Spike and Mike, the end of the road
Spike and Mike Festival Of Animation was coming back to Sacramento and I was invited to run the show with an entirely local crew. I told them I’d do it if they paid me the per diem and some money towards rent reminding them that they’d made me pay my own way in San Diego because of their San Diego is home to everyone policy. Sara, the new office girl balked until I pointed out that they could give me what I was asking for or they could rent Scott a place to stay a rental car etc. and spend a-lot more. They agreed and I put together a crew.
I hired my flamboyantly gay buddy Richy and a wild redhead named Lucielle. Every day they’d come back from flyering and tell me how the other goofed off. I figured neither of them did anything and they felt bad after. Thank god for Jimminy Cricket. So, I took them both to part time and worked with one of them each day. The shows went fine, with a few sell outs giving me a nice bonus and then I was convinced to go work SF with Spike. Whoever had been assigned to be his bitch had split on him once again.
I stayed at the Savoy again, and I inherited a mess left by Frank again. He’d been there to start the show and then took his crew north as was the pattern of migration, leaving some poor sap behind to contend with Spike.
I picked Spike up from his room at some trendy hotel near China town where you pay more to have a wildy zany décor and maybe a rockstar staying on the floor above you. I rode the elevator up with The Reverend Horton Heat. I gave the guys from Metallica some DVDs of the Sick and Twisted to watch on their bus. I didn’t see anyone I gave a damn about.
We got some flyering done and everynight we went looking for the Halle Boppe comet. We’d drive up into the hills of Sausilito, on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. We never did see the comet but we had a good time listening to music and talking shit. More often than not we had some of the young girls that Spike was forever buying gifts for tagging along.
Spike had a few favorite games that we’d play, like filling the bus. He imagined a bus destined to hell and he’d invite everyone to help fill it. Keanu Reeves had a good seat as did Brad Pitt and Gwen Stefani. Spike wanted to let some underappreciated person with actual talent drive the bus, maybe Sean Penn. Spike’s other favorite game was what would you do for money and how much money would it take. Eat a bums ass? Eat Madonna’s ass? Eat Madonna’s ass while she had diareah. His premise was that there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for money, the question being how much. With these games we’d wittle away the hours.
Just like my first shift as Spike’s bitch in Santa Cruz, I spent many morning sitting in Spike’s room reading while he made phone call after phone call. He had phone numbers written on old gum wrappers and in whatever space he could find on the very busy Spike and Mike flyers. He could read, it turned it out but only if he held whatever he was reading just inches from his face. He was damn near blind.
I’d take Scotty for walks. He was getting old. He was slowing down and fought me less when I thought I knew a better way to the park than he did. I wondered what Spike would do without his one loyal buddy.
Spike and I were strolling down Haight when I mentioned seeing someone he knew inside a building.
“Spike, is that Candy Pants?”
“Candy, where?”
“Right there you blind bastard, sitting at the desk.”
“Oh yeah. Let’s go see Candy. Hey ya Candy how ya doing?” Spike asked as he approached the confused receptionist at the optometrist office.
“Spike, this woman looks nothing like Candy, but you wouldn’t know that because you need glasses.” I told him as I turned to the woman who was definitely not Candy Pants. “Hi, we have a 3 o’clock eye exam appointment for Spike Decker.”
“Goddammit Ritalin.” Spike split. I caught up with him a block later and he pretended not to hear me.
“Spike, you need glasses man. Is that why you don’t drive? Let’s just get you some glasses. You can actually see the pretty girls you’re always flirting with.” I badgered him for a few blocks when he finally responed.
“They’re going to try to do surgery on my eyes and I could go blind for real.”
“What? No, they’re going to give you glasses. They might offer you the surgery, but you just tell them no.”
“They don’t ask you. They tell you they’re examing you and they just do it. No way are they getting me in that chair.”
We argued some more but it wasn’t going anywhere. Spike continued to be blind.
The show was playing at The Castro Theatre. I had been warned that they were assholes, but I figured I could get along with them. I’d be polite and serve as a middle man between them and Spike. Spike would call me a pussy and everything would be great.
Spike introduced me to Gene, the asshole in question and I did my best to be charming and professional. I got my books and the merch set up but I hadn’t brought a pen. I approached Gene’s office.
“Excuse me Gene. I seem to have left my pens back in my room. Could I hit you up for one.”
“Okay, let’s try to get off to the right start here okay. This is a professional place and you’ll act like a professional here. I’m here to run the theatre and you’re here to entertain people by acting ridiculous and to sell your little shirts and tapes. I’m not here to baby sit you or to supply you with office supplies or to otherwise run your little business. Okay? Now here’s a pen, but please, make it the last time you ask me to make up for you incompetence, okay?”
