Chapter Fifteen
The job I had in London’s Soho was as a doorman at the Windmill Strip Club on Great Windmill Street just off Piccadilly Circus.
At the time it was catty-corner to the Windmill Casino and the Windmill Theater, now a cinema. The latter was famous for never going dark during the German bombings of London in World War II.
It always put on a show. At the time, it specialized in totally naked women on the stage. My place continued the tradition.
This was my second stay in London. The first time I was there I'd had my "identity" stolen by a fellow going by the name of Roy Rogers aka Ron Rogers.
He lived the rooms next door to me in Chelsea, across from the Watney's Brewery on the King’s Road. He'd said he was a photographer, his cousin was the photo editor of Paris Vogue, and he was working on getting some of his work published therein. He always had a camera strapped around his neck.
He was about 5'4" and walked with a major limp. He had stringy dark hair and an antagonistic attitude. He was a bitter man. He never talked about his limp or what had caused it. Though I never asked, I supposed it was from polio.
He insinuated himself into the same group I hung with at the Cafe des Artistes and the pub across the street -where I'd met Maureen. He liked her. He wanted to photograph her but she wouldn't hear of it. In time the three of us started palling around together.
One day, Ron, as I knew him, asked me to meet him for lunch at the plant he worked at somewhere in the countryside. I was to take a bus to catch a train for a one-hour ride and meet him at the little cafe at the entrance to the plant. I was on time and waited for him to show. An hour went by and I finally tired of waiting.
I went to the plant entrance and asked after him.
"Oh, you mean the gimp? Roy Rogers? Like the cowboy? Him? He quit here about two weeks ago, he did", I was told.
What the hell was going on, I wondered.
I hopped the next train back to London, took another bus and arrived home to find my door had been kicked in and -get this- my suitcase and scrapbooks of my life and miniscule career in show business up till then had been "nicked", to use the vernacular.
The little bugger had invented identity theft! He was kind enough to leave a signed note admitting the theft: "Tex- I'll return your things as soon as I can. Thanks. Ron".
I called the cops. They came and took a report and were all nice and official till I showed them the note.
"Oh, sorry sir. There's nothing we can do about it now. He left a note, see?" they pointed out.
I pressed for an explanation and was let in on one of the idiosyncrasies of British law: you can't prove theft in England unless you can prove the thief intended to deprive you of ownership permanently. In this case he left a note stating he intended to return the goods as soon as he could. No permanent loss: ergo, no theft.
So, right now, or at least in 1966, there was a little limping bastard hobbling about London telling everyone he was an American actor with my name and he had the clippings to prove it!
Three years later, when Maureen had married an American military man and emigrated to the U.S., the two of them stopped by my apartment in Dallas for a visit.
I learned she'd been working in a cinema as an usherette and the “gimp” had come up to her out of the blue and said hello and then disappeared into the theatre’s darkness, never to be seen again.
That's how I had gotten back to London on this trip. I was originally going to try to find him and get my clippings back. In my mind I also wanted to even his gait, too. I’m not a man of violence but I can fantasize with the best of ‘em.
Actors work hard for those clippings and it's like cutting off an arm losing them. Show business is such a fickle world that sometimes all we have left are our memories of it. We all want to be "somebody", to be remembered for something we've done. Too, we all have a tendency to forget names and our mementoes keep us up to date.
Lesson: Keep separated copies of everything.
I didn't know where to start looking for the bastard and I certainly didn't have the funds to pay for a detective to help me. As a matter of fact, when I landed in London, all I had was $50 and no ticket home! I’d only bought a one way ticket.
I figured I could get work in one of the strip clubs in the West End, as Soho is also known. The experience I'd had working clubs in the States might pay off here.
I hit a few places one afternoon asking if they needed any help at all, maybe a bouncer or something. One club asked if I knew karate. No. I was just large. It had kept me out of plenty of fights in my life and I thought it might deter them in the clubs here. They passed on the idea.
The manager of another club I visited told me to come back at 6 pm. It was 3 then so I went to a movie, got something to eat and made it back by 5:50 exactly.
"Ok. You're hired. The other guy I told to come back isn't here so you get the job", I was told.
Lesson: Whether it’s full or not, just be thankful you have a glass.
Geoffrey was the manager's name. He was 20 and from Malta. He had a wife dancing in the show who was several obvious months pregnant and several years his senior. Her pendulous breasts had been enlarged with the newly popular silicone injections and were so much larger from the milk that they looked to be bursting off her body. She was about the plainest looking woman I've ever seen in my life, but she turned out to be the sweetest human being you could imagine...but with a temper. Her name was Kathy, and she was from Derbyshire.
My job was to sell tickets to anyone coming in the door. My cut was 10% of the nightly take.
Geoffrey explained my duties to me, sat me down and left me alone. A few minutes after six, a man walked past me in such a manner as I felt he belonged there, so I didn't challenge him. Geoffrey talked to him a bit and then led him out saying he didn't show up on time and he had given the job “to the Yank”. The guy looked at me, frowned and went on his way.
I sat at a small table midway down a hallway leading in from the street to the foyer of the club. Punters - customers- came in, walked a few steps to my position and asked "How much?" I was to size them up and charge as much as I could get ranging from about a buck and a half to as much as $30 or more. On the table I had several rolls of differently priced tickets in a small file drawer to hand out according to the amount I charged them.
After paying they would then walk a few more steps to the lobby where they were greeted by the "memberships chairman". He would take their tickets and ask them if they were members of the club. There would be a general muttering that they didn't know they had to be members. They said the guy in the hall had said it was only so much to see the show.
Mr. Membership explained that's what it cost to see the show if you were a member. He went on to explain that the women on stage were completely naked and, since they moved around in that state of undress, the theater had to be a private club.
English law allowed for total nudity on stage as long as they didn't move –it’s what kept the earlier incarnation open, as seen in the 2005 film, “Mrs. Henderson Presents”.
Membership in our club was also on a what ever we could get basis. The more they paid at the door, the more they were charged for membership.
Some people would become a bit enraged that this was being pulled on them: Americans especially, which I loved.
"You can't do this to me! I'm an American! ", was the usual cry. Of course I always said I, too, was an American; and it, indeed, had been done to them, I had done it, so shut up or get out!
Once in awhile the disgruntled geezer(s) would fetch "Old Bill": the cops.
Americans incorrectly call them Bobbies possibly stemming from their creation in September of 1929, when the Metropolitan Police Act was passed by Parliament. London’s Metro Police was founded by Sir Robert (Bobby) Peel, thus “Bobby”.
In England they’re known as “Old Bill”. I don’t know why.
This was a regular occurrence in the clubs and the police and doormen went through the motions as a team.
They'd come and question me, making the complainant feel he was getting his money's worth. I'd point out the handwritten sign on the wall: "No refunds".
Below it in tiny, though still legible print: "Members Only". It was positioned at a point where, when I stood up to sell the tickets, my head would obscure the view of it.
Some of the customers protested even louder when the officer pointed out that the sign was, indeed, posted in full view. If they protested well enough the officer would get stern with me and demand the return of their money. I always complied, and the offended party was led outside feeling he had struck another blow for fair play, only to be duped most certainly at another club later on.
Things were going smoothly this first night on the job. I was starting to get more confident in asking for more and more money from people. Some of the clubs advertised their admission price as only ten shillings -about $1.40 in those days. When confronted about this I told customers they got what they paid for: you want steak or hamburger? It always worked. They always paid my price.
I was good at my job.
What they didn't know was that the girls that worked these clubs worked 6 different clubs a day. So, if they went to the 10 shilling club, they'd likely see the same girls they'd see here.
The strippers worked hard. They generally did 6 shows a day at 6 different clubs for about 20-25 pounds a day per club. Or about $70-90, per day, per club! They worked for 12 hours a day with 30 minutes break for dinner...sometimes 7 days a week. The average take home pay for a secretary or shop girl at the time was around thirty pounds -$80- a week!
About 3 hours into my first shift a gruff looking man in his 50’s and two friends came barging in.
"How Much?" he asked.
I sized him up and he looked like a local. I said "Ten bob".
"Ten quid? Okay." he replied and peeled off 30 pounds and tossed it onto the table before passing in without a ticket. I ripped off three tickets from the blank roll we had for just such an occurrence and handed them to the third guy as be passed me by.
About an hour later, the three steam-rolled their way out as fast as they’d come in. I was in the midst of hooking-in a couple of East Indians and they roared past saying what a hot show it was and how beautiful the women were and other high lascivious praise. I got 5 pounds each from the Indians for that praise.
After they had gone through the membership routine and downstairs into the basement where the stage was, Geoffrey came out to me and dropped the three blank tickets onto the table. "Here, put these back. That was the owner. He liked you. He said you could keep the 30 quid and you've got the job for good. Congratulations!" he beamed.
He told me the boss especially liked that I kept the money without trying to make change for the misunderstanding between my 10 bob (shillings) and his 10 quid (pounds). A difference of about $26 per ticket! That's what got me the bonus: about $78! Not bad for my first night.
The club catered to an eclectic clientele. British businessmen were the largest customer group. They paid the least because they were aware of the drill. They'd joined the club...and they'd read the fine print. Members only paid 10 shillings. It was right on the card!
Soccer fans were always coming in large groups after important matches.
Sometimes things could get rowdy if the losing team’s group got too drunk and decided they didn't like the women.
Whenever there was any security threat the word went out along the street and cops and bouncers alike were ready to answer the call wherever needed.
Europeans were represented by the Germans, mostly. Frenchmen didn't seem to come to the smaller strip clubs.
Americans made up about a fifth of our audiences. They tended to have larger budgets and expense accounts so they went to the bigger more glamorous clubs, but those who came our way were “encouraged” to spend big.
Indians and Pakistani were the third or fourth most populous group, and the most sleazy. They were outwardly nastier people, than the rest, always making snide giggly little innuendos and comments accompanied by pumping-finger signs.
They were also the cheapest minded, trying to haggle the price. I loved it when they came in. I'd always get a good amount from them but they made me work for it.
As a matter of fact they were the reason I invented the "special show"!
I knew they'd eventually pay my price, but arguing with them was too taxing: even if I'd give them a low price to start out with, they'd always try to get me to lower it.
So, whenever I was faced with an Indian or Pakistani the routine would go like this:
"How much?" their spokesman would ask.
They always traveled in packs and the smartest ass, most self important, among them was the self appointed deal maker.
"Five pounds!" I'd say.
"Five pounds? For all or for each?"
"Each. Take it or leave it", I’d say.
"Oh, no, my friend. We are very many here. You see we are 6 of us. We will give you one pound each", they'd counter.
"Sorry. It’s five pounds each for the special show. No exceptions”, I’d explain.
"Special Show? What is this special show?"
Like shootin’ fish in a barrel.
I’d look around me to see if anyone was listening, then, sotto voce: "That's what you wanted to see isn't it: the special show? Yeah, I can let you into the regular show for a quid each, but if you want the special show it's five pound each. I'm sorry. They won't let me let anyone into the special show for less."
"What is this special show?", they had to know. Now all 6 of them smelled something illicit going on downstairs and they wanted to sniff it up close.
I'd go and look outside, ostensibly to see if a copper was around, and then very hush-hushed I'd tell them, "Two girls together on stage at the same time. Two together! And there's a dog in the act. You can't tell anyone about it or they'll close us down. So, you want to see the regular show for a quid each?" I’d begin fumbling with the tickets.
They'd almost be slobbering all over themselves by now thinking of watching two girls getting it on on stage with a dog and each and every one of them had their hot little fivers out chomping at the bit to get downstairs.
Sometimes I asked for 10! It rarely failed.
Six feet down the hall they'd have to go through the membership routine but by now they were so worked up by my and Mr. Membership's descriptions of the action they could hardly see straight.
Remember, I believe in truth in advertising. There were two girls on stage at the same time; when one was getting off and the next was coming on; and, there was a “dog” in the act. She was a very homely girl indeed, a real woofer.
Not once did I or Mr. Membership ever tell them anything that was untrue: it was a game with us. We'd tell it to them in a way that made it sound lascivious and they bought it hook line and sinker...every time!
Lesson: People believe what they want to believe.
Across the street was the Windmill Casino. I liked to put a little money on the roulette wheels or the craps table from time to time so I'd visit the place. I had joined the club (everybody's got a membership deal) and was a winner on one particular Wednesday night. I was chatting-up (flirting with) the hat check girl: a busty blond woman in her late 20's named Gwen Austin-Jones. I was 23.
I asked her out. She couldn't go that night, was off the next and had plans, but was available Friday after work.
Friday it was.
I got off before she did and waited for her at the tables. I was about even. I'm not a high roller. I played safe and only for what I could afford to lose that day.
I've been lucky not to develop a "fever" for gambling. Not only can I take “no” for an answer, I know when to say “no”, too.
She joined me at the tables but it was against house policy for her to linger so we went for coffee before catching a cab to my place in Kensington not too far from my earlier abode in Chelsea.
At this point in time, I’d only been in London about a week or two.
Once there, she asked if I'd ever had my palm read. (Did that sound familiar, or what!) I said no, did she read palms? Yes she did. I offered her mine...half expecting her to tell me I'd had a cold recently!
To her credit she didn't. She told me some general stuff about how gentle I was and caring and that I liked animals and horses and like that. At least she was right on all counts. Me and half a bazillion other people.
We'd bought and drunk most of a bottle of wine and were both feeling warm and cozy when I, out of the blue, asked her if she saw anything in my palm about our getting married to each other.
Her eyes started to mist up as she gazed deeply into mine and said she had. I told her I thought so and would she really marry me. She said she would and we decided to do it the next day.
Unfortunately, civil marriages aren’t performed on Saturdays so we waited to be joined together in the registrar's office in Hempstead, where she lived.
I moved most of my stuff to her place over the weekend and on Monday we were married. My old friend Maureen and a friend of hers were our witnesses, which was really nice of Maureen because she was from Carmarthen, Wales and Gwen was from Penmaenmawr.
Both were on opposite sides of the country. The Northern Welsh –Maureen- don't get along too well with the Southern Welch –Gwen- at all. But my two ladies were very polite to one another.
England was turning out to not be a good place for me to have brought my press clippings. I had left a few things behind in my Kensington flat and the landlady had thrown them in the dust bin by the time I returned about a week later to claim them.
Aside from some photocopies of my Las Vegas clippings, I have nothing to show for any of my earlier work until the late 60's.
Gwen and I lived together for about two weeks. We were not really that compatible. Sexually, we got along fine; but, intellectually, she was a bit of a ditz.
I was writing a lot of poetry at the time and she kept telling me I should write a romance story. Every night she'd wake me up in the wee hours and tell me plots that always revolved around a dashing young man on a white horse, high on a hill covered in grass waving in the wind, who swooped down and scooped up a lovely young woman into his arms and rode off with her to live happily ever after.
I kept telling her I'd work on it.
It so happened that Gwen was still married to her first husband at the time she was married me. They had married in Tehran, Iran where she'd lived for several years.
While there she'd gotten in the habit of having her pubic hair shaved daily at the public baths where women of substance went for that sort of thing. I told her she looked lovely, but would she mind letting it grow now she was married to me. She didn't like the idea too much and only let it grow for one day before shaving herself again.
I now sympathized with women’s plight of kissing a five o’clock shadow.
Since there was no record in England of her first marriage there was no fear she'd get into trouble being married to me.
I found a basement flat off Sloane Square in Chelsea behind Harrod’s. Gwen and I were still friends but we just couldn't live together.
I needed the sleep.
We'd look each other up when one or the other would get horny and didn't have a date. And from time to time we'd go for a coffee after work.
About a month after I moved I was visited by a pair of gents from MI 5, the British FBI. They were investigating my marriage to Gwen.
They wondered where she was -on a trip to her mother's in Wales, I told them.
Why wasn't there anything of hers in evidence in my apartment -she would finish moving in when she returned.
Was this a marriage of convenience so I could stay in England -of course not, this was love of the highest order.
Thank you for your co-operation, we'll be in touch. They never were. Directly, that is.
The last I spoke to Gwen she'd come to me for advice about going to work at Churchill's, an upper crust clip joint. Just down the street from the police station, too.
Lots of money changed hands there. If a gentleman wanted to spend the evening with the young hostess seated with him he would, supposedly, leave a sufficient amount of money beneath the napkin.
I told her it was okay with me. I knew how much she liked sex and I thought it would be a perfect job for her if she really wanted it.
Later, in the states, attorney Kelsoe wrote to the address I gave him (long forgotten) and got her to sign a statement she'd been previously married without benefit of divorce at the time she'd married me, facilitating my getting an annulment.
A little over a year before, when I had first come to England, I'd watched a man almost bleed to death in front of a cinema in Liecester Square. He'd been in a knife fight and had been stabbed in the femoral artery. He was still moaning when they loaded him into the ambulance. It was my 2nd night in London and confirmed everything I'd ever heard about Soho: It's not a safe place to he.
Now, I was working in the area and felt quite safe. Not unlike the carnival, there's a code among the locals. You stuck up for your own. There were bouncers working at every club all over the place.
Most had a “specialty”. One bouncer at the Charlie Chester Casino (just around the corner from the Windmill) always carried a straight razor. Many carried rolled coins. Another had a deadly kick.
If ever there was trouble all you had to do was alert the boys and you had a small army backing you up.
There was a lad who did "doorways" in the area. He'd find a foreigner and promise, for a fee, to get him a prostitute, or “model” as their cards on the doorways read.
He'd lead the fellow through the area's myriad alleys and dark back streets for awhile to completely disorient him and then take him to a doorway, any doorway, open it and yell up the stairs "One in Margaret. One in." He’d then send the unsuspecting wretch up the stairs with "Top floor, mate. Door on the left. Have a good time".
By the time he found he'd been stiffed our boy was long gone. He never picked a doorway with less than four flights of stairs to mount.
He'd borrowed 10 shillings from me and one afternoon, when things were slow, I tapped him on the shoulder and asked when he was going to pay me back.
He blew up and said never to touch him again. I said I didn't hurt him, I just tapped him...like this: and I did it again. He burned and growled not to touch him. I said all I wanted was to know when he was going to give me my money and he butted me with his head.
His forehead hit my left front tooth, loosening it. The tooth dug a nice hole in his forehead and blood began to flow freely.
Meanwhile he thought he had done me major damage and continued to fight with me, trying to pummel me with anything he could lay his hands on.
I’ve said I'm not a fighter. But this time I was in the thick of one. This guy was out for murder as he grabbed the wooden membership ticket box and tried to meld it into my brainpan.
We tumbled around the foyer of the club and ended up on the floor with him on top of me. I held him off by gripping his arms for all I was worth and not letting go. He had the box raised over my head and was trying to crush my face in with it but I'd grabbed his wrist so he was getting absolutely nowhere. I wasn't hitting him and he wasn't hitting me. It was a situation I could live with awhile longer.
He got frustrated at not being able to get at me, and then he realized it was his blood dripping down onto me.
A look of shock crossed his blanching face and he finally gave up and ran out.
I later learned he was one of the dirtiest fighters in Soho: it wasn't above him to come at you from the rear and wallop you with a lead pipe.
But I'd drawn his blood, and lots of it, not the other way around. And blood carries some weight with it, I learned. I was top dog in that fight. He was the loser and, surprisingly, he stayed away from me.
I saw him in a pub a month later and he cowered back into the shadows when I walked his way. I nodded at him and he acted as if he didn't see me, but his friends saw me and they knew who I was and what had happened.
Lesson: Surviving is what’s important.
There are a lot of little scams going on in Soho.
There was a regular “booster” who came by and took "shopping" orders from the girls. He was a bit of a poof -a homosexual- and he loved to steal women's clothes.
The girls would spot something they liked in a store, make a note of where it was, the size and color and style they wanted and then tell him about it.
Within a few days he'd come dancing in with the exact item, the store tag still attached. He'd charge half the marked amount for his efforts, sometimes less if he liked it and would be allowed to borrow it sometime.
One bit I regularly used was to short change the cheapskates: the fiddle.
If I couldn't get more than a pound from somebody and they made me work hard to get even that much, I'd short them. It only worked when they paid with a fiver -a 5 pound note- or larger for a one pound ticket.
I'd hand them their change with the middle bill folded in half to make it look like four bills when I held them up and slowly counted by peeling them back one at a time.
"1, 2, 3, 4 pounds change out of 5. Thank you very much, sir. Enjoy the show", I'd tell them as I folded all the bills in half and handed them back, hurrying him along towards the wondrous pleasures that awaited within.
They never recounted their change, having seen me do it right before their eyes. Once in a while the middle bill would tumble out as they pocketed the pack. I made 10% of the pound I'd charged and 2 pounds on the fiddle. There were no rules as to the fiddle... except you don't fiddle the club.
But we did. We'd resell tickets on busy days. Instead of spindling them on the little skewer at the membership desk Morris (Mr. Membership) would bring them back to me for resale. We'd split the resale 50/50.
Morris was 6'8"; a gentle giant. He had a great sense of humor and we worked well together.
On occasion a punter would get to talking with others downstairs in the theatre and learn there was some disparity in the amount each had paid to get in. Needless to say the one who'd paid the most would get pissed off, come back upstairs and try to start something.
That's when Morris and I would launch into our routine. Morris would start to build his anger slowly. He'd stand up very slowly to give the full effect of this huge hulk of a man rising from his little chair. Sitting down you'd never guess his height, and in England the average man is over a full foot shorter. When Morris stood up he was massive.
