In 1991 I was sharing a five-thousand-square-foot loft with a friend of mine in downtown L.A. The building was located in an industrial area on the outskirts of town. Most of the buildings in the neighborhood consisted of old factories, warehouses converted into artist lofts or skanky bars that had survived since the 40s.

Downtown Los Angeles was quite bizarre. It was basically made up of what would amount to ten New York City blocks plopped down on a plot of land about an hour east of the Pacific Ocean. Huge skyscrapers and massive office buildings with bank logos plastered on top reached into the sky as a snake of freeways wrapped around the city and shot off in different directions. Businessmen would filter through the streets during the week, but on weekends or after 5 p.m. the place would shut down. Literally. Not a single soul walked these blocks at any other time. People came from Santa Monica or Beverly Hills or Culver City, drove in to work as bankers or accountants and then got the hell out of there promptly at closing time.

Out of the 15 lofts in the warehouse, we had the one with the rawest appeal. It was on the first floor right on the corner next to a bridge connecting the industrial area to East L.A. The view out the window was of desolation and depression. Old factories sitting in gray despair, clouds of dirt creating whirlwinds from rumbling 18-wheel trucks, an occasional hooker yelling at the occasional passing car, drunk homeless men with weathered faces wandering around in the bright, dry sunlight and finally collapsing in vacant doorways, fires burning out of metal garbage cans late at night while voices echoed off the buildings from unknown sources.

One morning, I was standing in the kitchen making a shot of espresso when out of nowhere a shirtless man ran by my window. I could have sworn I saw a Black Flag tattoo on his arm. Two seconds later another man ran by the window. He seemed to be chasing the first guy. I tried to peer down the street from the window but couldn’t see anyone. “Damn, was that Henry Rollins?” I said out loud.

I grabbed my keys and jetted out the door. When I got outside, I ran to the corner to see what the hell was happening. There was a small crew of film students shooting a movie under the 7th Street Bridge, one with a boom mike and a field DAT recorder, the other with a clapboard and one standing behind an old film camera on a tripod. I looked down the direction of the camera and there he was, a shirtless Henry Rollins, lead singer of the seminal DC punk band Black Flag, standing under the bridge checking out the gang graffiti that lined the white concrete walls. He was pacing back and forth, shaking his head and muttering to himself as if he was trying to fight a war inside his head. He kept turning around to read the graffiti, his shoulders hunched up around his neck like he was preparing to kick someone’s ass.

I stood there for a few minutes wondering if I should go over and talk to him, tell him how much I like his music/writing/outlook on life, but it seemed like he was in his own world, plus I’ve never been much of a fan boy (as Henry would call them) so I just walked back to my concrete cell and shot the espresso into my brain.

About two years later, I was driving my ’64 Caddy to Santa Monica to see an art show by Don van Vleit, the leader of Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band. There was a great group of people there. Old hippies with flowing beards, punk rockers and their beautifully tattooed girlfriends, tea heads, sun-drenched beatniks and other varied freaks. It was as if there was a meeting of the minds. Minds on acid.

I grabbed a tall plastic cup of wine from a server and walked into the main gallery to check out the artwork. Don’s paintings all looked the same: splashes of black, yellow and white in slightly different configurations. The place was so packed, it was impossible to stand back and look at the stuff but it didn’t really matter because no one was checking out the paintings anyway, just each other. I looked around wondering if Don was going to make an appearance.

I made my way to the front of the gallery where there seemed to be some commotion coming from behind a slightly closed door. I could see a man wearing sunglasses and a fishing cap slumped in a wheelchair with some people talking to him. He kept nodding his head at them in total boredom. The door then swung open and out came Captain Beefheart wheeled into the room by an assistant, various people coming up to him to shake his hand. Of course, there was nothing wrong with his legs (it was just a shtick) but people still looked quite concerned. I laughed and walked over to get another cup of wine. The server was a little hesitant to refill my cup after such a short time but I pushed a five-dollar bill into the tip cup and the wine flowed a bit more heavily.

After about five cups, I stumbled outside to get some air and noticed Henry Rollins standing alone in front of the gallery. I walked over and introduced myself. We talked a bit about music and I mentioned that I played bass in Jack Brewer’s band. Jack was an L.A. underground legend, known for shaving the pattern of a heart in his chest hair and doing Jim Morrison imitations on stage while an original stew of punk rock and jazz came crashing out of his band, Saccharine Trust.

For some completely unknown reason I decided to have a little fun with Henry. I told him that I had talked to Jack before coming to the show and he told me if I saw Rollins there, I should try to collect the $20 he owed him. Henry looked at me dumbfounded, “Are you sure he said that? It doesn’t sound like Jack”

“Yeah, he said if I saw you here, I should ask for the money you owe him.”

Henry looked up at the sky and shook his head.

“Naw man, I’m just kidding,” I said with a smile.

Henry looked at me as if his face were made out of concrete, his mouth chiseled with a fine stone, “You’re not very funny,” he said.

I suddenly realized how right he was. What the hell was I doing standing next to one of my heroes and fucking with him? It must have been the wine. I then babbled about some bands on the L.A. record label SST and eventually walked away, knowing I had outlived my welcome. I walked back to my car and bumped into a friend of mine.

“So, what were you and Henry talking about?”

“Never mind,” I said, dropping the red plastic cup of wine into a trash can under a tree and walking home.

 

Stephen Potter has been a graphic artist, a punk rock bass player and a delivery driver of chocolate-covered strawberries. He’s lived on Venice Beach and in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, where he wrote about his experiences. He currently lives in a NYC suburb with his small house plant.