Snakes! Guillotines! Electric Chairs! by Dennis Dunaway

Author:Dennis Dunaway
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466848405
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

10.

THE FREAK FARM

LIVING IN CHEAP MOTELS had lost all its charm. So Leo Fenn found us a farmhouse in Pontiac, Michigan, about thirty miles north of Detroit. We perked up. The house would allow each of us to have his own room again. Best of all, it had a barn with a large, heated workshop that would be perfect for rehearsals. Several acres of property meant we could play late without bothering the neighbors.

Michael got busy moving his things into the nicest bedroom in the house, which he would eventually decorate with decent furniture and an upright piano. As in all his rooms, everything would be organized and the place would have a tranquil atmosphere.

Cindy and I claimed a small bedroom with a bathroom. Because she and I were accommodating, people would come through our room to use the bathroom. The newfound privacy allowed me to start drawing and painting again, so I painted a portrait of Cindy and an actual-size drawing of my erection titled Lower Self Portrait, which I thought was a humorous extension of myself. Cindy helped the drawing’s subject hold interest during the session.

Alice had gotten serious with Cindy Lang, a former model with dark brown hair and big brown eyes. The two of them shared a room on the second floor with Charlie, and Cindy L. decorated it nicely with a few modest antiques and a plush wall tapestry. Their room was very comfortable and welcoming, unless the door was closed, which meant humping might be in progress. Charlie would always leave, of course, so they could have privacy.

Right across the hall was Neal’s room—or kingdom, I should say. It was like a clash between a king’s parlor and a sleazy bordello. He pasted up flocked red-and-gold wallpaper and painted the trim and the windowpanes black. He hung a glassy-eyed deer’s head above his bed, and his standing coat rack was draped with leather belts and topped off with a gold-sequined black sombrero. Several pairs of towering boots stood in one corner, including the boot with the bullet hole in the ankle.

Glen looked around at the occupied rooms. “What am I supposed to do,” he moaned, “sleep in the garage?”

“Why don’t you use the dining room?” I said. “It’s bigger than my room. Plus, it’s got a fireplace.”

“Then what are we gonna do for a dining room?”

“Who needs a dining room? We don’t have any food.”

We put quilts over his doors, and Glen taped Reynolds Wrap over the windows, stacked his TV Guide collection (in chronological order) on the floor, stuck knives in the wall, set the hands on a broken clock so it would always be midnight, and created Glen’s signature mess.

Cindy closed the quilts over the doorways, and the room darkened. Glen smiled broadly and told us that if we ever wanted to hang out in his room, we could. “Just knock before you come in,” he said. “But make sure you knock on the quilt, so I won’t hear you.”

The roadies nailed

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