“That’s alright. I’m going to go grab some pens from the little store down the street. Why don’t you keep this one, in fact, why don’t you shove it up your obviously very tight ass?”
Okay, so I wasn’t a pussy after all. I got some pens and I did my job, Spike bugging me all the while. “Did ou count ‘em. Make sure you count everything, and write it all down. Put the prices up.”
“Hey Spike, I do this all the time, I got it man. Why don’t you wait until I’m done and then you can see if I missed anything.”
“Why don’t you just do it, Ritalin, damn. I don’t ask so much. Just do your fucking job.”
I did my best to tune him out. He hated The Castro theatre but he made gobs of money there so he couldn’t walk away. He took it out on me. Maybe Gene was pretty smart after all. Spike never spoke a single word to that lucky bastard.
On the second day of the show Spike was on me worse than ever. I got all set up early and I tried to read my book, “Trainspotting” to escape for the few minutes I had before I’d be dealing with the Sick and Twisted show’s moronic fans.
“Why are you fucking reading Ritalin?”
“Everything’s done Spike, just give me a minute to chill out okay. I’ve been going all day, and we’ll be here most of the night.”
“You should check over all the stuff.”
“It’s checked. It’s counted. Everything’s good.”
Spike took my book from my hands. This immediately felt very wrong. Spike wasn’t a hugger, he wasn’t a handshaker even. He wasn’t a punch you on the arm guy. He’d never touched me that I could remember. He still hadn’t but grabbing my book was more intrusive than he’d been.
“Spike, I’ll quit reading. Give me my book.”
He dropped it in the trash. I flashed back to Joolie at Greta’s, throwing my Urban Dance Squad tape across the kitchen. I took out the keys to Spike’s BMW and set them on the table. I took my book out of the trash and I caught a bus back to the Savoy.
I called the office and asked them if they could find someone to come get Spike. I was pissed and I was done, but I wouldn’t leave him totally stranded. Franks brother would take care of it. I called my friend Bill and asked if he’d come get me and take me back to Sac. He said he’d leave right away and be to me in three hours.
Bill left eight hours later. I knew from talking to his insane dad that he’d left to come get me at six in the morning. I was pissed so I went and caught the train home leaving Bill to wonder where the hell I was. I read Trainspotting on the way home, a fun read.
Spike and I didn’t talk for a few months. Sara called me when Scotty died. I found a good photo-graph of the Halle Bop comment and sent it off with a note telling Spike how sorry I was that Scotty had passed and that Scotty had lead a cooler life than most humans do. Spike called to thank me for the card. I love the crazy blind bastard and I consider him family. It sure feels good not to be his bitch.
>>>>Next story, The Fish Company>>>>
I hired my flamboyantly gay buddy Richy and a wild redhead named Lucielle. Every day they’d come back from flyering and tell me how the other goofed off. I figured neither of them did anything and they felt bad after. Thank god for Jimminy Cricket. So, I took them both to part time and worked with one of them each day. The shows went fine, with a few sell outs giving me a nice bonus and then I was convinced to go work SF with Spike. Whoever had been assigned to be his bitch had split on him once again.
I stayed at the Savoy again, and I inherited a mess left by Frank again. He’d been there to start the show and then took his crew north as was the pattern of migration, leaving some poor sap behind to contend with Spike.
I picked Spike up from his room at some trendy hotel near China town where you pay more to have a wildy zany décor and maybe a rockstar staying on the floor above you. I rode the elevator up with The Reverend Horton Heat. I gave the guys from Metallica some DVDs of the Sick and Twisted to watch on their bus. I didn’t see anyone I gave a damn about.
We got some flyering done and everynight we went looking for the Halle Boppe comet. We’d drive up into the hills of Sausilito, on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. We never did see the comet but we had a good time listening to music and talking shit. More often than not we had some of the young girls that Spike was forever buying gifts for tagging along.
Spike had a few favorite games that we’d play, like filling the bus. He imagined a bus destined to hell and he’d invite everyone to help fill it. Keanu Reeves had a good seat as did Brad Pitt and Gwen Stefani. Spike wanted to let some underappreciated person with actual talent drive the bus, maybe Sean Penn. Spike’s other favorite game was what would you do for money and how much money would it take. Eat a bums ass? Eat Madonna’s ass? Eat Madonna’s ass while she had diareah. His premise was that there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for money, the question being how much. With these games we’d wittle away the hours.
Just like my first shift as Spike’s bitch in Santa Cruz, I spent many morning sitting in Spike’s room reading while he made phone call after phone call. He had phone numbers written on old gum wrappers and in whatever space he could find on the very busy Spike and Mike flyers. He could read, it turned it out but only if he held whatever he was reading just inches from his face. He was damn near blind.
I’d take Scotty for walks. He was getting old. He was slowing down and fought me less when I thought I knew a better way to the park than he did. I wondered what Spike would do without his one loyal buddy.
