6. Island Girls

6.        Island Girls  - Spirit in Disguise

                                                                                                              (Updated 7-18-15)

Cleaning up his act.

Getting married with children.

Moving out of the country.

Giving up his dreams of becoming a rock star.

His affair with Ferine

His disillusionment with his married life.

    

With his disgrace at the club in Manhattan behind him , failing classes at college, not making it with Marina, never getting back with Ferine, and hating his supermarket job, there was only one thing for Johnny to do; he had to find a new town. In a new town, Johnny could start over. People there wouldn’t know about his failures or how life had failed him. As a liar, he could even create his own past history. He packed his bags and drove to San Francisco.

When Johnny found the same failures following him in San Francisco, still failing classes at college, still not finding a woman who could replace Ferine, not finding a new band or becoming a poet, and hating his new job at a hot dog stand, he had to make a decision. According to Jim Morrison, there were only four ways to get unraveled: one was to sleep and the other was travel. One was to be the bandit up in the hills. One was to love your neighbor till his wife got home. Johnny chose to travel, but to where?

 No one was begging him not to go. Nobody cared where he went. Nothing was holding him back. There was no furniture to move or appliances to sell. All he had was one hundred cassettes of his favorite rock groups. Johnny was a has-been at twenty-seven, All his heroes had died at that age – Jones, James, Janis, Jimmy – He always figured he would be the next ‘J’ to go, but instead he went nowhere. No one would notice if he died.

Johnny packed one suitcase with a pair of black jeans, shorts, swimming trunks, a week’s worth of underwear, and one hundred cassettes; hard blues rock and garage punk, Frigid Pink, Grand Funk, AC/DC. Cassettes of albums with songs his band mates wanted him to learn. He got his passport, spent all his savings to purchase a one-way cruise line passage, and said goodbye to America for what he thought would be forever. Heading for the 80’s, punk rockers would have to learn their riffs without him. He was out of there! Johnny was fed up with trying to make it in the world of rock ‘n’ roll. He wasn’t going to be the next Patti Smith poet. Tahiti would be a place where he wouldn’t be rejected; where there was no competition or someone to put him down. Tahiti was the place to get lost so he could find himself, get high and love the native girls.

Johnny chose Tahiti. He had studied French in school. There were many places to go where he could have understand what people said. He settled on Tahiti, in the capital of Papeete. Tahiti: the largest island in French Polynesia, in the southern Pacific Ocean. He looked it up in an encyclopedia in the college library. The weather was great; tropically hot.

   From Oakland, Johnny hopped on a ship for a fourteen night long cruise. The transoceanic ship was a human zoo of rich, important functionaries, and tourists. Johnny spent endless hours sitting on the deck gazing into the horizon. When he arrived, he spent a few days in an overwater bungalow with modern amenities and unparalleled views.

His plan was to get a job sitting on beach chair under an umbrella, eating bananas, sipping daiquiris, and smoking l’herb, rubbing tanning oil on himself and female tourists who would pay the rock star poet well.

When he arrived he found not the tropical paradise and the exotic and mysterious town found by legendary travelers like Captain Cook He realized that such paradise had been killed by civilization, military, and religious colonization. Johnny got on to the streets expecting the natives of Tahiti to sing and make love; that’s what he told his friends they would do. When he got to Tahiti, he realized that it was really just an unremarkable island with an international Westernized community. It was more sexually liberated than Brooklyn and he reveled in the opportunities it offered, but it wasn’t as extreme as he claimed in e-mails home. Unfazed, Johnny would transform his prosaic experiences into titillating erotic poetic adventures.

For three years, Johnny lived in Tahiti. The palm trees swayed over the turquoise water. He dallied with the dark haired native girls each one hoping Johnny would be their ticket off the island to the bright lights of America. Johnny became a superhero to them, a beach bum living in his shack he rented off Mahana Park. It was there that locals and tourists mixed and Johnny could get in a game of volleyball. It was there that he played his blues harp on the streets. Occasionally there were women with their fortunes who just wanted to mother orphans like him. He wouldn’t mind a tumble or two for some pocket change and a meal, either. Young natives, lovers of foreign culture, rock star followers, lovers of hamburgers and pizza looked Johnny’s way.

