To make a statement, Dan and I dressed up in suits and ties. Just as we were leaving the house, Dad stopped me.
You’re not going anywhere.
Why?
You were out last night.
What does that have to do with tonight?
If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times. You can’t go out with your room looking the way it does.
I said I’d clean it up later.
He said he didn’t care. I was grounded.
Not tonight, I said. Buddy Rich is playing. You know he’s great.
Dad knew, but at this moment, he didn’t care. He was adamant. I wasn’t to leave the house.
But we have tickets.
Let Dan go and give the other ticket away.
That’s my ticket. I’m going.
The hell you are.
The hell I’m not.
It escalated from there. Dad got in my face, but for whatever reason, that didn’t scare me. I wasn’t budging. Neither was he. And then something snapped. I put up my fists. I said I was tired of his shit. I said I’d kick his fuckin’ ass. The truth is that he could have wiped me out in a second. I was no match for the man. But my stance shocked him. Looking back, I know he wasn’t afraid of me; he was probably more afraid of how he would destroy me. So, instead of getting physical, he kept it verbal. He said if I left now, I’d be leaving for good.
Fine. I’d leave for good.
I threw a bunch of my stuff in a duffel bag and moved out of the house. And that was it. I’d never live in Sy Kravitz’s house again.
At the time I had no plan B. I had no plan whatsoever. I didn’t know where or how I’d live. But that didn’t matter. Despite the pain it would bring Mom, I knew I had to get out. I wasn’t afraid. I was resolved.
First things first, though. Let’s go down to Disneyland to catch Buddy!
That night, the drummer was on fire. His band was burning. The music was so intense that I forgot all my problems. Once the show was over, though, my mind went back over what had transpired earlier that evening.
The confrontation with Dad shook me up but didn’t break me down. I knew I could survive. I had friends who would let me crash in their homes. I could couch-surf. And meanwhile I had plans to make music. GQ, our disco party outfit, was growing.
My only worry was Mom. She had always tried to make it right between me and Dad. My leaving would break her heart. At the same time, I couldn’t stay for her sake. I had to take my life into my own hands.
* * *
That first night, I crashed at Dan’s. Next morning, I moved in with Tracy Oberstone. First thing I did was call Mom. Naturally, Dad had told her about the confrontation. I said I was fine and staying at Tracy’s. Mom insisted on talking to Tracy’s mother, who reassured my mother that I was welcome there. Then Mom got back on the line with me.
She said I needed to cool down. I agreed. She thought my move was temporary. I knew it was permanent, but I didn’t need to tell her that. I didn’t need to add to her aggravation. She made me promise I wouldn’t quit school, a promise I kept. She had every expectation that I’d go on to college. But I knew I’d be lucky to graduate high school.
I loved staying at Tracy’s. He became like a brother to me. We have the same sense of humor and could finish each other’s sentences. His mom, Dorsay Dujon, was cool, and his brother, Mark, was funny. Compared to my father’s boot camp, the Oberstone household was paradise. Dorsay was gone all day, so we could do whatever we wanted: listen to music, make music, skip school. Mark had the best weed, the best bong, and a serious stereo system. The mini fridge in Tracy’s bedroom was stacked with beers. We stayed up as late as we liked.
There was, though, a negative side. I quickly learned that for Black people, life in Beverly Hills, one of the richest enclaves in America, could be treacherous. This hit home for me when Tracy, Mark, and I pulled into a gas station. Out of nowhere, three squad cars came roaring in and surrounded us. Guns drawn, they ordered us out of the car and forced us facedown on the ground.
Then, just as they were ready to get rough, up popped Mrs. Freeman, my history teacher, a kind woman who’d always let me leave class to play music. She stood up to the cops, demanding to know what was going on. The police said a car matching ours had been used in a robbery, but when Mrs. Freeman insisted that they double-check their information, they learned that they’d made a mistake. Without Mrs. Freeman intervening that night, we could have wound up in jail—or worse.
Instead, we went back to Tracy’s duplex and dealt with the incident by treating ourselves to a lavish homemade dinner. We barbecued steaks with tater tots. I cooked my specialty, shrimp scampi. To add to our sense of sophistication, we pooled our money and bought a few bottles of Royal, an imported Holland brew that came in an opaque designer bottle. Buzzed on beer, we put the police drama behind us.
* * *
While I was living with Tracy, he had an audition for a stage revival of The Me Nobody Knows. The director was George Wolfe, who’d later gain fame for Jelly’s Last Jam and Angels in America.
Tracy and I went to the theater together. I waited outside while he went in to read. A woman holding a clipboard asked if I was there to audition. I said no. She told me she worked for the casting agent and wanted to know if I could act and sing.
Well, yes.
She liked my look and urged me to try out.
I figured I had nothing to lose. And I figured right. I got the part, and Tracy didn’t. I was worried he would be upset, but being a seasoned pro he was cool.
The Me Nobody Knows had originally opened in 1970 in New York, featuring twelve inner-city kids (eight Black and four white), each of whom sang a song. Each tune defined his or her character. It was an interesting dramatic vehicle and good enough to win an Obie. Tisha Campbell was in the cast of our revival. Tisha had these hazel eyes I couldn’t stop staring at. She also had the most beautiful singing voice and the sweetest personality. A working professional since she was a little kid, Tisha had been one of the stars in the original Broadway production of this very play. She was a Jersey girl from East Orange, and her street smarts and swagger gave her an attitude I found sexy. I suppose I caught her eye, too, and we started flirting. Next thing I knew, we were making out on the floor during a party at a cast member’s place in Hollywood.
George put on a number of scaled-down productions for backers, but the backers didn’t bite, and the revival never ran. The run was over, and Tisha had to go back home to New Jersey. We were in love, and I told her I’d come see her as soon as I could. I kept my promise.
* * *
Another obstacle to my newfound freedom: my GQ party operation with Dan had long ago run out of steam. The gigs had stopped. That meant finding any kind of job I could get.
Louis Smallwood, the friend of Mom’s who’d brought me to Africa, had just bought a “you buy, we fry” fish joint called Leroy’s, located on Washington Boulevard and Rimpau, where locals bought their red snapper, turbot, catfish, sand dab, and flounder. Louis hired me as a counterman. I seasoned the orders with cornmeal and pepper, fried ’em up, and threw ’em in a basket with a side of potato salad, macaroni salad, and two slices of white bread. Don’t forget the ketchup and hot sauce.
Catfish was especially nasty to prepare. I had to cut open the fresh fish and remove its reproductive system, a whole apparatus of chambers and ducts and eggs covered in blood. Then I diligently scraped the fish till it was clean. Tom Bradley, L.A.’s first and only Black mayor, never failed to show up at Leroy’s for his Friday night fish fix before being driven off to his Hancock Park mansion.