Venice Part 1 - Life Is a Beach

Having arrived in Venice Beach, California, only to discover that we were not welcome at Frank and Barbara’s place despite his enthusiastic invitation, we were forced to find lodging within 3-4 days. Penniless, and desperate, I called my grandmother and asked for help. She lectured me for a few minutes, and asked me what the hell I was doing. Then she offered to wire $50 to the local Western Union. That’s how it was done back then. Mary and I found a one room apartment in a pink stucco building at the end of Horizon Avenue. Rent was $15 a week, so we paid for one week, bought a few groceries, and started looking for work.

Venice, and for that matter most of Southern California was, to use the phrase, “a trip.” It was culture shock for the two New Englanders where people aren’t known for being especially warm and forthcoming. (Good fences make good neighbors, and all that.) Here it seemed that you were greeted, even by strangers, like a long-lost friend. If you ran into them again, it as if they’d known you for a lifetime. It made me uneasy, and frankly suspicious. (Back off! Nobody is THAT friendly. I mean, come on! Right?)

We did make friends with the mangers of our building, a young couple close to us in age, Bill and Sherry. They were originally from Michigan. He was an erstwhile drummer, and quite the talker. Sherry worshiped him and doted on him. Conversations with her always included references to Bill. He had dark hair down to his shoulders, was extremely thin, and liked mini-whites, amphetamines that came wrapped in tinfoil, 5 to a roll. Sherry was a brunette, short, busty and in many ways his foil. She was easy-going, affable, and friendly to everyone.

Bill introduced me to one of the long term residents of our building, who told me about a job at the car wash where he worked. He said they were always looking for help. It was mind-numbing, backbreaking work, scrubbing cars by hand with big brushes. We were the manual “wash cycle,” as it were. The “rinse cycle” was automated and “handsfree.” I lasted 2 weeks.

Our building abutted the boardwalk, a figurative “boardwalk” of asphalt that bordered the beach stretching from Venice to Santa Monica. At one end was Gold Gym’s outdoor training pen. Arnold and his workout partner Franco Columbu were regulars and when they trained outside drew crowds of onlookers. The rest of the boardwalk consisted of restaurants, “head shops,” bike rentals, markets and stands selling beach paraphernalia. Mary soon got work as a “sales associate” at one of the clothing boutiques. We survived on what she made while I looked for other work.

I hitched to the CA State Employment Agency a number of times, but always came away with no leads. Meanwhile, we were getting by on what Mary brought home, making rent, but subsisting on rice and beans. At one point she and I were standing in one of the panoramic pedestrian parks overlooking the Pacific in Santa Monica. The sun was shining, as it always seemed it was.

I was venting to Mary about not finding work, and saying crazy things like, “I’ve been everywhere! What do I have to do, start stealing? I’m sick of this shit! I’m going to do something!” I carried on in this manner on for quite a while. When my tantrum subsided, a tall, portly, rather nondescript, balding, middle-aged man walked up to me, and pulled his wallet out. As he handed me a $20 bill, he said, “Hang in there son. You’ll find something. Here, you and your girl, you go have meal on me.” Once again, the kindness of a stranger, rocked me back on my heels.

Frank, yes that Frank, suggested that I should go up to Hollywood and try to get work as a grip, which is basically a laborer/helper on movie sets. He thought that I could apply under their minority employment program. When I asked what minority I might be, he said, with a straight face, “A hippie. They’re a minority. You’re a hippie. You’re a minority.” Seemed like a stretch to me, but desperate as I was, I took a chance. When I filled out the application and asked about minority status, the guy in HR chuckled when I told him what kind of “minority" I thought might apply to me. No go. I felt genuinely stupid. Totally embarrassed.

As I hitched home I was picked up by a man with a heavy French accent. He was driving white Pontiac GTO convertible, top down, and introduced himself as Henri. He was the most aggressive driver I have ever ridden with. On the freeway back to Venice he would speed down the off ramp, and then speed up the upcoming entrance ramp to get ahead of slower traffic. He used this maneuver again and again. I held my breath each time.

Henri drove straight to Venice, stopping on Ocean Front Walk a few blocks from where I was staying. We walked upstairs to a warehouse filled with racks of women’s clothing. I could hear the sound of sewing machines whirring in the background. He led me into a small office where he spoke to a young long-haired guy wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a decoratively embroidered blue work-shirt.

What surprised me was that their entire conversation took place in French and the hippie with the wire-rimmed glasses never missed a beat. Henri spoke in an animated fashion and gestured toward me. When the conversation switched to English, the guy introduced himself as Richard and told me that Henri said that I was looking for work. I acknowledged that I was. He offered me a part-time evening job setting up fabric on frames that would later be cut and sewn into halter tops for young women. That was my introduction to the Malibu Media fashion house. Richard and his business partner Laurie were the owners.

Within a couple of weeks Mary’s brother Roy and our friend John showed up after taking a week to drive a very old Chevy Bel Air across country. They abandoned it when it died on a quiet street in a neighborhood nearby. They just pushed it to the side of the road, stripped the plates, and walked away.

They came with some cash and found lodging not far from our place. I suggested that they might want part time work at Malibu Media. Roy and John made friends with a guy who had a car and in short order all four of us were working there.

One late night after our shift was over we were almost home when the driver made a somewhat abrupt left turn onto our street. In the process he inadvertently cut off a cop car. The flashing lights went on, and we pulled over.

After having us all get out of the car, and checking our IDs, the lead cop said, “You three can go. Kennedy, put your hands up against the car.” “What,” I asked, incredulous? “What did I do?” As he was putting the cuffs on me he said, “Outstanding traffic warrants. Get in the back.” “I’ve only been here a couple of months, and I’ve never even driven a car,” I protested!

On the way to the Venice Police station, I kept insisting that they had the wrong guy, that it couldn’t possibly be me. I asked, “What’s the guys name?” “Thomas Vincent Kennedy,” was the reply. “That’s not even my name. Look at my license, I’m Thomas John Kennedy. It’s a Massachusetts license, not a California one.” They didn’t really care that they had the wrong Thomas Kennedy. I suspect they knew and were enjoying themselves.

As we neared to the station one of them asked me, “Any good acid in town? Where do you buy your weed?” I answered, “I have no idea, and I don’t.” When I got out, they pulled up the back seat to see if I had stashed any drugs during the ride in.

They took me inside, and ran the information. The guy they wanted was 33 years of age, and lived in Bel Air. After I had endured a round of insults from the other cops in the station about how I looked like I could be one of the Charlie Manson’s followers, they told me I was free to go. I asked, naively, “Can you drive me back to where you picked me up?” “Sorry, no can do…” was all they said. They walked me to the front of the station and opened the heavy glass door.