A Perfect Accident

Illustration by Mitch Handsone

AFTER SHAKING HANDS WITH HIM, almost everyone commented that my friend Curtis Grasswood looked like Jesus. Not your neo-Christian blond Jesus, mind you, but dark, genuine Jesus, like someone with roots in the greater Bethlehem–Nazareth metropolitan area. The few who didn’t mention Curtis’ resemblance to Jesus sometimes mentioned, especially if they’d been smoking pot, that he looked like Phineas Phreak of Strawberry Flats, Texas, one of the three Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers, stars of the eponymous underground comic penned by Gilbert Shelton and available at finer headshops since 1968. Curtis, Phineas and Jesus were all toothpick-thin and gangly, with deep, friendly eyes, huge, untamed black curls and noses discernible from great distances.

Curtis Grasswood was also a virtuoso pianist and gifted composer who became a respected ghostwriter of Hollywood motion-picture scores. Straight out of college, he took an apprenticeship at a studio in downtown L.A. run by the famous film composer Dorian Kelmscott. Kelmscott taught him to use all the equipment, and within a few years, Curtis became an engineering wizard and was running things himself. Kelmscott retired to the Canary Islands, leaving Curtis to live in the huge loft and manage the thriving studio alone.

AT A TIME when I didn’t have a static home, Kelmscott’s 3,000-square-foot loft was a wonderful place for me to sleep. The studio part of it was a self-contained, soundproof room in one corner; the rest of the space had been divided into a kitchen, a dining area, a bedroom, a huge bathroom and an enormous living room with five extremely comfortable black leather couches and, of course, a fantastic home-entertainment system. Curtis often worked through the night, with the door closed, and I could hang out and do whatever I wanted — mostly write and draw in my notebook at the kitchen table, drinking heavenly Pasquini espresso and smoking top-quality cannabis indica, a combination that, contrary to all the prohibitionist propaganda, affects many people quite positively.

Some of these people — rock stars, movie stars and directors — visited Kelmscott’s place sometimes, to see how their projects were coming along. Very late one night, halfway between Christmas and New Year’s, I woke up to find ’60s druggie icon and film director Wesley Cropper on an adjacent couch, staring at me. His brow was clenched in what looked to be a painful, painful memory, while his mouth somehow maintained a wide, toothy smile. It’s this expression — you’ve seen it in magazines — that makes Cropper so recognizable. (That, and his supernatural mood swings.) It’s a scary expression, and if I hadn’t been expecting him (Curtis had mentioned that he might show up), I might’ve screamed.

"Welcome back," said Cropper, his brow loosening considerably. "That was quite a dream you were having."

"You saw my dream?" I said, sitting up and stretching, checking my watch: 4:06 a.m.

"I saw your eyes moving, your REM," said Cropper. "And you were talking."

"What’d I say?"

"I don’t know. It was the way you were saying it."

"Saying what?"

"I don’t know," Cropper cackled. "But it must’ve been quite a dream. Here. Kill this." Cropper passed me a small wooden pipe and a lighter.

"Thanks." I took a deep hit and, holding it, said, "I’m Dave."

"Wes Cropper. I was admiring your drawings."

"You see my dreams and admire my drawings." The pipe went back. "Happy New Year."

"Likewise. I wasn’t poking around or anything," said Cropper. "Your notebook was open on the kitchen table — Curtis said it was yours, and that I could read it while he made coffee. Good shit, man. Very dark, very angry. Are you doing anything with it?"

"What do you mean?

"You know, man, like, a book, a graphic novel, a movie. It’s funny shit."

"I don’t know," I said. "I don’t know what I’m doing."

The door to the studio opened. Curtis poked his massively haired head out, revealing bright and shiny red eyes and an open, giggling mouth. "You guys!" said Curtis. "Come check this out! I just had a perfect accident!"

Wes and I rose and walked into the studio. Curtis closed the door behind us, giggled, said, "Check this out," flipped switches, slid sliders and pressed buttons, said, "Check this out" again, and killed the lights. We hovered over the mixing board, watching the small monitor, listening to the big sound.

SIX MINUTES LATER, Curtis hit the lights, and Cropper shouted, "Fucking beautiful, man! Fucking perfect! No way anyone could do that on purpose!" Cropper was going off, pacing, gesticulating fiercely as if clawing his way through a corridor of cobwebs: "Oh, man! It was like we were at the end of the 14th century! Only with electric guitars and beer! And the sky’s like a blue bullet melting in the sun, man! And Mozart’s there, conducting these snakeskin cowboy boots, making them walk, and . . ."

"18th century," Curtis interrupted, but pleasantly.

And Cropper stopped. Instantly. And all glee disappeared from his face, leaving it suddenly sober and angry. And Cropper knit his brow and said, "What?"