Magpie liked Johnny enough to let him stay for free at the shack she’d just been left by her late grandmother. Being on the tourist strip, Magpie had plans to make it into a tourist hangout. Young native women and foreign tourists found Magpie’s Shack a place to wet their whistle and meet women; some met Johnny. Meanwhile, Johnny not only became Magpie’s lover but also her bartender and waiter. From 4pm to 4am you could get beer, booze, weed, mushrooms, and blues at Magpie’s. The local mafia were paid off and the police with a supply of free meals and women who were looking for a big break. Magpie had her big break; her big break was Johnny Livewire.

Johnny’s big break was Magpie. But neither Johnny nor Magpie could get what they wanted from each other. Magpie wanted to marry Johnny and go to America. Johnny wanted to be left alone to listen to rock ‘n’ roll and get high. She wanted him to stop drinking, sleeping around, and using drugs. She wanted him to save money for their future.

“Where can I get that music you just played?” Mr. Bomana, a frequent client asked as Magpie swabbed the counter. Bomana was a lawyer, long in the draw, hairy and overweight in Bermuda shorts, who came by every day at 7pm for a night cap and a prostitute to bring home to bed. He tipped his glass, filled his broad bearded face with liquor, then slammed the glass down on the counter, swiveled his paunchy hips. It delighted the babes on the stools around him.

“You can get it here, big boy,” said Magpie filling the empty glasses. “We’re open seven days a week,” She said. AC/DC’s Malcolm Young played the rhythm and Phil Rudd whacked away at the drums. Bomana liked the beat.

“No, I mean I want to take it home; slip it into the deck in my living room,” said the drunken lover of rock.

“It belongs to Johnny, darlin’. Maybe, if you are nice, I can ask him to make a copy of it for you.”

“You think so? I can give him the blank.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Magpie offended that anyone would think they were so cheap.

“I’ll ask him when he gets back from the beach – wait. Here he comes now.” Johnny sauntered into the bar in his Hawaiian shorts, wife-beater and flip flops. Johnny went to take a leak, saw Magpie gesture and followed.

“What’s up, babe? Oh, hi Bomana.”

“Our lawyer friend here likes your music.”

“You like our music? Well thank you.” Johnny’s hand strayed to the ass of the woman by Bomana’s side. She jumped and acted insulted with a smile. Magpie gave Johnny a dirty look as Bomana laughed with delight.

“Come on, Johnny. Be serious. Can you make a copy of that album for our good friend?”

“Sure.” Johnny wasn’t happy at having to do extra work. “Why don’t we make copies of all my cassettes for anyone who asks? Say, why don’t you come here if you want to hear the music?”

“I’ll give you ten dollar for it.”

“Ten dollars, eh?” Johnny thought it over. It wasn’t such a bad idea after all if everyone gave him money for copies of his cassettes. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

That’s how it all began. With the hardcore crowd at Magpie’s Shack, the blues had rock and heavy metal wasn’t far behind. Johnny lined up a band to play blues every night. He could make money importing the latest hits he heard on John Peel’s BBC broadcast, copy and sell them. It would be the only place in the South Pacific islands where wild natives could get cutting edge foreign rock. You couldn’t hear it on the local radio station’s mainstream music like Elton John, or Andy Williams, but you could hear it from Johnny Livewire.

Johnny’s idea was to start his own record company and sell bootlegs all over the islands. If business was good and people liked the music he could become rich. That is how the Chrystal Blue Record Company came to be. Other local musicians were getting into the swing, starting their own bands while Johnny was the featured act at Magpie’s Shack. Wild rock ‘n’ roll you could always get from Johnny Livewire, sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll! 

One day, there were many ounces of different strains of marijuana and hashish in the office behind the shack. Johnny Livewire didn’t recall who put them there. He remembers a young man who came to the bar, Decadent trappings of stardom would accompany his success. If he smoked cigars, they would come from Cuba, the whiskey would be Johnny Walker Blue, the heroin from the Golden Triangle, and the call girls would be Brazilian.

