Category Archives: writer

The Boy Named Alice

Posted: May 17, 2021 at 8:16 am

We were lost on a two-lane road twenty kilometers from Aix-en-Provence when Devon said, Dad, this boy back here is going to throw up.This boy back here.

         The Boy Named Alice, eight-years-old, had not spoken since he got in the car. A Marcel Marceau fan, he didnt say he needed to vomit. He poked Devon and made throwing-up motions. I swerved my newish car to the shoulder and Carol pulled a plastic bag from her purse. Too late. A small dollop of puke made it into the bag. The rest splashed The Boy Named Alice, the backseat, the floorboards and the inside of the door. Neither Carol nor I are squeamish about vomit; were parents. But this was someone elses kid, he seemed mute, and we didnt know his real name.

         “Kcchhhchhh,said Sophie in the backseat, retching.

         “Ghllghlhl,said her brother beside her, holding his throat.

         I scooped vomit from the upholstery with a Kleenex. Carol cleaned The Boy Named Alices soccer uniform, standing in the ditch. He remained silent, indifferent to the situation or the stranger scraping barf from his shorts. We left the putrid plastic bag and the vomit-slathered contents of a box of Kleenex in the ditch, to lie with the detritus common to the shoulders of French roads.

         “I feel awful leaving our pukey garbage in the ditch, Billy,said Carol. She looked down, and saw a spot of vomit on her shoe.

         “I dont like it either, but what choice do we have? I dont know how much longer well be stuck in the car.” I swallowed back something rising in my throat and gagged.

*

         Every Saturday, Devon played a match for his Aix-based soccer club. The club employed a comical system to get players and parents to the out-of-town pitches each week. If I ran the club, I would send an email to each players parents on Monday, asking if their child could play that weekend. I would include the name of the hosting town and soccer field, the time to arrive there, and imbed in the note a Google map. A lawyers preparation. Call me crazy, but I imagine that would work out pretty well.

         Devons club had a different system. On Thursdays I received a message from an anonymous texter, something like: come to the stadium on Saturday at 2 p.m.” There was no information about the texts author, the game time, the opponent, or whether the text had anything to do with my son or soccer. Was it an invitation from a Marseille wiseguy to pick up a suitcase of drugs? I felt like a Luddite, but an email would have been nice.

         Being my fathers son, I had my family at the stadium five minutes early. That was my first mistake, forgetting about le petit quart dheure (which allows every French citizen to be at least 15 minutes late for everything). Over the next thirty minutes, parents and players would drift into the parking lot. The first time this happened, I ignored the tardiness, and picked the least-late parent to befriend. I targeted a sallow-faced smoking father, held out my hand and said, in French, Hello, Im Bill, Im Devons father.

         The man gave me one of those handshakes which offers only fingers, no palm. Yes. Hello,he said, without giving his name.

         “Were here from Canada. Were living in Aix this year.

         “Yes. I know,he said.

         “Devon is enjoying playing for this club. Is this your son? What position does he play?

         “Oh, here and there.The man tossed the remainder of his cigarette to the asphalt.

         That was the end of the conversation. I made similar attempts to engage other parents on other Saturdays, but had the same results. With no parents to befriend, every Saturday we waited in silence for the latecomers, staring into the distance like models in department store catalogues.

         Eventually, the coach told us the name of the town we had to find. I asked him the address of the soccer pitch. Every time the coach replied, Theres only one stadium. Its easy to find.This was patently false.

         The plan was each driver would follow the car in front, and we would arrive at the pitch en masse. Within thirty seconds, all the cars were separated. The soccer pitch was never plunked beside city hall in any of these towns, and was often outside the towns borders and down an unmarked dirt road. One cannot find secreted and unnamed soccer pitches accessed by unmarked dirt roads without stopping several times to ask indifferent locals for directions. In French. With a Québécois accent. And we were late. Did I mention this scenario played out every week?

         Well, not exactly like that every week – one Saturday had a vomitous twist. Sure, we had the mystery location, lack of directions, and chronic lateness. But as we were leaving our home stadium, the coach pulled me aside.

         “Could you take another player in your car to Peynier?he asked.

         “Of course,I said, as a uniformed boy peered up at me. It was his first game with Devons team, so I asked him his name.

         The boy spoke to the asphalt. “Ah-leece.” What did he say?

         I didnt think it polite to ask him again since it was likely a normal French name I didnt hear clearly. I let it slide.

