FY: You look like a ghost. Abbie, how are you?
AH: I don’t know. I don’t even have a number.
FY: I don’t know what to say.
AH: If anyone thinks I just walked into a hotel room and presented some narcotics officers who I never met before with a pile of cocaine for a pile of money, you’ve got to be out of your mind.
FY: What happened, Abbie?
AH: Well I’m not exactly here on a field research. The case is so sensitive and the charge is so heavy that I can’t really talk about all the events that happened in the case. There are other people involved. I need to know what roles they played. Freedom is such a fragile thing. It’s easy to be busted when you’re outspoken. This is my sixth time in the Tombs.
FY: But this is serious. It’s not something you have done or said. This is something everybody understands—three pounds of cocaine.
AH: I never saw it. I don’t even know … what does it look like? When I was busted there was at least two dozen narcotics cops, you’re staring into a stream of shotguns pointed right down you. Very rough. Very heavy. It’s like you’re dead.
FY: You’re talking like it’s over. You gave up.
AH: It’s heavy.
FY: What is?
AH: People are put in solitary confinement.
FY: Why are you in this section?
AH: For my own good.
FY: Have you seen anyone?
No response while staring at me.
FY: How do you spend your time?
No response; he looked to be daydreaming.
FY: What have you learned about living in the Tombs?
AH: There are guys here two years. Not tried yet.
FY: Do they seem friendly?
AH: Sure.
FY: What about the guards?
AH: I don’t think I can answer that.
FY: How do you feel about the prosecutor?
AH: Men of ambition.
FY: You’re not the same person I have met before.
AH: I’m not the same; I’m not the same man. I’m thirty-six. I mean I never had a suicidal thought in my life. The first three days in the Tombs, I mean, I took off my shirt and put it around my neck. I’m now an inmate in the Tombs. You’re the first. I’ve not talked to anyone in the press.
FY: Do you feel isolated?
AH: I cry, I cry. This is the worst interview I ever did.
I now felt even worse. A guard came over and took Abbie by the arm. “Time is up.”
The guard then looked at me as though I were also a criminal. “You have to leave now.”
I discreetly put my recorder back in my bag and gave Abbie a hug, saying, “I’ll be in touch.” He nodded with a distraught look on his face, answering back, “Sure.”
Even though he had been arrested forty-two times before, this time it seemed different. He wasn’t the same old defiant, you-can’t-stop-me Abbie. He looked bewildered and scared. We walked out of the holding area together. He was cuffed and guided down the hall by the guard. That scene burned itself into my memory. As we got closer to the exit, we were separated by a four-foot-tall concrete dividing wall. He was taken left, back to his cell. I continued right, straight out the door. Wow, I thought. The difference between jail and freedom is this little concrete wall.
Soon after our interview, while being transferred to an upstate prison, in true Abbie style, he escaped and went on the lam. Some of us saw him occasionally while on the run. He had plastic surgery to try to hide his famous face, but it didn’t work; it was a terrible job. He looked like Abbie Hoffman, the prizefighter with a bent nose. He was going nuts, not being the real, one and only Abbie Hoffman. He spent the next seven years going by the name Barry Freed. He couldn’t take it anymore. Anonymity was not his style. So in early 1980 he resurfaced and did an interview on Barbara Walters’s show. Abbie turned himself in, pleading guilty to a lesser drug charge, did some time in jail, and then embarked on a new career as an organizer, activist, author, and lecturer. It never really worked. He wasn’t the same; times weren’t the same.
Some eight years after resurfacing, he tried standup comedy. Abbie, the comedian who wanted to be Lenny Bruce, was a changed man. In August 1988, Charli and I went to see him perform a few blocks from our apartment on the Upper West Side at the New York Comedy Club. The carefree Abbie was no more. Seeing Abbie standing there trying to be funny and relate to a non-responsive audience made him seem even more distant and spaced out than he’d been in the Tombs. Years before, Abbie had had a natural sense of humor. But his new comedy act didn’t go well at all.
