Kenny L

Ken, as I mentioned earlier, lived on the first floor of the Franklin Street loft. He was a Princeton graduate and as soon as he opened his mouth, you just knew you were listening to something important. This was the time of Dr. Timothy Leary and Ken went in that direction. He burned himself out early, hit the skids, and I last heard that he was in a recovery program.

I do remember, however, the time he decided that he was going to test the rules and deal some hash out of the first floor. There was a rule that any hash had to be sold on two... lol... (I know... crazy shit...) So... when word leaked up to the second floor that there was a hash deal going down on one, he had to answer to the unofficial Franklin Street court. They actually had a hearing where he plead his case. It was pretty damned funny and he won the case because the second floor folks didn't have his eloquence. His Princeton education wasn't entirely wasted.  Bobby was a very fair judge and, as the king of the mountain on the third floor, was the final word on all conflicts. Meantime, it was a price-fixing scheme where they expected him to sell it to the second floor and then they would get their slice of the pie before it left the building. Bottom line, Ken was okay in my book... I remember smoking opium with him and getting the worst sore throat of my life. Brandy, Ken's lady, made this weirdo concoction that they took from some guru's recipe, and I swear, it cured my throat issue in about two hours... my drug intake went from zero to the roof in a few hours. I was, understandably very grateful. I was even more grateful when Brandy turned me on to her model girlfriend Donna... but that's a whole other story...

Update (December 2014): Ken and Brandy, it would seem, made a complete and rich recovery.  They are still together, living in the South.  They have five grandchildren from three daughters, and the short correspondence was not only coherent but intelligent, as always.  One thing, however, is interesting.  He doesn't remember me.  And, frankly, I'm not surprised.  There are a lot of gaps that remain from those days, some of which I'm sure are mine.

Rocky & Melvin

Rocky & Melvin.. almost sounds like a cartoon... But they were partners and part of the Florida to New York scene... Rocky was a semi-serious workout freak (I mean how serious could he have been with all that 'stuff' around)... Melvin was... well... he was a Melvin... not a Mel. Anyway, at the time, we were renting a really sweet, totally secluded stash house that sat at the top of a hill and had a long winding driveway. And these guys had a few cars coming up... and no place to land them. A mutual connection suggested that we get together and provide the spot. At the time, we weren't doing big numbers yet so this was a pretty nice opportunity. We met and the deal was that we'd land the cars, and they'd give us the first shot at moving the load. So the cars arrive (well, not directly but they get dropped off nearby and we take them up to the place without the original drivers for the sake of security), and the product is a full range from really really good to really really seedy and shaky. This was something of a turning point in the business model since up to that point we had been doing relatively small amounts... generally not more than a hundred... and usually 25-50... but these cars came and had 800 in the trunks... which was a major upward move for us. We handled the logistics without much difficulty, meaning we got everything weighed in, logged, categorized, priced and stored. But then the next step was to move the product out...

I do remember one afternoon, Rocky showed up with some girl that nobody knew... He apparently had just met her the night before at some club... Which really pissed me off since we went to serious extremes to keep new faces out of our scene. But this was a major shot and, after telling him he was fucking up, we let it slide. And that was cool until the afternoon... when Rocky comes back with her and a while later the phone rings, I go to answer it but there's nobody there. A minute later, she comes rushing into the room, all breathless, and says someone just hung up after saying "Porky Pig is doing the jig".... It took us all of about 10 seconds to decide that the cops were on their way and the next thing you know, everybody is bailing... myself included... leaving the entire load unattended... A half hour later, we're driving slowly around the area and nothing is happening... My partner and I look at each other, decide that the whole thing might be a scam to get us away from the stuff and we quickly go back to find everything intact and safe. It was something of an adrenaline rush in many respects... Anyway, the next day, Melvin shows up with a giant Carvel shake in his hand... while we're doing some homogenization (making sure no bag had too much shake or too many seeds)... He walks in and is looking at the open bags when his face turns red, he gasps and then pukes a giant strawberry Carvel shake all over the room... I mean he was like a fountain... or a shaken bottle of beer... It was an absolute nightmare... Fucking Melvin!!