      The young man who brought the contraband must have been a beach bum, too. Johnny didn’t know any foreigners who weren’t beach bums or tourists. The bum must have known Johnny well enough to trust him. Could he have been the friend of one of Johnny’s bartenders; no friend of a friend would trust a stranger in Tahiti, not with such severe penalties for drug possession. There was no difference in sentencing heroin or marijuana traffickers.

      Was it the Irishman who Johnny fired? They had been the best of friends and smoking buddies until he hit on Magpie. Johnny, pure of heart, would have thought nothing of firing a man, even with satchels of smoke, for playing with one of his girlfriends.

      It was almost like a dream but he knew he wasn’t dreaming. Johnny had never before seen such quantity and quality of weed in Tahiti sold like they were fine linen or Indian spices at a Moroccan bazaar or sultan’s palace.

      There they were, and reasonably priced, too: Afghanica, Ambrosia, Australian Blue, Burmese Kush, Panama Red, Dark Star, Dreadlock, Fruity Thai, Cali Kush, Himalaya Gold, Kahuna, Malawi Gold, Nirvana Special, Purple Haze, and Thai-Tanic. None of the herb was domestically grown. The hashish was from Burma. Johnny wished he had enough cash to buy whatever he liked but Magpie took most of the receipts away and stashed it somewhere for the future. He knew he’d never have an opportunity like this again anywhere in the world. Johnny Livewire had the world on a string and the just desserts to prove it until his world came crashing down. Magpie had other plans for his money. She wasn’t letting him get away with it.

“We’ve got the results of the urine analysis. They found traces of THC.” Now his lawyer, Mr. Bomana sat in the front passenger seat and read from a paper in his hand. They were in a car on the way to serve Magpie a ‘cease and desist’ notice; she had been ranting in front of staff and customers about her errant boyfriend.

      “So it did show up. I haven’t smoked in two weeks.”

      “Yes, unfortunately it did,” Mr. Bomana said shaking his head. The urine analysis was done clandestinely with only a number assigned to the sample to protect the client.”I don’t know if we can pursue this case any longer.”

      “She has no proof.”

      “But you said she has your journals.”

      “Yes, but I wrote ‘smoke’ in them. ‘Smoke’ could mean anything!”

      “You wrote ‘weed’ too, you said.”

      “But that could mean medicinal plants, too. Couldn’t it?”

      “Oh, come on, Johnny. Don’t fool yourself. This is serious in Tahiti.” Bomana, the customer, was alcoholic sex-maniac. Bomana, the lawyer, was a seasoned French Tahitian lawyer with many western clients. He strained his plump body to twist around and make eye contact with Johnny. “Driver,” he said in French, “Turn back to Mr. Livewire’s office, Johnny, we can’t serve her any longer.”

      “It’s a journal! She can’t use that against me!”

      “This is Tahiti, Mr. Livewire.”

      “But she’s harassing me. She’s ruining my business! She goes to the bar and tells patrons I’m a drug dealer, a home-wrecker, a pervert…”

      “Driver, bring Mr. Livewire back to his office.” Johnny slumped in the back seat of the sedan, defeated. “Let me see if there are other avenues we could pursue.”

      “You said you were sure you could help me.”

      “And, I promise, I will do whatever I can, but my hands are tied.” He shook his head in defeat. “That was before you tested ‘positive.’

Johnny thought of a way to take back his journals but his girlfriend had probably stashed them away somewhere. They were the first things she took, months before he refused to leave Tahiti and move to America with her. The accusations of infidelity were false; at least they couldn’t be proven. There couldn’t have been a photo taken by a neighbor. But the marijuana use accusation could be pasted onto him. She was a native female of Tahiti and he was a foreign male. The court would take her side, especially after her rich sister paid off the judge.

      Even without sustainable proof of illicit drug usage, the relationship was busted. Enough of her telling his friends who called that he no longer cared to speak with them. He could live with her without the fun, but could not live with her when she used his words and habits against him. The relationship was over; the knot had to be untied. He had to get her out of his life. He had to get her away from his business at her shack.