         “Do you usually play with a different club?I asked the boy. He looked at me warily and whispered something to his father. They kissed each other on each cheek and the boy silently joined Devon in our car.

         “Thank you for driving Ah-leece to the game,said his father, strolling away.

         His name couldnt be “Ah-leece,” I thought, as “Ah-leece” was French for “Alice.” Was it an homage to Alice Cooper, or “A Boy Named Sue” knockoff? I decided to drive this kid to the match without knowing his name. As The Boy Named Alices father opened his car door, I thought, hold on, shouldnt a parent know the name and number of the foreigner driving his son out of town? He didnt even ask how he would collect his kid when, or if, we returned to Aix.

         “Wait a minute, monsieur,” I said. Shouldnt we exchange phone numbers?

         “Yes. I guess so. If you want,he replied, retracing his steps.

         “Otherwise, how will you know when to pick him up?Using a pronoun was a clever way to avoid saying the boy’s name.

         “I was going to come back here in a few hours and wait for you,he said.

         Waiting, again. The French could plan better, but in France everyone waits for everything; its built into every process. This man was content to sit in a hot parking lot with only a vague idea of when a stranger might return his son sometime in the future.

         “I think its better if I phone you when were close to Aix, and you can meet me here,I said.

         “OK, if you want to do it that way.

         Thirty minutes later, we climbed back into our car with The Boy Named Alice reeking of vomit, to continue our tour of Provençal roads which didn’t lead to the Peynier soccer pitch.

         “I cant sit beside this boy anymore,said Sophie in English, to spare the feelings of The Boy Named Alice. He stinks, and I threw up a little in my mouth.

         “Hang in there, Soph,I said. Its rough, I know, but after a while youll get used to it. Itll become our new normal.

         “Ewwww.”

         We acclimatized to hurtling down the road in a metal box, the inside smeared with a thin film of puke. I was not surprised that once we reached Peynier, the soccer pitch was nowhere to be found. We approached a local man stuffing a mattress into a SmartCar, and I called to him before we were too close. I thought he would be reluctant to provide directions if he smelled our vomitorium.

         “Excuse me, monsieur,” I said. Do you know where the soccer pitch is?

         The man advanced toward the car in a friendly fashion, stopped abruptly and made a face like he had sucked a lemon. He reversed two steps and said, I hope thats a rental car. Heh heh. The soccer pitch, yes. Do you want the one beside the school or the new one that was recently built beside Monsieur Beaudries estate?He pulled a cigarette from where it was wedged atop his ear and flicked it to his lips.

         “I was told there was only one soccer field. Could you give me directions to both? I have a feeling the game will be at the second field we drive to.Prophetic.

         Both sets of directions were unintelligible. We thanked the man with the sincerity he deserved, and drove away aimlessly.

         “Dad, are we late?asked Devon, drumming his fingers against the back of the driver’s seat.

            “No, were not late.

            “Are we going to be late?

         “I dont know. Maybe. It would help if there was a sign or something to tell us where the field is.

         “I’m getting worried. I cant be late, daddy.” Devon’s finger-drumming intensified. “I hate being late for anything.”  Like father like son, like grandfather like grandson, like great-grandfather like great-grandson.

         We crisscrossed the town’s major streets, and chanced upon the school where the deserted soccer field was a stony, hardscrabble playground with rusted goals, the memory of nets blowing in the breeze. That couldnt be it. We stopped an ancient woman shouldering a straw shopping basket with three baguettes sticking out.

         “Excuse me, madame, but do you know where the soccer field is?I asked.

         “The soccer field?she said with a screwed-up face, as if soccer was an obscure sport, like Quidditch or hockey. What we call soccerin Canada, and footballin England, is le footin France. When the French named their national sport, they chose an English word that none of them can pronounce. It sounds like le fute.’ “There isn’t a fute field around here. The only field I know is down that way, about halfway to the next town.

         “Merci, madame.” This information would have been helpful when I asked the coach where in town we could find the pitch. Devon became increasingly agitated, and bounced his feet on the floorboards. The Boy Named Alice remained silent and unflappable. Scouring the roads between the two towns, we prepared to drive back to Aix when we passed a game of boules, bocce for you Italians. Like all games of French boules, the players were ancient, smoking men, with high-belted pants, ratty cardigans and cock-eyed cloth caps. A serious game for squinty-eyed competitors, mouths set in bloodless sneers. I was deathly afraid of interrupting this crowd with my stupid question in my stupid accent. But I love my kid, and he wanted to play soccer. I mentally prepared my question in French. And chickened out.