So... I'm looking around for places to move a much larger volume than I normally could or had actually ever done before. One of my friends, Jack, tells me he's got a guy who does this kind of thing and pays cash on the spot... I mean this wasn't the norm in my circle... Generally, we relied on honesty in that we'd front the product and get paid when it was sold. In fact, most of the time, we were fronted it as well. So at around 7 pm, I give Jack about 50 units to go show his guy... and he's supposed to be back in two hours... He leaves and the clock begins ticking away... one hour gone... two hours gone... I start beeping him (pre-cellphone times)... nothing... 10 pm nothing... we start to get real nervous... 11... 12... 1... we're trying to decide where else we can put this stuff until we find out what happened to Jack... 2 in the morning... still nothing... we start loading up a car to get it out of there... Just as we're ready to move, Jack shows up... he's got a case with 70 Gs in it and says, 'He liked it and he wants it all. Here's a downstroke for the entire thing. He'll pay for it on the spot when you bring it."

I'll save Marvin for his own story but bottom line, Jack's guy was real... He bought the entire thing in one shot... And suddenly, through Rocky and Melvin, I was playing in a different league entirely.

Last I heard, Melvin was retired in Florida and Rocky was getting out of jail in the Carolinas somewhere...

Dennis B

Dennis B was more of a peripheral character... He lived in a loft on 19th street between 5th and 6th Avenue... In any other period, he would have likely been an outcast... he wore his hair to his waist, has a thing for big ugly angry dogs, came off as a junior high school dropout, and had zero social skills. On the other hand, in this period, he had what was necessary to make this list: He could count, had a loft, had a big O-Beam scale (not the gram size... the big one), had balls, and, above all, was an honest guy.

Not much more to say about Dennis per se... I hope he survived when the scene changed. I have no idea whatsoever what happened to him. He was part of the Max S circle and I don't know what became of them either.

Big Al

Big Al was one of those people who make stereotypes seem true. He was a 50 year old mafia wannabe but he came pretty damned close to being the real thing. (I was in my 30s at the time) He wasn't a 'made' guy but he had all the trappings. He was, of course, very Italian and he spoke Brooklynese like it was his first language. His conversations were always laced with 'youse guys' and 'dem guys' and 'dose guys'. He even looked the part and a few years back, I was shocked when I saw Paulie Walnuts on the Sopranos series. Big Al looked a lot like Paulie. He had the salt and pepper hair, the 'don't fuck with me' look and when he spoke, you didn't doubt for a second that he was the real deal.

I met Big Al through one of those things that happened regularly in the business. We were connected through someone we mutually knew. Every so often, people would drop out of the scene due to a variety of circumstances. Sometimes a guy got a habit... sometimes they just split the scene... other times they got popped. Anyway, the mutual connection took a powder owing both of us some cash. We had met in passing a few times and when the middle guy took off, we got together and started doing things. Now, I have to say there is no way on earth that Al and I would have been connected in any other situation. Wannabe or not, he was a serious dude and had a crew.

Doing things with Big Al was double-edged. On one hand, you never felt quite comfortable with the guy... He could go from looking happy to looking deadly in an instant. But for some reason, we never got to that place. We showed each other respect and that held a lot of weight in the subcultures we were both moving in.

