wasn’t even enjoyable. I spread her legs and got my thing out, and as soon as I got it in her she started fucking, and I came real quick, and it was nothing, and after I finished I said, “Oh, shit.” She said, “You’re going to be sorry.” I said, “Fuck you.” I hated her guts and I really despised myself. I would have liked to have killed her for causing me to go through such feelings as that. It would have been bad enough balling her if we’d been in nice surroundings and she’d wanted to ball. She walked off and I found my way back. I felt sick when I went into my billet. I showered and scrubbed myself as if I could wash the filth off me.
Right after that, word came that we were going home. I was so happy. They give you examinations before you go, and they found out I had the clap.
I tried to get out of going back but there was nothing I could do. And in those days you had to wait three months, period, before you could ball again or you might give it to the other person. So I had to come home to Patti and tell her that we couldn’t make love. She cried, and, oh, I cried, and I told her that the girl didn’t mean anything, and she knew that that was true. Patti marked the days off on the calendar. We went a month and three days, and it got so bad I had to do chin-ups on the doorsill of the bedroom because I hurt inside, because I wanted to make love so bad. Then finally the time came, and she forgave me. But that’s retribution.
| 5 | Heroin1946–1950 |
WHEN I CAME HOME Patti was staying with my dad and my stepmother, Thelma. And when I came to the door my daughter, Patricia, was there; she was walking and talking. She didn’t respond to me: she was afraid of me. I resented her and I was jealous of her feelings for my dad. Naturally, she’d been with them so she didn’t feel about me the way I wanted her to, and that started the whole thing off on the wrong foot.
I was bitter about the army and bitter about them making me have a kid I didn’t want, bitter about being taken away when everything was going so good. I was drinking heavily and started using more pot and more pills, and I scuffled around and did a casual here and there or a couple of nights in some club, but nothing happened and I was getting more and more despondent when finally, by some miracle, Stan Kenton gave me a call.
Stan Kenton was incredible. He reminded me a lot of my dad, Germanic, with the blonde, straight hair. He was taller than my dad; I think Stan was about six, three, slender, clothes hung on him beautifully. He had long fingers, a long, hawklike nose, and a very penetrating gaze. He seemed to look through you. It was hard to look him in the eye, and most people would look away and become uncomfortable in his presence. And, just like my dad, he had a presence. When he spoke people listened. He was a beautiful speaker and he had the capacity to communicate with any audience and to adapt to any group of people. We would play in some little town in Kansas and he’d talk to the people and capture them completely. We’d be in Carnegie Hall and he’d capture that crowd with another approach. We’d be at the Kavakos in Washington, D.C., a jazz club filled with the black pimp type cats and the hustling broads and the dope fiends—and he’d capture them. He would observe, study the people, and win them.
One time we did “City of Glass” at the Civic Opera House in Chicago. It was written by Bob Graettinger, a revolutionary composition, an incredibly hard musical exercise; it was a miracle we got through it. Bob conducted it, a tall, thin guy, about six, four: he looked like a living skeleton conducting, like a dead man with sunken eyes, a musical zombie. He took us through it, and he finished, and he turned around to the people, and he nodded, and the people didn’t do nothin’. The place was packed; we’d played the shit out of this thing and now there wasn’t a sound. They didn’t know what to do. We didn’t know what to do. I’m looking at Stan and I’m thinking, “Well, what’s going to happen now? What’s he going to do now?” Stan looked at the audience. I saw his mind, you could see it turning, and all of a sudden he leaped out onto the middle of the stage, gestured at us to rise, swung his body around again to the audience, and bam! They started clapping, and they clapped and clapped and clapped, and then they stood up with an ovation that lasted for maybe five minutes. He did it all himself. Stan did it with this little maneuver.
Once when I was interviewed for down beat they asked me about Stan, and I told the interviewer, “If Stan had entered the field of religion he would have been greater than Billy Graham.” And Stan didn’t like it. But he didn’t understand it. Maybe he thought I was putting him down; maybe he thought I was belittling religion and ranking him for being a phony, but that wasn’t my intention. I was talking about his strength. He was the strongest man I ever met.
I traveled with the band: Shelly Manne was playing drums; Conte Candoli was playing trumpet; Bud Shank was in the sax section; June Christy was singing; Laurindo Almeida was playing guitar; and I was featured with the band. We played a lot of different places, and I was getting a name, a following. At first Patti came along with me, so it was fun, but one day in New York, while we were working at the Paramount Theater, Patti got a telegram from my father saying that Patricia was sick. I don’t remember what she had. I didn’t even pay attention to it, I was so angry. To me it was as if Patricia had gotten sick purposely to rank things for me. So Patti left, and that was it. For all intents and purposes that was the end of our marriage. Patti started feeling it was her duty to stay with Patricia.
It was impossible to take Patricia with us. We tried to take her once to Salt Lake City. We drove instead of traveling on the bus. I bought a car, but all the oil ran out of the car, and we got stranded, and then Patricia got sick. It was impossible. It was too impossible. The mileage we had to cover was too demanding. They both went home, and I sold the car, and that was the last time Patti was on the road with me.
I really became bitter then because I was so lonely and I couldn’t stand not having a woman. There were chicks following the band that were very groovy, that really dug me; they’d send notes and hit on me and wait for me after the job, but I’d rarely have anything to do with them because I felt so guilty when I did.
In 1948 we were playing the Paramount Theater again in New York. Vic Damone was the single attraction. Sometimes we’d play seven shows a day, and there were a bunch of young girls who used to come around to all the performances. One day after a show, four of these girls came backstage and left a note. They wanted to meet me. I went to the stage door and said hello to them. I brought them into the dressing room and talked to them; they were sixteen, seventeen. They said they wanted to form an Art Pepper Fan Club. Would I mind? I thought they were joking at first, but they were serious, so I told them no, I wouldn’t mind, that I’d be flattered. But I couldn’t understand what a fan club would entail.
We had just started at the Paramount. I think we played for thirteen weeks, and it was jam-packed. I was living at a hotel on Forty-seventh and Broadway, and these girls kept coming around so I’d take them out. We’d go to the drugstore. I’d buy them sandwiches, and they took pictures of me. They were fairly nice looking, and they must have been from the Bronx because they all had that accent. Finally they told me that they really cared for me, that they had a crush on me, and they would like to, you know—they’d work it out among themselves and come and visit me one at a time. I said okay, but I was thinking, ‘They’re pretty young.” And I didn’t know for sure if that was what they wanted. The next day, the one they had elected president of the club was at the Paramount after the first show. This was in the morning, and we had two, two and a half hours between shows. She said, “Shall we go to your place?”
The president was about seventeen. She looked Jewish, and she had a slender body but nicely shaped. She had pretty eyes. She was the most attractive of the four, with lovely skin, dark coloring. We left for the hotel. The guys in the band were watching, giving me those looks. The president was really enthused. She had a pretty dress on, and her eyes were all lit up. Her whole manner had changed. She’d suddenly become sexy and sure of herself and very womanly.
We got out of the theater and it was chilly so I helped her on with her coat. And that was the part I felt bad about. Because when I’m with a woman and I’m very polite and mannerly it becomes like a love situation. I felt guilty when I put her coat on. And then she clutched my arm and it was as if we were lovers. I was hoping we could have