         “Carol, Im driving the car. You go ask them,I said, looking out the window, away from her.

         “No, Billy, you do it.” Carol crossed her arms. “Youre way better at French than me.I hated when she said that. While true, her statement extracted her from making linguistic errors in front of car salesmen, immigration officials, doctors, the optometrist, the telephone company, the cleaning lady, the school board, the mayors office, and many people working in industries where knowing all the French words related to hockey (as I do) was useless. Carol spoke acceptable French, and was perfectly capable of asking directions. I exited the car to confront the boules players.

         As I approached the group, the game immediately stopped. The players and spectators looked at me, not moving a muscle. Ten people standing still as stone, unsmiling.

         “Hello, everyone,I said. “I’m very sorry to interrupt your game. Im trying to find the stadium near here. My son has a soccer game starting in a few minutes.Blank looks all around. No one was happy I barged into their game.

         “Where are you from?asked an old woman with a kerchief tied to her head.

         “Aix-en-Provence, madame.”

         “No youre not,she replied. If you were from around here, youd know where our stadium is.That witticism garnered laughs all around. Americans,the woman added, under her breath. More laughter.

         “Well, we live in Aix now, but were from Vancouver. In Canada.

         A light switch was flipped somewhere as the woman broke into a bright smile and said, “Canada? Céline Dion? I absolutely love Céline Dion! You have a lovely accent just like her!

         I despaired for my country. Why did everyone in France equate Canada with Céline Dion? Couldnt we do better than that? I felt it was an inopportune time to mention Céline Dion was my most intolerable public figure, music division, in the world. I had enough of her anguished theatrics when I lived in Québec City.

         “You like Céline Dion?I asked, faking enthusiasm. We have the same birthday!This was true, to my everlasting shame. My disgrace was almost cancelled out by the knowledge Vincent Van Gogh and Eric Clapton were in the same ignominious club.

         “Lucky man,” she said, and gave me perfect instructions to a soccer pitch in the middle of a forest, covered by a Klingon cloaking device.

         Once at the pitch, I was happy to see there was a bar.

         After the game, The Boy Named Alice continued the silent treatment until we returned to our home stadiums parking lot. The father of The Boy Named Alice was staring at the sky while sitting on a large rock, the kind put in parking lots to prevent French drivers from parking beside fire hydrants.

         “Ah, there you are,said the father of The Boy Named Alice, pushing up from the rock. “How did it go?

         “Fine, fine.I said. Well, there was a small problem. Your son was a bit carsick on the way there. He vomited a little in the car but hes feeling better now.

         “Oh, Im very sorry about that.” There was genuine concern in his voice. “Is your car okay? Can I do something?

         “No, its all cleaned up,I said, shaking the hand of the father of The Boy Named Alice. Dont worry.

         As father and son wandered away, The Boy Named Alice said excitedly to his father, “……and we won our first game, but that team wasnt too good, I was playing midfield, but in the second game, which we also won, they put me at striker and I scored two goals, the second goal was the best, I used the outside of my left foot so it was really hard…….”

         It was considerate of The Boy Named Alice to let me know he could speak French. Sadly, his consideration had not extended to the previous three hours, when he could have said, “please pull over,” or “thanks for the ride,” or “sorry I puked all over your new car.” And the true name of The Boy Named Alice remains a mystery.

TOUGH ENOUGH – KELLY’S NEW JOB

Posted: February 16, 2021 at 6:28 pm

In this excerpt from Tough Enough, my co-author Kelly Tough sinks deeper into a world of drugs and criminals:

For two years I lived with the manager of the Guildford Station, in an apartment above the bar. Continuing to waitress on amphetamines, I was a textbook functioning addict, barely functioning.

Splitting with the Station’s manager required a new address, so at 34, I moved in with Corey, a Guildford Station regular. Not as his girlfriend, but as Senior Director of Illegal Drug Distribution. Or gopher, however you looked at it. Corey was a hefty guy with a mean streak, long blond hair swept straight back because it thinned on top. His hair often fell forward, so he had the constant habit of jerking his head back and combing hair off his face with his fingers. He often showed kindness, setting up a basement suite for me. I sold cocaine and speed from the house, meeting buyers when Corey was out. It was a constant stream of addicts at the door, and many dangerous situations, but I wasn’t worried; we had an alarm and a safe, bear spray and lots of weapons. Not that I would ever use a weapon. I was also Corey’s mule, transporting drug shipments around town. Sometimes, Corey took me along to visit suppliers or watch him intimidate (well, torture) business associates. Corey liked having a Playmate working for him…everyone wanted to see Corey’s bunny.