One time, during a drought, I remember getting a call from Big Al... "Hey... we gotta meet... I gotta some oranges...' And, since this was in the 1980s, and I was fairly well along in my 'career', I didn't give it much hesitation and just asked how much, how many and went to meet the guy with a bag of cash. At the meet, I get into his car and he starts telling me how he's nervous about the connection... It's 'dese spics who ain't got no rules'... and then he says there's nothing to worry about because his kids are backing him up. I don't have a real picture of what he's talking about but I realize immediately that I'm out of my comfort zone and can't wait to get done and leave. The next thing I know, we're in a huge warehouse down in Red Hook by the Marine Shipping Terminal and it feels like a big dark gymnasium with a surrounding catwalk. And in the middle of the place, in a circle of light, there's these three guys with a duffel bag and, as we got closer, I see that they are all holding pistols. I, on the other hand, am holding only a bag of cash. Anyway, we get there and after about 10 minutes of unintelligible haggling (the three guys could hardly speak English and were nervous as all hell waving their guns around) they open the duffel and the stuff is horrible. It's been wet, smells like old shoes, looks like alfalfa, and there's no way I would ever buy it or worse, sell it. But, the three guys are flashing their guns... Big Al, who had always been a customer and suddenly had a chance to be a supplier, and didn't give a crap about quality, just looks at me and says 'I cut a good deal for you, eh?' So here I am... three fucking lunatics with guns... a serious Italian who wouldn't know good pot from a bale of hay... and me... I start asking him about what happens if the stuff can't be sold... He looks at me... "Waddayamean? It's a drought... Anything'll move..." I go 'But what if?... and he looks at me again... then turns to the three guys and starts to bargain for a lower price... They start to get all crazy, talking a million words a second, waving the guns all around... I'm pretty much shitting my pants... But Big Al isn't nervous... He just takes my bag, holds it up to the guys and points to the catwalk where, when I look, there's a few guys holding what look like automatic weapons. I am almost in cardiac arrest so I tell Al to just do the fucking deal and let's get out of there. He says that they are his kids and not to worry. Worry? I'm pissing my pants and he's telling me not to worry. Anyway, in the end, he got the price down a little, I bought the stuff just to end the situation and get myself out of there... It turned out that the three guys had ripped off the stuff anyway and a few weeks later, trying to do it again, they got shot up. The stuff really sucked but it wasn't a huge bag and we managed to get the money back. But I'll never forget that scene in the warehouse...

So, despite all the weirdness, Big Al had one quality that made the connection work. He was 100% dead-on honest. You never had to run after him when he owed you and if he needed more time, which happened regularly in that business, he asked for it like a gentleman and didn't offer up lame excuses. He was a stand-up guy when it came to the business. Which is probably the reason why I found a new way to lose money. It's December 30, and Big Al owes me like 8 grand or so... I'm into my New Year's party mode so when he calls me to make the drop, I shine it on and tell him we'll get together after the weekend. The holiday happens and I give him a call afterwards... Mrs. Al answers the phone and tells me that Big Al died of a massive coronary on New Years Eve and he's being laid out at Finnegan's Funeral Parlor on Northern Boulevard. Now there's no way I'm going to his kids and asking them for the money. And there's no way I'm going to try to explain to Mrs. Al that Mr. Al owed me either. So the only thing I do is go to the wake to make sure the guy is dead and just write it off as 'one-a dem tings'. I had found a new way to lose money.

The last I heard, Big Al was still dead.

Kenny K

Kenny K... one of the City College crew... he played a really great bass... tall dude (6'3' or 6'4" at least) who, despite having a pretty deep voice, had the inflection of what later became known as the valley girl sound... the last syllables always trailed up an octave... everything came out sounding like a question... Hey Man... Gimme a joint? the last word turned it into a question... Anyway, Kenny was the first person who was heavy into Rod Stewart... back when the Faces just cut their first album... and Rod Stewart wasn't the only thing he had first... I remember Kenny and the duffel bag he got from Nam...

I remember the first time I drove home a pound. I went up to Kenny’s apartment in the Bronx. Walking in, I saw people hanging out in a smoky daze all over the place. Kenny brought out a duffel bag, dug in, and filled a bag with the stuff. He had an Ohaus Triple Beam Scale and when he hit 454 grams, he sealed it up and gave it to me. “Look around.” He said. “This stuff is much better than anything you’ve ever had.” And I looked around, and saw that everyone was dazed. “This stuff came back from Nam.” And “Don’t smoke too much at once.” And “It comes on long after you stop.” And “Don’t smoke it now because you have to drive home with it.”

So I paid Kenny, slipped out for the drive back to Astoria. I put the bag in my trunk and get into the car. The second I pull out of the spot, a police car comes down the block and is behind me. I’m freaking out. Oh my God… Oh my God… Please don’t bust me…

And, when I got to the corner, turned right, the cops kept on straight. Now all the way home, I’m thinking about this. If I don’t tell anyone that I have something in my car, what are the odds they could figure it out? Have I ever been stopped before? No. Why should I be stopped now? No real reason unless I screw up. In other words, I was in charge of what happened. It wasn’t about the cops, it was about me. Just be cool and this didn’t have to be dangerous…. After that, I stopped taking the stuff home on the subway.

