CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bobby found a parking space and got out of his Maserati. He strolled down the crowded sidewalk and removed his sunglasses to ensure that people could recognize him.
No one did.
His heart sank. Bobby had done this every day for two months. Not one person had come up to him and said, “Aren’t you Bobby Dreamland?”
What happened to the girls who wrote him ten thousand fan letters a week? What happened to the kids who watched him on “Captain Bobby” every Saturday morning? What happened to his records hitting the top ten? What happened to his film career? Why had America forgotten about Bobby Dreamland?
“Hey! Excuse me?”
Bobby looked over his shoulder. A teen-aged boy gaped at him. “Yes?”
“Aren’t you Bobby Dreamland?”
A smile filled his handsome face. “Yes, I am.”
“Man, you suck! You know my sister took Disco Dreamland back to the store?”
He blinked back his tears. “Look, I didn’t even want to do that record.”
“Hey, did you catch Carson? He made jokes about your ass for a week!”
“Will you listen to me?”
“You know, the Bay City Rollers are on AGT. Isn’t that your label?”
“If you’ll excuse me….” Bobby turned to walk away.
The kid called after him, “You’re a lousy singer, Bobby, and people finally noticed!”
Bobby ran back to the Maserati and, without looking, backed out into traffic. A Pontiac driver blasted her horn and slammed on her brakes.
“Asshole,” she screamed.
Bobby, crying, muttered, “You’re right, lady, I am an asshole – for ever thinking I was worth a damn.”
Bobby locked himself in his bedroom and pulled out his works. He cooked up the narcotic and watched lovingly as it filled the syringe. He tied up and looked for a vein but couldn’t find one. He couldn’t even jab his fingers or toes anymore. Finally, he located a hole in his left arm from the last time he had shot up — that morning. Bobby knew it was never a good idea to use the same hole twice in a row, but what choice did he have? And as long as the shit got where he needed it, why the fuck should he care?
He paced the bedroom floor. Those goddamned KGB agents were trying to get in the window again. Well, Bobby wouldn’t let them! He pushed his dresser in front of one window and the bookcase in front of the other. There! He was safe now.
Or was he?
Bobby went down to the kitchen, turning his head quickly from side to side. Why did the KGB care if he took drugs? Maybe the Bay City Rollers sent them. Maybe Stronzo was even managing the Bay City Rollers and sent the KGB to kill Bobby so he wouldn’t have to pay him anymore.
Bobby threw open a kitchen drawer and grabbed the biggest, sharpest knife he saw. He darted back upstairs and pushed his bed against the door. Bobby popped a pill to keep him awake and sat up in bed, clutching the knife so tightly his fingernails dug into his palm and drew blood.
“Stronzo,” he snarled. A year ago, Bobby couldn’t take a shit without the bastard watching him. Now he wouldn’t even return Bobby’s phone calls.
“He’s managing the Bay City Rollers, I just know it. He threw me aside, that son of a bitch. Never gave a damn about me. Nobody else did, either. They all wanted Bobby Dreamland. Well, I’m not Bobby Dreamland and I never was.”
He put down the knife, jumped out of bed, and ran to the window. He pushed the dresser out of his way, threw the window open and yelled out it, “I never was!”
There was a knock on his door. “Bobby? Are you OK?”
He had to give them credit. That KGB agent sounded just like his mom.
Bobby grabbed the knife and held it out in front of him, ready to stab that Russian bastard as soon as he kicked the door in. But nothing happened.
Bobby pushed the dresser back in front of the window and reluctantly went back to bed.
It became increasingly difficult for Vince and Maria to pretend that nothing was wrong with their son, particularly when he disappeared for days at a clip and came back emaciated, pale and haggard. Plus, his paranoid babbling often caused little Patrice to run screaming and crying to her mother.
Vince and Maria tried talking to Bobby, but he always brushed them off and locked himself in his room. After several months of this, Bobby’s parents felt relief when he vanished for days at a clip.
Allison stayed in her room a lot, too. It was the only refuge she had from her brother’s drug-induced insanity and her parents’ denial of it. Plus, she was vigorously studying for her G.E.D. If all went well, she would get it the following year and leave for college soon after. Her physical therapist also believed that with Allison’s dogged persistence, she could be walking only with a cane by that time.
In early 1976, Stronzo finally met with Bobby. The first thing he noticed was how skinny and sickly-looking his client was. He also wondered if Bobby wore long sleeves in the 70-degree heat to hide something on his arms. When Bobby removed his sunglasses, Stronzo. The kid’s eyes reminded him of two blueberries in a bowl of red licorice.
“Have a seat, Bobby.”
He did but couldn’t stop fidgeting. “Can you make this quick? I gotta to meet some friends of mine.”
“Very well. As you may recall, our contract expires at the end of the month. I won’t be renewing it.”
Bobby’s jaw dropped. “Why the fuck not?”
“I plan to retire.”
“Well, can you recommend a new manager?”
“I could, but why bother?”
“Whaddaya mean, why bother?”
“Nobody wants you, Bobby. You’re washed up and you’re a junkie.”
“I ain’t no fuckin’ junkie!”
“Yes, you are.”
“So, I take a taste now and then. Doesn’t mean I’m hooked.”
Stronzo sighed. Why did his clients always end up on drugs?
“Well, what about the network?” said Bobby. “I’m still signed to them, right?”
“Not for much longer.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“When your contract expires, they’re dropping you.”
A livid Bobby shot to his feet and leaned across Stronzo’s desk. “Did they tell you that?”
“Yes. After Disco Dreamland, the company lost interest in you.”
“I didn’t even wanna do that fuckin’ record!”
“Bobby, you need to check into a rehab clinic. Once you clean up, go to college and find a career as far away from the record business as you possibly can.”
“Hey, fuck you, man! You’ve had it in for me all along — you and all those goddamned KGB agents.” He stormed out of Stronzo’s office shouting, “You ain’t seen the last of me, motherfucker!”
Bobby drove to his connection’s place. After a couple of pills and some hits off a joint, he asked, “Can somebody get me a gun?”
Stronzo was awakened by what sounded like gunfire in his front yard. He looked out the window and Bobby standing on the lawn with a sawed-off shotgun!
“Hey, Dominic; y’ever been shot by a pissed-off client?”
Lights flicked on up and down the street.
Stronzo opened the window. “What in god’s name are you doing?”
“God’s got nothing to do with it! I’m sending your ass to hell.” Without aiming, Bobby fired the gun. A neighbor screamed.
“Oh, sure,” Bobby yelled. “Why would AGT want me around now? They’ve got the Bay City Rollers. And I’m supposed to just lay down and take it, right? Bullshit!” He fired again. “I’ll bet you’re managing the Bay City Rollers, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. Now will you please go home before somebody gets hurt?”
“Suh-suh-suh Saturday ni-ight!” Bobby fired the gun again.
When he heard approaching police sirens, Bobby ran for his Maserati. As he sped away, Bobby saw flashing blue lights in his mirror. He floored the accelerator and drove in the direction of the freeway. Bobby blew off numerous red lights while the police stayed with him.
At one intersection, a van was in Bobby’s lane. He slammed on the brakes but not soon enough. The Maserati plowed into the rear of the van. Bobby hit his head against the steering wheel and was rendered unconscious.
Six police cars skidded to a halt. The lieutenant in charge leaped out of his cruiser and told a uniformed officer, “Call an ambulance.”