Looking back, I now understand moving in with Corey was my tipping point. Not long before Corey, I was married, had a proper home, focussed on being a mom. Everyone in Corey’s world sold drugs or was a drug addict. The people I hung out with were criminals, Surrey underworld figures, biker gang members or members in training. These criminals, or people like them, were the type who took me in when Mum kicked me out at 13. These were people I was comfortable with.

I quit waitressing to work for Corey in the drug trade full-time. He didn’t pay me a salary, but took care of whatever I needed, housing, food, cigarettes, whatever. He also supplied free speed and its nasty younger brother, crystal meth, as much as I could handle, insuring I was constantly high. I wasn’t making pension contributions or planning for my future.

*

“Bunny, you’d be good at making clones,” said Corey. “That’s your new job.” Corey clicked a secret lever at the foot of the stairs, and the staircase rose so we could access the clone room, like Batman’s lair. We ducked our heads going in. Stacked trays of baby pot plants, rows of fluorescent lights, a long counter like the one in Mum’s gardening shed.

“We’ll get Sharon to come over and teach you.”

I loved making clones from day one, and I was great at it. They were my babies and I was the mom. In the windowless clone room, I’d talk to my plants, encouraging them to take root. It was warm and calming in there, like in the womb. Not Mum’s womb, but a womb where you felt safe and appreciated. I took cuttings from larger plants and transferred them to teensy pots. I’d turn my babies, lift them, check on them umpteen times a day. Every time I lifted a plant from its pot and saw a tiny curling root I’d say aloud, “Five dollars! That’s another five dollars.” The illegal pot producers bought as many clones as I could grow.

I could have happily lived at Corey’s place and tended baby pot plants until I died. But with all things related to Corey, money eventually became a bone of contention. After two years I was the best clone maker in Vancouver, but Corey refused to increase my pay.

“It’s only a dollar, Corey,” I said. “A dollar more for every clone. You keep raising your prices, but you pay me the same.”

“Look, Bunny, that’s what it pays. You’ve lived here for free, for three years, you’ve got a great deal. If you don’t like it, go get another fucking job.”

“It’s not fair and you know it. Christ, I’ve had enough of guys walking all over me. Just fucking pay me you cheap bastard!”

Corey simmered for a moment, and quietly said, “That’s it, Bunny. You’re done here. You’re lucky I’m letting you leave with all your fingers. Get the fuck out.”

Homeless, again. I immediately called Manny, a drug dealer I met at Corey’s. Manny owned a grow-op in Surrey, so I hoped we could arrange a work/shelter deal. He had a crush on me, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “Yeah, you can stay at my place and look after my shit. C’mon over.” That was a relief, because I needed a home and someone to take care of my daily expenses. I offered my clone expertise, not my love or my body, and he seemed OK with that.

Notorious Outlaw Motorcycle Gang

Posted: January 17, 2020 at 4:00 pm

It was harder and harder to get the chemicals we needed to make crystal meth. Barrels of ephedrine, we used to be able to get them easy, and they were cheap. Something like $500. But the prices kept going up and up, and then there was a big drug bust, so the prices doubled again. The new cost of one big blue barrel of ephedrine was $60,000, if you could get one. This caused things to be a little dry for crystal meth users (me) and crystal meth cookers (also me). So I wasn’t surprised to hear Jamie discuss his plan at his house with Wrench and Mullet Mike.

The three men crowded around a scarred coffee table, covered in empty bottles, cigarette butts and baggies of various drugs.

“The girl needs to be rescued, Jamie,” said Mullet Mike.

“Yeah,” said Wrench. “The cook’s holding her in that house and she has her kids there too. That cocksucker cook’s gotta pay for that.” 

Jamie fired up a joint and let the smoke wrap around his face a bit before answering. “OK, let’s go get her. And since he’s cooking, and we’ll be there anyway, we’ll just take whatever else he has on hand.” The other two men laughed like Jamie made the best joke ever. “We’ll go tonight. And Bunny, you’re driving.”

I often drove for Jamie’s little capers. Not for what I might get out of it, but just because these guys were my friends. I had my own pickup truck, and I was the only one with a driver’s license. Most of the people I knew had criminal records and were careful because of warrants. They were secretive about where they went, what they were doing. Cars and licenses had too many records attached. And cars were a burden to look after; it was just easier to steal one, or ask me.

