I barely graduated high school in 1974. After that, I was in a rough place. Really rough. One day I was driving down Thousand Oaks Boulevard and noticed a record store that hadn’t been there before. It was called The Jukebox. Something made me pull over and walk in.
The guy behind the counter had his head down, taking a nap right there on the glass. When he looked up, he was pure 1975 style—big hoop earrings, tight clothes, French-cut t-shirt, very British. Lived in Hollywood and drove out to our little town every day. His name was Marcus.
Marcus took me under his wing almost immediately. He became the big brother I needed. He’d lived in London, was a musician—a bassist and studio player who’d worked with bands in Europe—and his girlfriend was a European Vogue model. She worked out of an agency in Beverly Hills. In this country she became the Winston girl. (Younger people reading this probably won’t know what that means, but back then it meant something.)
Ironically, I don’t think Marcus really had to work. He took the job at The Jukebox mostly to keep from being completely bored and because the owner was a close friend. He just loved music that much. We’d sit in the store and listen to his own recorded tapes. They were incredible. He introduced me to the music world, and for a while I got to live a little of that life. There were problems along the way—there always are—but Marcus watched over me. I honestly believe he kept me from going down a much darker road with drugs. I was headed there. He pulled me back.
We went out to clubs constantly—Rainbow Bar and Grill, the Roxy, the Whisky, the Troubadour, and a list that just kept going. One night the phone rang and it was Marcus. “You know Peter Tosh?” “Yeah… isn’t he opening for the Stones?” “He’s playing the Starwood tonight. We’re going.”
His girlfriend had gotten us tickets. I drove into Hollywood. Peter Tosh was the headliner. And the Rolling Stones opened for him. In a small club. That’s the only time I ever saw the Stones, and I saw them because Marcus made sure I was there.
Another time, just on a whim, we drove from L.A. all the way up to Santa Cruz. No real plan. Just went. Had a blast. It’s one of those old faded memories that still makes me smile.
And here’s the best part of the memory: no matter where we’d been that night, we always ended up at Canter’s for matzo ball soup. Every time. It was incredible then, and it’s still an incredible memory now.
Years later Marcus came to Colorado Springs to see me. He drank a lot while he was here—he always did—but before he left he told me how proud he was of me. How happy he was that I’d turned out okay. I called him a few times after he went back to Venice. Then the calls stopped. It’s been about ten years now. I don’t know what happened to him. Part of me is afraid I already know.
Marcus, if you’re still out there somewhere, this is for you. I love you. Thank you for everything you did for me.
My life has been full of magic. It’s been an incredible life.
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