Spike and I were strolling down Haight when I mentioned seeing someone he knew inside a building.
“Spike, is that Candy Pants?”
“Candy, where?”
“Right there you blind bastard, sitting at the desk.”
“Oh yeah. Let’s go see Candy. Hey ya Candy how ya doing?” Spike asked as he approached the confused receptionist at the optometrist office.
“Spike, this woman looks nothing like Candy, but you wouldn’t know that because you need glasses.” I told him as I turned to the woman who was definitely not Candy Pants. “Hi, we have a 3 o’clock eye exam appointment for Spike Decker.”
“Goddammit Ritalin.” Spike split. I caught up with him a block later and he pretended not to hear me.
“Spike, you need glasses man. Is that why you don’t drive? Let’s just get you some glasses. You can actually see the pretty girls you’re always flirting with.” I badgered him for a few blocks when he finally responed.
“They’re going to try to do surgery on my eyes and I could go blind for real.”
“What? No, they’re going to give you glasses. They might offer you the surgery, but you just tell them no.”
“They don’t ask you. They tell you they’re examing you and they just do it. No way are they getting me in that chair.”
We argued some more but it wasn’t going anywhere. Spike continued to be blind.
The show was playing at The Castro Theatre. I had been warned that they were assholes, but I figured I could get along with them. I’d be polite and serve as a middle man between them and Spike. Spike would call me a pussy and everything would be great.
Spike introduced me to Gene, the asshole in question and I did my best to be charming and professional. I got my books and the merch set up but I hadn’t brought a pen. I approached Gene’s office.
“Excuse me Gene. I seem to have left my pens back in my room. Could I hit you up for one.”
“Okay, let’s try to get off to the right start here okay. This is a professional place and you’ll act like a professional here. I’m here to run the theatre and you’re here to entertain people by acting ridiculous and to sell your little shirts and tapes. I’m not here to baby sit you or to supply you with office supplies or to otherwise run your little business. Okay? Now here’s a pen, but please, make it the last time you ask me to make up for you incompetence, okay?”
“That’s alright. I’m going to go grab some pens from the little store down the street. Why don’t you keep this one, in fact, why don’t you shove it up your obviously very tight ass?”
Okay, so I wasn’t a pussy after all. I got some pens and I did my job, Spike bugging me all the while. “Did ou count ‘em. Make sure you count everything, and write it all down. Put the prices up.”
“Hey Spike, I do this all the time, I got it man. Why don’t you wait until I’m done and then you can see if I missed anything.”
“Why don’t you just do it, Ritalin, damn. I don’t ask so much. Just do your fucking job.”
I did my best to tune him out. He hated The Castro theatre but he made gobs of money there so he couldn’t walk away. He took it out on me. Maybe Gene was pretty smart after all. Spike never spoke a single word to that lucky bastard.
On the second day of the show Spike was on me worse than ever. I got all set up early and I tried to read my book, “Trainspotting” to escape for the few minutes I had before I’d be dealing with the Sick and Twisted show’s moronic fans.
“Why are you fucking reading Ritalin?”
“Everything’s done Spike, just give me a minute to chill out okay. I’ve been going all day, and we’ll be here most of the night.”
“You should check over all the stuff.”
“It’s checked. It’s counted. Everything’s good.”
Spike took my book from my hands. This immediately felt very wrong. Spike wasn’t a hugger, he wasn’t a handshaker even. He wasn’t a punch you on the arm guy. He’d never touched me that I could remember. He still hadn’t but grabbing my book was more intrusive than he’d been.
“Spike, I’ll quit reading. Give me my book.”
He dropped it in the trash. I flashed back to Joolie at Greta’s, throwing my Urban Dance Squad tape across the kitchen. I took out the keys to Spike’s BMW and set them on the table. I took my book out of the trash and I caught a bus back to the Savoy.
I called the office and asked them if they could find someone to come get Spike. I was pissed and I was done, but I wouldn’t leave him totally stranded. Franks brother would take care of it. I called my friend Bill and asked if he’d come get me and take me back to Sac. He said he’d leave right away and be to me in three hours.
Bill left eight hours later. I knew from talking to his insane dad that he’d left to come get me at six in the morning. I was pissed so I went and caught the train home leaving Bill to wonder where the hell I was. I read Trainspotting on the way home, a fun read.
Spike and I didn’t talk for a few months. Sara called me when Scotty died. I found a good photo-graph of the Halle Bop comment and sent it off with a note telling Spike how sorry I was that Scotty had passed and that Scotty had lead a cooler life than most humans do. Spike called to thank me for the card. I love the crazy blind bastard and I consider him family. It sure feels good not to be his bitch.
>>>>Next story, The Fish Company>>>>
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