About 4am I cut the lights of my truck as I drove the last 100 feet to the meth cook’s house. It was a quiet residential neighbourhood with a primary school down the street and basketball nets on driveways. You would never guess there was a major drug operation going on in that house; it had a garden, and a wicker mailbox, and looked just like the others. Jamie, Wrench and Mullet Mike slipped on balaclavas. They openly carried guns.

“Bunny, you stay here.” Jamie waited for the other two guys to go around the back of the house and then Jamie let himself in the unlocked front door. Unlocked?

There was nothing to do in my truck while I waited. I didn’t understand what could be taking so long. There was no screaming, which was good for a change. I expected that after a few minutes they’d come out with the girl and maybe a couple of bags of crystal meth. I must have nodded off and woke with a start to realize they’d been in the house for a couple of hours. After all that time I still wasn’t worried about what might have happened to Jamie. Nothing ever happened to Jamie. He was the reason bad stuff happened to other criminals.

Jamie walked out the front door and came to the driver’s side window. He was sweating quite a bit. “Bunny, open up the tailgate and the cab. We gotta get this shit out of here.” Jamie returned to the house.

When he next came out, Jamie was struggling, carrying a 50 gallon barrel. Only Jamie could carry a 50 gallon barrel by himself. The other guys carried pails in each hand, something spilling out at each step. By the smell alone, I knew it was wet crystal meth. It had been cooked, but was still in liquid form.

“What the fuck? We’re taking all this?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Jamie. “And there’s more. I figure it’s about a million bucks worth.” Jamie went inside and retrieved three more barrels. When the fourth barrel and several buckets were loaded, Wrench came out of the house holding the hand of a 20-year-old girl. She wasn’t dragged out, but she didn’t look happy to be rescued either. She didn’t look like much of anything, with a vacant, haunted look on her face common with addicts.

“Are you all right? I heard we were supposed to come and get you,” I said. The girl had started crying, and was talking, but it was mostly nonsense. There was something in there about her kids being at her mother’s place, so that made me feel better. The girl looked really worried, and only then I figured out it was an inside job. The story about saving a trapped girl was fake. She was Wrench’s connection, and she must have told him the address and when to come when the cook wouldn’t be there. No wonder the door was unlocked. The girl just realized the consequences of crossing the cook’s boss. 

By the time I pulled away, the sun was up and it was 730 Monday morning. We had to drive the crystal meth to a safe house across town, Pete Woodson’s place, and we were in bumper to bumper rush hour traffic. Every time I came to a stop, some of the crystal meth sloshed onto the floor of the cab. The kind of chemicals you don’t want splashing in your truck: red phosphorus, ephedrine, iodine. The stink was overwhelming and I worried the other drivers could smell it from their cars too. It’s not like we were racing past each other; there were drivers right beside me, sitting still in traffic. If I got caught there, I was in big trouble with the cops. My car, my name, I’m done.

The girl looked like she had been up for days, which wasn’t unusual for a crystal meth addict. She continued to cry, so I said, “It’s OK, we’re going to a safe house, right? We’ll go somewhere where no one will know where we are.” 

As soon as we got to Pete’s place across town, and carried the crystal meth into the house through the garage door so no one would see, I asked Jamie for my cut.

“Sure, Bunny, sure,” Jamie said. “You can have this.” Jamie threw me a small package.

“An eight-ball? All you’re giving me is an eight-ball? I don’t want that. I want money.” An eight-ball is 3.5 grams of drugs, worth about 100 dollars.

“That’s what you’re getting,” said Jamie. “If you want money, you can just sell that.” I didn’t want to complain too much because there was lots of crystal meth in that house, and I knew that by hanging around, I could use it for free. Even though we had all been up all night, we immediately began putting the wet crystal meth in filters and drying it. We’d only know how much we had when it was all dry, which would take a couple of days.

No sooner was it dry, the owner of the stolen crystal meth discovered who had his product. Neither the owner nor the thief were happy to discover the identity of the other.

“The Notorious Outlaw Motorcycle Gang?” asked Jamie. “We stole a million bucks of meth from the Notorious Outlaw Motorcycle Gang?”