I'm trying to remember... I think Kenny was the guy who got busted for stealing a loaf of bread out of a bag upstate somewhere... one of those hard to believe tales... Late at night (actually early in the morning) after a real bender... he's starved and nothing is open... cruising through an upstate hick town... sees a bakery truck drop off a huge bag of bread to a local deli spot... so he goes up and reaches into the bag for a roll... and had the misfortune to be eyeballed by a trooper... BAM... The guy's spends a day jail for stealing a fucking roll...

Anyhow, Kenny was a cool dude and the last I heard was at least 15 years ago... he was working at IBM...   

Update: Kenny is alive and well, playing bass in a couple of hot bands upstate and definitely in tune with the higher world.

Bobby Mountain

so... here i am... it's 1970 and i'm just finished with school... working weird hours at the newspaper... basically some nights I get out at 11pm and others at 1:30 in the morning... My days off are Thursday and Friday... so, essentially, Wednesday night is my Friday night... Thursday is my Saturday... and Friday is my Sunday... and, get this... because the Sunday paper is published early on Saturday night, i only worked from 4PM-8PM on Saturdays... Sunday was a light news day so there wasn't much to do on Sundays either. So what's a guy to do in Manhattan after midnight? This is about Bobby Mountain but bear with me while I explain what happened here...

My best friend growing up (you can find him on the list) was Mel M. Now Mel went into the garment industry and wound up hanging out with a whole other circle of friends and associates. But, as was the case so often in those days, we did have one thing in common.... We both enjoyed a good smoke... And, while I was moving in a college/intellectual mode, Mel was rolling with the down and dirty. So one day, Mel and I met up and sat down to toke a bit, comparing who had the better what... Anyhow, in the course of the conversation, Mel is talking about the garment industry and how everybody is getting totally wasted. I'm talking about my roommate (who worked for Time Magazine) and his crowd getting just as wasted... Eventually, I tell Mel that I have only half a life because of my work hours... So he tells me to go meet this chick Brandy who is hanging out down in Soho at a Franklin Street loft scene. And I, still accumulating connections and customers, am more than happy to go see who Brandy is and what this scene is about...

And then I wind up calling her and getting invited downtown to the loft... When I tell a few 'connected' friends that I got an invite to a Franklin Street loft scene, they're like all 'wow!' and start telling me about rumors going around that half the best smoking dope in town is moving through a loft building on Franklin Street. So a few days go by and I head down to meet Brandy... She tells me to meet her after midnight the next day when I get out of work... and we can head down so I can meet her guy, who, it turns out, is a perversely brilliant guy that took a few dozen too many acid trips and is into believing that he's not only seen god but that god is speaking through his mouth. I end up in this loft building with three floors... and I'm only allowed onto the first floor since there is kind of a pecking order as to who makes it to the next level... something like one of today's video games... It turns out that they deal grass on the first floor, hash on two and the heavier stuff is apparently moving only on three.

Since this is about Bobby, I'll leave out the months of challenges and tests and happenings and skip on up to the third floor... and who lived there...

The first time I met Bobby, he was coming off a two week coke binge... which is what happened about every second week. and we got real close as the weeks and months went by. Bobby was an original thinker. He didn't have the major educational creds that were moving on the first floor, but he had the ability to see through everybody's bullshit. And he wound up at the top of the Franklin Street Mountain, moving pounds of coke and harder stuff... I remember one time we were cooking up some acid... Bobby went and got a little mold that was used for pills... and started fabricating his own pharmaceuticals... the ultimate generic drugs... lol

So he makes up the base... and sets out the molds... and actually manufactures the pills... and then, while they were still in the mold, he cooks up a batch of acid, and, with an eye dropper, begins dosing out the pills... one by one... and, in my best imitation of Tom Sawyer, I jump in and start squeezing out the drops... we're getting blitzed as the stuff is pretty much everywhere... it's in the air we're breathing... and I remember we're counting together... one... two... three... four... five... etc etc until we've let drops into each pill of each row... and how, occasionally, the phone would ring... and we'd look at each other... one... one... one... one... and then two... two... two... and then break up because we had just ODed some poor fucker on LSD... which was pretty fucking funny since we firmly believed there was no such thing with acid.