When Johnny’s girlfriend had gone to her parents’ home, he called up two of his mates, Nick and Julian, to come over and get high while she was gone. Nick and Julian were two misplaced Brits from Hong Kong that had gone to Tahiti for an extended vacation. They weren’t very good at following rules, but they were a lot of fun to hang out with. They knew all the bars that had good heavy metal videos. They knew all the bars that had all the good LP’s and beer. They didn’t know where they could earn money or spend the night.

“You can stay over my place while Magpie is away if you still need a place to stay,” Johnny suggested envisioning parties to keep his mind off his problems. He called Nick up on the phone in the roof top add-on apartment where they rented rooms.

“Are you certain it would be okay?” said Nick in his London drawl. “It would be wonderful, wouldn’t you think?” Johnny heard him calling out to Julian who was in the next room crimping his long blond hair.

“What’s that you said?”

“I said Master Johnny was inviting us to flop at the shack for a bit!”

“That would be fine and dandy. Tell him we’re packing up immediately,” answered Julian through a buzzing noise of a hair dryer.

Nick spoke understatedly, “Julian said that would be right okay.”

By nightfall, Nick and Julian appeared at Magpie & Johnny’s Shack, one bag between them. Johnny came out of the patio to great them and get them away from the suspicious eyes of the customers.

“Julian, let’s go to the pool,” Nick was aware that the two’s long hair and filthy motorcycle boots would be annoying. Plus, Julian reeked of alcohol and other leafy fragrances you wouldn’t find in an herbal drug store.

 Johnny joined his two British heavy metal friends for some AC/DC and carbine apple pipe smoke. Out on the beach in the orange sunset, they blew apple flavored smoke. The three were tight for the night and, after a bowl of beef noodle soup, returned to Johnny’s shack to spend the night. This went on for a week until Magpie came back.

The afternoon Magpie came home he was at his office working. The first thing she saw when she entered the back room was men’s filthy leather boots inside the front door. The tangy odor of unwashed clothes clung through the house to the walls. She went in to see two strange men with long hair sleeping in the bunk beds, legs dangling over the headboard, and screamed. Nick and Julian politely got up, put on their shoes, and left.

Johnny didn’t return to sleep in the house ever again. He had made up his mind: he was going to leave. Tahiti on drugs with friends was more fun than without them. One day, unannounced, he picked up and left the island.

Magpie had taken everything he had but he’d be damned if he was going to be her prisoner and be her meal ticket to the United States; that’s all she really wanted, anyway. Johnny wasn’t that ambitious; he just wanted to lie on the beach and listen to music and get stoned.

Johnny Livewire chose to live with the natives outside the capital. Papeete, where there were too many foreign settlers and people he owed money to. There was an important part of the primitive culture Johnny was searching for. Once he was settled in, Johnny began to write songs like he had never written before. He became famous. His most famous song in Tahiti, and number one on the charts, was “Riders on the Beach.”

At first, he used Jewish themes in transferring iconography to the exotic South Pacific, the baby Moses in a basket set down the Nile in the background with Polynesian natives. He introduced the Jewish faith to local culture. His songs were masterpieces, his words like messages from angels. Gradually, he abandoned the Jewish themes and began to introduce himself to the native beliefs. He became a ferocious detractor of the Jewish Synagogue while he began to accept the primitive native beliefs, and liquor. The gods and idols could change scale, turning into the main protagonists of his epic songs. Then, he got sick.

An illness in his eyes, added to the constant diarrheas and coughing up of blood forced him to be hospitalized for many months. It was after he recuperated that he learned that he had contracted syphilis. After a brawl in which his ankle was broken, he wrote his masterpiece, a fantasy about the Tahitian culture called “The Day of the Gods” in which the goddess Hina is adored by a group of women who dance surrounded by multicolored waters. First, he left Tahiti and took up residence in the Marquises Islands. His physical deterioration was so obvious that his popularity among Tahitian girls was null. He was forced into abstinence. He established himself on the main island in Hiva Da. He was beginning to sense his own death. His physical deterioration was then unstoppable; however, he was still strong enough to write lyrics and poems. He took the advice of a rabbi in Hong Kong and flew home to Brooklyn.