“Yeah,” said Pete. He had come to the house because the Notorious Outlaw Motorcycle Gang asked him to be their go-between with Jamie. Normally they’d just kill whoever crossed them, but since it was Jamie, they needed a different approach. “I can tell you they weren’t too pleased to hear it was you, either. You know they’re afraid of you.”

“They might be afraid, but they won’t let me just keep it. What a fuckin’ mess.” Jamie flopped onto the couch and crossed his motorcycle boots on the coffee table.

“I was talking to their guy, and he was shitting too, because it was you,” said Pete. “But he tried to act all brave like, and he said if you just give back the twenty keys you stole, they’ll let you off. They won’t kill you.”

“Twenty keys?” asked Jamie. “They want back their twenty keys?”

“Uh-huh. That’s what the cook said he had when you got there.”

Jaime let out a howl. “Those fuckin’ cooks. They all lie. He had thirty keys. He planned to sell ten on the side, I bet. He probably does that every batch. Sure, I’ll give them twenty keys back. I’ll just keep the other ten, and the boys will never fuckin’ know.”

Kelly and Dorothy

Posted: November 14, 2019 at 4:57 pm

Coincidentally, Kelly Tough (Miss October 1981) went to school with Dorothy Stratten (Playmate of the Year 1980). Dorothy was murdered by her jealous husband at just 20. In my next excerpt from “Tough,” Kelly and Dorothy build their friendship:

“The walls in my school weren’t smooth; stacked cinder blocks, thickly painted white so you could still see the outlines of each brick. There were posters for the weekend dance and flyers for school clubs I would never join, stick-tacked to the walls. I walked alone in the corridor, and caught a faint wisp of smoke. We were only allowed cigarettes in the smoke pit outside, but I could tell someone was smoking in the girls’ restroom. I really, really needed a cigarette, and thought maybe I could bum one. 

Even before I pushed the heavy restroom door, the kind with an oblong steel plate instead of a doorknob, I heard the giggly chit-chatter of several girls. As I entered, three faces turned my way and all talking stopped. I knew these three: in my head I called them the Milk Bone Girls, the ringleaders of the dog-biscuit-throwing gang which included my sister. They hadn’t thrown anything at me for years, and now, in high school, the power balance had shifted. I was now known at school as wild, undisciplined with no parental supervision, kind of a badass. At 14, I had the fully developed body of a woman, and the interest of the older boys. I made the Milk Bone Girls look (and feel) like children in comparison. All three girls lowered their gaze and made a beeline toward the door, which I still held open. As the last former bully shuffled past, I lunged at her with just my head, the rest of my body immobile. She flinched, and a flush of satisfaction washed over me.

The source of the smoke sat amidst the sink pipes under the restroom counter. Dorothy Hoogstraten was a girl I knew since kindergarten. She sat under the sinks when she smoked because she didn’t want to get caught; I never understood how sitting under there would help. Dorothy wore what she wore for years, a pale blue ski jacket with white trim. I expect she wore it so long because her family was poor, her mom raising her and her siblings alone. She had long strawberry hair, and never used makeup because she didn’t need it or didn’t care. Just like me, she attracted the attention of boys, but never got asked out. I didn’t want to get asked out…I knew what sex was and I didn’t want anything to do with that.

“Hey,” said Dorothy.

“Hi. Can I have a drag?”

“Yeah.”

I crawled down beside her, not for the first time. We often shared cigarettes under there, sometimes hers, sometimes mine, whoever could scrounge them. We weren’t really friends, just cig buddies. We mostly sat together in silence, but neither of us said much in school either. Dorothy had been shy and guarded since kindergarten. I rarely talked to kids at school because my life was different; I wasn’t doing homework and watching Starsky & Hutch at night like them. I worked in night clubs until 3am. How could my classmates relate to that? 

Just two loners, sitting under the counter, passing a cigarette back and forth. Even though we weren’t close, Dorothy was never one of the bad people, never one of the bullies. She knew what the bullies had done to me for years. I was comfortable sharing a cigarette with her, comfortable sitting under the counter with her, comfortable not talking. The closest person I had to being a true friend who wasn’t a friend at all. I couldn’t imagine then how this quasi-friendship would play out in the future.”

The Singing Playmates

Posted: May 7, 2019 at 7:58 pm

I am currently writing a book with Kelly Tough, Miss October 1981. One of the many unusual episodes of her life was her membership in Playboy’s only Super Group, The Singing Playmates. Kelly is featured in this month’s edition of Playboy, 38 years after her first appearance in the magazine. Here’s the story from Playboy: