scared. Then I saw another car pulled off to the side of the road up ahead.
Great, they’re waiting for us. Two Jews served up on a stick.
We pulled up and another group of tough-looking guys got out of the other car. My life flashed before my eyes. But it turned out that they just wanted to hang out and drink. When we got back in the car, we said, “You know, you don’t have to take us.” With a combination of anger and threatening annoyance, the driver hissed, “I said I’d take you.”
And he did, all the way to Grossinger’s.
We never tracked down that guitar player, but those trips were an affirmation of our commitment. Who else but Gene would have taken those trips?—thumbing rides the way we were dressed, having no place to stay, sleeping on floors, barely having any money in our pockets. Most people would have just put an ad in the newspaper.
Which is what we did next. Or rather, we looked at the ads. Only instead of looking for a lead guitar player, we decided to seek out a drummer. Eventually we found an interesting ad in Rolling Stone and rang the number. We had one line of questioning: “Would you do anything to make it?”
“Yeah,” said the guy on the other end of the line.
“Would you wear a dress?”
“Yeah.”
We arranged to meet the guy in front of Electric Lady down on Eighth Street. He was dressed very cool. Cooler than us. He looked quite a bit older than I was, and he had about five names—George Peter John Criscuola, blah blah blah—but he went by Peter Criss. We walked to a pizza joint and sat down with our slices. We hadn’t been talking for five minutes when Peter blurted out, “I have a nine-inch dick.”
I didn’t know what to say. Pass the cheese?
This guy was very different from us. Peter could barely read or
Another time, two girls in a VW van pulled over and took us to spend the night at their place at the top of a mountain. It must have taken ten minutes just to get up the winding driveway. Their house was either not yet finished or derelict, and they offered us spots on the subflooring, alongside their dogs. As we were lying on the floor half asleep, one of the girls walked through the room stark naked. Gene opened his eyes, and I watched them follow her. I already knew that Gene tried to screw everybody and anybody. It was part of how he defined himself: possessed by and obsessed with pussy.
“If you make a move on her and she’s insulted,” I whispered pleadingly, “they’re going to throw us out of here in the middle of nowhere. We’ll end up freezing to death at the top of this fucking mountain.”
He held back. But the next morning he wound up trying it on with her—successfully. It turned out she wore a hearing aid, he told me, and whenever he leaned in close to her, he heard feedback.
Another weekend we ended up in a town that had already rolled up and gone to bed. We stood on a desolate street until finally a car came toward us. We put out our thumbs and the car pulled over. Inside were four tough-looking black guys. “Where you going?” the driver asked.
“Oh, us? We’re not going anywhere.”
The driver got mad. “You had your thumbs out. Where are you going?”
We told him we were trying to get to Grossinger’s, a big Borscht Belt resort. Gene knew somebody there we could crash with.
“Get in.” It sounded more like a command than a welcome.
The next thing I knew, we were winding down an unlit dirt road and I was starting to get scared. Then I saw another car pulled off to the side of the road up ahead.
Great, they’re waiting for us. Two Jews served up on a stick.
We pulled up and another group of tough-looking guys got out of the other car. My life flashed before my eyes. But it turned out that they just wanted to hang out and drink. When we got back in the car, we said, “You know, you don’t have to take us.” With a combination of anger and threatening annoyance, the driver hissed, “I said I’d take you.”
And he did, all the way to Grossinger’s.
We never tracked down that guitar player, but those trips were an affirmation of our commitment. Who else but Gene would have taken those trips?—thumbing rides the way we were dressed, having no place to stay, sleeping on floors, barely having any money in our pockets. Most people would have just put an ad in the newspaper.
Which is what we did next. Or rather, we looked at the ads. Only instead of looking for a lead guitar player, we decided to seek out a drummer. Eventually we found an interesting ad in Rolling Stone and rang the number. We had one line of questioning: “Would you do anything to make it?”
“Yeah,” said the guy on the other end of the line.
“Would you wear a dress?”
“Yeah.”
We arranged to meet the guy in front of Electric Lady down on Eighth Street. He was dressed very cool. Cooler than us. He looked quite a bit older than I was, and he had about five names—George Peter John Criscuola, blah blah blah—but he went by Peter Criss. We walked to a pizza joint and sat down with our slices. We hadn’t been talking for five minutes when Peter blurted out, “I have a nine-inch dick.”
I didn’t know what to say. Pass the cheese?
This guy was very different from us. Peter could barely read or
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