Ah, The Stories We Could Tell
I just had a birthday last week, and I was thinking about some of the things that have happened to me over my life. Thinks I’d like to someday write about and maybe work into a novel. Like signing at the Playboy Mansion…or warming up the Ray Charles show. Singing the Star Spangled Banner solo at a Reds game and exploring Havana, Cuba, while meeting the roll model for The Old Man And The Sea. Some of the events were highs, and some were lows.
Before Hustler magazine, Larry Flint owned a group of clubs called, believe it or not, the Hustler Clubs. They weren’t anything flashy. They consisted of girls dressed in bikinis and drinks that cost the customers probably ten times their value. I was working with a guy named Dave, and we were district managers for, I believe, 6 or 7 clubs in Ohio. In my very brief stint with the organization, I worked with club managers, prepared a video for new employees, and went from club to club making sure things were running smoothly.
I’d been with Flint a very short time, and already run into trouble with his girlfriend ( who later died of aids) Althea Liesure. ( I question whether that was her given name, but hey…she was Flint’s girlfriend.) One night I was closing the books with the manager of the Columbus, Ohio club. The club was closed and the manager and I heard shouting outside. We walked out and saw a drunk, abusive boyfriend picking up his girlfriend after work. She was one of our dancers. He was screaming at her on the sidewalk outside the club.
The manager and I walked outside and tried to calm him down. I could see a car parked across the street with two or three guys waiting for them. As we pleaded with the boyfriend to settle down, Jimmy Flint, Larry’s brother, walked out and started shouting at the drunk. They started pushing each other and Jimmy hit the guy and knocked him down. He called inside to Larry who came out with a pool que and started beating the guy.
The friends across the street started shouting, telling then to stop. I walked out into the street,hoping to appeal to the guys to stay out of it. One of the men opened the trunk and pulled out a shotgun. He swung it toward the club. I remember falling to the ground and crawling back to the sidewalk, inside the club, and going out the backdoor. I never went back. I assume somewhere, I have a paycheck coming, but that was 38 years ago and they may have marked it off by now.
High points, low points. It’s been an interesting life. Like the time I auditioned for the singing group the Vogues and turned the position down, or the two years I wrote for the National Enquirer and delved into some very strange stories.
We all have strange stories to tell. The more years you live, the more stories you have. Someday I’ll write about my inviation to work with the Beach Boys and the James Gang. Or entertaining for the New York Yankees when Major League Baseball went on strike in the early 70’s.
What’s your favorite story? Z may not be able to remember many of his. Judy is too young to have many stories. Casey writes about stories that dead people tell, and C.R. can top us all. And Jeff…who knows.