Bobby played a dynamite soprano saxophone that you could hear most any night... and the longer the coke binge went on, the crazier the jazz sound became... and in those days, in that place, every loft building had a coked up musician playing straight ahead until the drugs ran out...

He also had a really amazing lady... who became quite famous later on... Bobby ultimately got popped for dealing coke to a fed... did his time... came out and moved out to God's Country in the great northwest.... where he lives today...

Scott G

Scottie... I went to school with this really sultry babe named Marta. And we ran in the same circles... which means we were usually at the same parties... it wasn't anything serious... more like we were close acquaintances through a mutual friend, Caroline (who I'm in touch with to this day). So, one day, Marta is looking around for something to smoke... (it wasn't like I was seriously into it yet but I was definitely putting my scene together) and I happened to have a few really high-quality Thai doobies to share with her... and somehow, she told her brother about it (Joey R who is also on this list) and her brother was very much into dealing. He had a partner (enter Scottie) and it didn't take long before they were asking me to get them stuff.

Joey was a story unto himself... He wound up turning to real junk and was dealing pot to pay for it. I remember one time he fell asleep on the subway and lost a bagful of cash. A few years later, he cleaned up his act, got a job driving a truck and managed to hit an overpass crossing Central Park in New York City with a truck filled with a few tons of pistachios... Crunch!!

Anyway, back to Scottie... He was a kind, gentle kid who was totally honest and wound up moving to Costa Rica to open a tourist spot. I'm wanting to believe he's still there and living the life he dreamed of.

Update:  Caroline RIP...

Beanie (Bernard Frank)

Okay… so one day in 1969, flush with money and likely stoned (still working at the New York Times), I decided to take a week’s vacation to Florida. I was engaged at the time but that’s a whole other digression and Cheri didn’t come with me so I’ll just say Cheri ended up becoming collateral damage from this trip. I stayed at the Doral Beach Hotel and the first day there, I wound up at the pool, sitting next to this freak from Philadelphia named Beanie who had hair to his waist and a guru-type grin that he perpetually wore on his face. In the course of the week, I spent a lot of time with Beanie, discussing so many things in so many obtuse ways that my head was spinning at ridiculous speeds. Between sharing joints and opinions, Beanie ripped away any remaining objections I had to leaving my life and starting again. We talked about everything from the war to the cost of pot. He also happened to have a fifth booze bottle that was filled with coconut oil that he had brought back from Jamaica (along with a whole bunch of other ‘stuff’). Beanie showed me the virtues of coconut oil as a sun-tanning device and how to roll a huge spliff and by the time the week ended, I knew I wasn’t long for the New York Times. I wanted to ‘Be What I Could’ and not ‘Be What I Was’. And thus began a long journey that was unimaginable at the time but, looking back, was probably inevitable.

Max S

Max himself wasn't all that interesting... pretty much of a small-time selfish big dope who sold bales of Jamaican weed and some Lebanese hashish for a while... was partners with Jerry S and JB. Together, they were decent connections but didn't really get the big picture of things. My sense of the business was that fairness was an essential part of the picture. Just because you had a product that people wanted wasn't a reason to take advantage of them. The business wasn't about a single transaction but was an ongoing relationship that could be profitable for all sides. Jerry got the picture but Max was too full of himself to see anything beyond his own self.

So I remember Max as someone who always tried to milk every bit of product for every possible buck. His ego was huge... and if he had something that he knew you wanted, he played on it until you pretty much paid whatever he wanted and said thank you. After several years, the tables were turned and he was real surprised when I had what he wanted and I told him to go fuck himself.

He did, however, have a sweet-looking live-in who was fun to be with. That relationship lasted until Max became physically abusive. The last time I saw her, her face was bruised purple and my eyes rolled as she tried to tell me how it was her fault. I left and didn't go back. I heard later on that he got busted trying to sell some lousy product to an agent. I suspect he was asking for a price that only a cop would pay.