“I’m not connecting with the kids anymore. I can’t even get arrested,” he told me after.
The first time I saw Abbie was in 1968, at the first marijuana “Smoke In” that he organized in Central Park. Then, he was a modern-day social crusader, often called a radical, a political activist spreading his Yippie, Zippie, Hippy message. Not anymore. On Thursday April 12, 1989, Abbie killed himself at the age of fifty-two. He was found at 8:15 a.m. in his two-bedroom apartment in Solebury Township near the Delaware River, dead in his bed, fully dressed in a red flannel shirt and corduroy pants, under a quilt covering up to his neck. It seems Abbie prepared to check out, dressing for the occasion. His remains were cremated; his ashes spread to the wind.
Abbie had so much to offer, a born leader with boundless energy, full of wit and humor. Why would he just stop? The doctors found 150 doses of Phenobarbital, along with Valium and Propanol (the same drug that killed Michael Jackson)—enough to kill fifteen men—in Abbie’s system. That seems about right. When it came to sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, it would take several men to equal one hippie. Fifteen is what it took to bring the leader down. He was no ordinary man.
But why did he do it, kill himself ? To be honest, I’m not sure he did. He just didn’t seem the type—not the great leader full of vim and vigor, Abbie Hoffman. People question where he got those drugs from. To this day, no one knows. No drug containers or prescriptions were found in his apartment. Was this another suicide like Marilyn Monroe’s? Did anybody see Peter Lawford or Bobby Kennedy lurking in the halls?
Abbie had shocked the world for the last time. Jerry Rubin’s fate, however, was much different. He called himself an “entrepreneur” stock broker, founding a Manhattan-based company called Network America—“networking” parties for business executives in posh nightclubs in NYC. “My protest days are over,” he announced. Unfortunately, he was all too right. On November 28, 1994, Jerry was killed jaywalking, hit by a car in LA.
I really liked Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman. Imagine what they could contribute today in this politically divided mess we are in. But then again, their stories remind me that unless you stay ahead of the curve, make waves, and stay in the news, this can happen to you—you go out with a whimper instead of a bang.
Nothing has changed since they faded. Today we have Occupy Wall Street, stop big business and a bigger government, the war in Afghanistan, and other hot spots. As Yogi Berra would say, deja vu all over again, Abbie and Jerry. They did not know that the Festival of Life, a music festival they organized as a protest, would become one of the most controversial, polarizing, and investigated events of American history, right along with the assassination of President Kennedy.
Most of us hardcore Democrats who were part of the sixties’ and seventies’ movements against government intervention and big business, corrupt politicians, and war, still hold on to some of those beliefs. However today we have come to realize that you can’t survive being a true hippy. You must camouflage yourself, blend and sway, in order to make a living and prevail in this current “politically correct” society. Protesting is not enough; you have to do something about your protest, infiltrate the enemy and tell little white lies. You have to become a hybrid, like me, a “Republicrat.”
Several months ago I was in my literary agent’s office delivering a draft of this book. In a moment of excitement, he called an editor at a prestigious publis
hing house to pitch him on my stories. After running down several events, he explained my life.
“This guy was kidnapped in Paris, hung out with the Hells Angels, managed Joe Cocker, was involved with Woodstock and Abbie Hoffman …” He paused, then continued, “Yes, Abbie Hoffman.”
Suddenly, he held his hand over the phone, looking at me for an answer. Repeating the young editor’s question out loud.
“What did she do?”
Abbie, I’m sure, rolled over in his grave.
CHAPTER 11
Angels, Stones, and Pink Flamingos
On December 29, 1971, Charli and I were celebrating our one-year wedding anniversary. Just as I popped the cork off a bottle of champagne, the phone rang. It was my father. As soon as he called me “Junior,” I knew something was wrong. My brother Jamie was on a commercial airplane that had crashed in Florida. The rest of the conversation was a blur.
The next day, Mom, Dad, and I flew to Miami. For what seemed like eternity we sat on an Eastern Airlines flight, the same company of the plane Jamie had been on. We didnt know any details. Fear and worry consumed us. Mom and Dad cried the whole time. All we knew was that my brother had been on his way back to college when his plane crashed in the Florida Everglades.
The Miami airport was a total chaos of hundreds of distraught crying people running in different directions. We were escorted into a private area. No one knew anything, who died and who didn’t. The airline officials were totally unorganized. We were told to check into a hotel and that they would get back to us as soon as they had more information. The hours in that room were torture. Every minute took life out of my parents. Then the phone rang. I answered it, looking at my parents sitting, holding each other. It tore me apart. I was shaking all over as the words came out.
“They want us to go to the morgue.”
Mom collapsed. Dad fell to the floor next her. They could not see their son dead under any circumstances. We agreed I should go. I’ll never forget Mom’s words on the way out the door: “Maybe it’s not him.”
I went to the address I was given. It wasn’t a morgue like you would imagine at a hospital or city building; it was a large, makeshift holding and viewing area with doctors, nurses, and what appeared to be other family members standing around gurneys, viewing black body bags holding people who had died in the crash.
I was in shock. It was too surreal for me, a sight I will never get out of my mind. I still hear a voice in the distance saying, “Are you sure you want to see this?” I identified my brother.
James was a loving, great kid. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for you and he only had good things to say. He was generous and happy and enjoyed cooking special family recipes. James couldn’t wait to graduate college after studying marine biology, ready to save the world. I still cry when I think about him. Mom and Dad cried every day since that tragic phone call. It’s hard to imagine the pain that fathers and mothers live with after they lose a child, whether by bad health, accident, or war.
Mom gave me a little three-dimensional piece of art that of course now sits on my mantel, bearing a quote that says “Do It Now.”
It reminds me to make sure I do it now every day.
In Charli’s Words
The telephone rang and it was the worst news anyone could hear. Frank’s younger brother James was on his way back to college at Miami University with his friends when the Eastern Airlines plane he was on crashed in the Everglades. Frank grabbed the ball, leaving immediately to take care of his parents through the worst nightmare any parent could experience.
Now that I am a mother I don’t know how they ever got through that time. Frank took care of everything. It was remarkable. When a tragedy happens you cannot think; you just act. Because of Frank, his parents were able to grieve. This was the first tragedy I’d had in my life. Although James was young, a lot of people knew and loved him. A great number of them came to the funeral. It was overwhelming, beyond anyone’s imagination.
This was when I realized who I had married. I learned then and would find out over the next forty years just how strong a character Frank was. This book tells about his more charmed moments and the amazing people he met throughout his life, but he had another side that only I knew, and it gives me confidence that he would always take care of me. Through all those years I never had to worry about anything.
Over a short period of time he lost not only his brother James, but also his grandparents in a fire and later his beloved father to cancer. I think those experiences could make another book.
Frank’s life was not all fun and games. There were many times when he had to rise to the occasion and take care of people in his family in extraordinary ways. My life with him was really easy. Many of my friends wish they had a husband and great father like I had, who enhanced my life. I always say how lucky I am because I got to take this ride.
Hells Angels Forever
After my brother James passed it took several months to get back to thinking clearly. I needed excitement, something dangerous to throw myself into. A photographer friend of mine broke the ice when he came by the apartment to show Charli and I photos he’d just shot: dramatic, up-close studies of behind-the-scenes moments inside the Hells Angels motorcycle club. There were shots of several bikers tied together on a pole while others included semi-nude “old ladies” (as they called their girlfriends) getting beer and who knows what else poured on them. Since I had connections to Penthouse, we thought it would be a good project for the magazine to do something with the Angels.
My friend set up a meeting. I’ll never forget that hot summer day forty years ago. I pulled up in front of the Angels’ enclave, a three-story, rundown brownstone apartment building on Second Avenue in the Lower East Side. I parked my 250cc Yamaha street scrambler next to over a dozen chopped Harleys. I was immediately surrounded by Hells Angels with sarcastic attitudes, laughing and making jokes, wondering why I had the balls to pull up in what they called a Singer sewing machine.
Even though I’m sure they knew I had an appointment I was asked in a polite but cautious, direct way. “What … can we do for you?”
“Hi, I’m here to see Sandy Alexander.”
There was a man they called Tiny who was about three hundred pounds, with a long bushy beard, and totally tattooed. His very large belly peeked through his opened Colors—the leather or jean vest the Hells Angels wear that displays the name of the club and chapter, and various patches depicting rank and other things. Tiny motioned and whistled to the roof, and answering back with the same whistled code was Sandy Alexander, the leader of the New York chapter. I was escorted to the roof and had my first meeting of many to come. I have a knack for meeting people, many by chance, who I’ve seen on TV or in the news, and who eventually would wind up on my living room couch. When I met Sandy, I realized I had seen him before as a boxer fighting at the New York Golden Gloves just some weeks earlier. We talked for a while. He seemed to like me and invited me back to meet other members like Vinnie and a girl they called Mousey.
After hanging out with the Angels for several weeks, I got to know them and became a trusted insider. I even rode my sewing machine with them on several short motorcycle runs. Gaining trust was important to them, and once I had it I proposed doing a photo spread with Angels and Penthouse Pets. Guccione was a little nervous about that, so as an interim idea I convinced Sandy to allow Guccione and me to attend a Hells Angels inauguration of new prospects (that’s what they call potential new members before they get to wear the Hells Angel patches on their Colors). The initiation is not usually witnessed by outsiders. Eddie Adams, the Vietnam Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer, was to join us. Sandy and I agreed on conditions. No photos could be released in any way until they were approved, along with any copy or story related to them. And of course a fee was to be paid to the Angels.
The night of the event, the street was very eerie. Dimly lit street lamps highlighted a hazy, dangerous vibe in the hot, smoky air filled with dozens of
Hells Angels and their old ladies, with pot, drugs, booze, and bikes everywhere. The street was lined with sixty-foot-long mats of firecrackers that the Angels lit as they did wheelies with their bikes through the smoky blaze while others tossed lit cherry bombs and ash cans at them. They hooted and hollered in a jubilant bliss. I’m sure it looked and smelled like Vietnam to Eddie.
Then, through the smoke and haze, Guccione arrived in a white stretch limo. What a sight he was, wearing white leather pants and white leather loafers, no socks and his fifty gold necklaces and rings hanging around his neck over his white silk shirt with collar up, opened down to the top of his stomach. It was a bizarre contrast to the Hells Angels, who looked at him as though he were the freak. One thing I have learned about true stars and celebrities is they stay true to their character, and the Gucc was a perfect example.
Leon Gast, an award-winning cinematographer, was there as well with his movie crew shooting footage for his planned movie Angels Forever. Scenes were to include the block party, initiations, and the motorcycle run to Laconia, New York. Years later Leon won the academy award for They Would Be Kings on the fight in Zaire, Africa, between Mohammed Ali and Joe Frazier.
That night I witnessed things you only read about. Initiations included a piercing with a nail driven into a new prospect’s ear that became an earring, while another had a tooth pulled out with pliers. Other things happened behind closed doors that no outsider could see.
I continued to hang out with the Angels, working on various ideas. Frankly, I was in awe of the excitement surrounding them. Early on, I was smoking a four-foot Indian peace pipe made of wood and large bird feathers with Al Swartz, a record producer who lived on the twelfth floor at the Chatsworth, shortly before he moved to LA. As I was saying good-bye, he gave me the pipe, which I later gave to Sandy Alexander in his apartment to celebrate the birth of his son. We then became actual blood brothers. Sandy and I got on great. I helped him get on the David Suskind TV show.
Frank & Charli Page 12