Well, he'd start to rant and rave at the angry customer and flail his arms about as if ready to tear the unwitting idiot limb from limb. I'd come running and try to calm him down, holding him back, calming and soothing and then, back over my shoulder, telling the fool that if he valued his life he'd get out of there as fast as he could because I didn't know how long I could hold Morris back.
They usually hightailed it out of there faster than you could say "suckerrrr!"
Sometimes they'd return with a cop and the routine with the sign I mentioned earlier would be played out for their benefit prior to returning their money.
Rarely did Morris have to give back the membership dues.
But, amid all the fun and games, there was one major drawback to the job.
The nick.
"Nick" is a verb and also a noun.
As an adverb it can mean you're under arrest as in "you're nicked!"; or, as a verb, stealing as “nick” a pack of fags (cigarettes). As a noun it's where the nicked who nicked are held: jail.
"Where've you been?"
"I was nicked to the nick for nicking knickers."
Nickers, however, were not the police as might be derived.
It is part of the game in Soho to get nicked. It's how the local constabulary keeps tabs on where everyone is at any given time, and who's still around.
The occupational hazard of Soho doorman is touting punters into the club and being seen doing so by Old Bill.
Officially, the offense is called "causing an obstruction of the footpath”; i.e. if a geezer stops at my club's door, peers in and says "What's it cost, mate?" I'm the one causing him to be standing there waiting for a response. And since he's there, on the sidewalk, aka footpath, and since he's talking to me -it's a stretch but- (according to British law) I am the one therefore causing the obstruction.
Old Bill just walks up and says "You're nicked" and away you go. No goodbyes. No long farewells. No handcuffs. Just a pleasant brisk walk to the police sub-station a few blocks away.
Once there you're asked for your current address and placed in a holding cell while they check out whatever it is that they check out while you're in there. After a few hours they release you, tell you not to return to work that day and remind you to be at Covent Garden Magistrate's Court first thing in the morning.
At Covent Garden Magistrate’s Court you plead guilty to the offense and are fined five pound and sent on your way. The club reimburses you for your trouble.
The first time I was nicked I was asked to bring in my passport the next day for the police to examine to see if I was legally in the country.
I neglected to do so.
The next time I was nicked I was kept all night in the holding cell, transported to Covent Garden in a van the next morning, and was then transferred to Brixton Prison as an “un-convicted prisoner on remand”, with bail set at 50 pound pending investigation as to how I had come to be in the country and whether there were any questions as to the status of my continuing residency.
I stayed in Brixton for three days compliments of Her Majesty Elizabeth, The Queen. Actually, it was Friday when I went in and Monday when I went back to court.
Let me tell you, the tea and bread they serve to unconvicted prisoners is barely fit for consumption. But the beds are comfy.
I slept most of the time there, too. But I wasn't as terrified of the place as I had been in Dallas.
The thing that amazed me was the fact I was thousands of miles away from my homeland and, when I went into the prison, there were 3 other unconvicted prisoners in there with me that I knew; two of whom I'd met on my previous visit to England the year before!
One was the booster, another was in for stealing a car (in England it’s called driving a vehicle without the owner’s permission) and the third was in for suspected possession of marijuana –which turned out, much ot his relief, to be old dried out lettuce leaves from an ancient sandwich.
Being on remand means they're just holding you -unconvicted of a crime. Prisoners on remand are locked up 23 hours a day in a private or semi-private cell. Luckily, I had the single. They'd wake you in the wee hours for breakfast. Mid morning you'd be allowed out to shave and clean up. A little later you'd be allowed to walk the circle in the exercise yard for 30 minutes. Then you were allowed to line up for lunch and later again for "Tea".
Before lights-out they provided room service with another cup of tea. Actually it was a Tupperware 2 pint bowl of tea.
On Monday, the court fined me the usual five quid and sent me on my way.
My marriage to Gwen had withstood its first test. I was now legally in the country. The visit from MI 5 was later.
It wasn't so bad being in Brixton, later to be the home of the famous “Great Train Robbers”.
Boring. But not bad. I'd been working 12 and 14 hour days for quite a stretch so I enjoyed the vacation.
Lesson: Be nice to everyone, you never know where you’ll run into them again.
After eight months I grew weary of my life in Soho and wanderlust began to flow through my veins, again. I wasn't happy with 99% of the poetry I was writing and foolishly threw most of it away. And, I was unhappy at work. It was a dead-end affair and I knew it. I wanted to perform again.
The last month or so, when things were slow up top, I'd spin the records for the dancers downstairs and “emcee” the shows from backstage over the house microphone/speaker system. I'd tell jokes and make gag comments between the dancers' performances. I realized how much I missed the audiences.
On a whim I booked passage on the ferry-train to Paris to look for work there. I figured to be back the next day so I didn't tell anyone I was going.
Not even Allison, the young woman I’d been living with for the last few weeks.
She and I had met at my favorite Chelsea haunt: the Cafe des Artistes, a cellar dance club with some great rock and roll bands. We had clicked right away. After our first night of love together in my Sloane Square digs she asked me to move in with her. I agreed, happily.
She shared a flat above an unused butcher shop with two other young women.
She was dark haired and slim. She had sad eyes but a brilliant smile, a petite figure, and a withered left hand that she would never let anyone look at. She didn't keep it covered but when she sensed -and she had radar like senses- anyone looking at it she moved it out of view. She wouldn't let me touch it, even when I told her it didn't bother me and that she had nothing to be ashamed of.
I never pressed her. She was kind and sweet and we were just getting to know one another comfortably when I got the wild hair to travel.
Before work that fateful day, I caught the train and vanished in the night. With all the stops along the route it was late afternoon of the next day when we pulled into Paris. I had very little money with me and no baggage. I had planned to check the situation out and then return for my gear the next day if I found work.
I wandered around and talked to a few people here and there and became aware the French are considerably more vigilant in who they give their working permits to. If you didn't have one, you were out of luck.
I had enough money for a meal and some cigarettes. At a sidewalk carnival I put my last franc down on a color at the wheel of fortune and won a box of Lifesavers: 5 rolls, different flavors.
Now I was broke with 5 rolls of candy. Something told me I could sell the candy if I knocked on a few doors. The doors I knocked on were all houses of prostitution and the ladies were sympathetic to a broke American student trying to get back to England. They bought my candies for way over my asking price and I ended up with enough money for the ferry back to Dover!
Lesson: There are plenty of people with hearts of gold to go around.
I hitched to Calais, sleeping in the cars throughout the night and boarded the ferry home the next morning. I had no idea what was waiting for me in Dover.
When I had arrived in England eight months before they’d stamped my passport and added another stamp that read "Not allowed to take any employment, paid or unpaid".
It allowed me a 30 day visa. I'd gotten married and become a British subject which made it legal for me to be in the country beyond the original 30 days, but I never filed the requisite papers for a permit-to-stay stamp.
The little eight month discrepancy between the date of my arrival and the date of my most recent exit caught the eye of a vigilant customs agent who asked me to step into a little office at the docks there in Dover.
After some phone calls were made I was told that I was considered by the Home Office to be "an undesirable alien neither living with, nor aiding in the support of, your spouse" and that I was being denied re-entry back into England. Should I wish to return in the future I was advised I would have to apply for a proper visa from the Home Office prior to setting foot on the island.
I asked to use their phone to make a collect call overseas and they kindly allowed it.
I didn't have much time but luckily I got in touch with the administrator of the trust fund the a.m. had set up and instructed him to purchase an airline ticket on TWA and wire confirmation of the booking to their Paris office. I also asked that I be advanced $100 as I was broke and would need traveling money to get to the airport and eat, etc.
When it was time I was ushered without ceremony or fanfare onto the same ferry I'd just arrived on.
I had to go to the purser and explain I was being deported and that I was broke and could not pay the fare.
The ferry system allows passengers to travel at no charge in those circumstances. After all, they can't make you swim the English Channel to get off the island.
So, I hitchhiked back to Paris and booked a room in a small hotel. Fortunately I didn't have to pay in advance because I didn't have a sou, as the French say. I ate on room service.
It was the weekend by now and the TWA office didn't open until Monday. When I checked with them, all was in order and I was out of there.
I changed planes in Chicago's O'Hare airport and was back on Texas soil in no time at all.
I never knew the exact address of where I lived with Allison and we didn't have a phone so I never did let her know what happened. I became the mystery man in her life, I guess.
I often wonder if any of my acquaintances have seen any of my films or TV appearances and said..."Hey! I know that guy!" I also wonder if any of them ever tried to write to the production companies to contact me.
I never will know, I’m sure.
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