What the Devil Makes You Do
On Easter and a young man's thoughts turn to the Church of Satan...
It started with Tina. She left Baltimore in a fit of a desire to change her whole program. Her sister, who had caught VD from Edgar Winter, said to come to San Francisco. So she came.
But these were the days of no money and so our time together didn’t involve much but walking the streets, and talking. And given how much I hate to walk, it was mostly talking. I wish I could remember about what, but mostly music. She had booked music in Baltimore and that’s how we met.
One night I stopped walking. Something had caught my eye. Embedded in the sidewalk at my feet was a pentagram. Which I called her attention to.
“That’s a bad sign, Eugene.”
I had looked up and the house that rose up behind it was all black. The shades were drawn.
“I heard that the guy who wrote the Satanic Bible lives here.”
“Here here?” I asked.
“Well, in San Francisco. Stay away from that house. Seriously. Nothing good’s going to come from that. I mean don’t go messing around with this Eugene…I know somebody…”
I wasn’t a satanist but I was not at all averse to selling to satanists.
I had stopped listening. I spent the better part of my life addressing fear. Specifically mine. It seemed like something that adult people should do. But it’s something I had been doing since I was old enough to do it. Murderers, madmen, the whole danger crew of people most people would be better off not knowing.
There was no internet then. So I wrote him a letter. Asked for an interview. He agreed.
Tina stopped talking to me.
I’ve written about the interview before. But our association extended beyond that interview. Because after that interview things had started to…happen. He asked me to help him publish some more stuff. I agreed. I had no money but I had a credit card, my first, and he had sold millions of The Satanic Bible. I wasn’t a satanist but I was not at all averse to selling to satanists.
“Let’s meet for dinner, we can talk about it.”
Where do Satanic popes prefer to eat?
“Max’s Opera Cafe. Eight o’clock.”
I was there, at a table for two, at eight. LaVey rolls in with Blanche Barton, then his assistant, later the mother of his only son, and another woman.
We get moved to a bigger table, order, and start eating. The conversation is perfectly convivial. The company good.
“So about this book…”
I was publishing a magazine then, the book would be much easier. I was thrilled to be getting a chance to do it.
“…I’m going to work on it with these people from Los Angeles*.” He smiled and drank. “They’ve got some good ideas.”
John Travolta does a dead on impersonation of Marilyn Monroe [and] Richard Ramirez the NightStalker smelled bad…
I admired that. I mean knifing someone in the back right in front of their face was almost the best way to do it really. But I had nothing to complain about. I had spent no money on it yet.
“Ok. Well I’ll just be excited to see you have something out.”
“We’ll see.”
He took another sip of whatever he was drinking. I forked a mouthful of whatever I was eating, into my mouth. He and Blanche and the third member of their party began gathering up their things. My meal was half eaten. Theirs? Largely untouched.
“Well we’ve got to be going…” And with a wave and a smile they were off.
The waiter came back, his look suggesting he wanted some answers for the uneaten meals and the sudden absence of my dining companions. I shrugged and raised my eyebrows.
“Shall I bring you the check now?”
The check? HAH. Of course, the check. “Sure.”
I was 25 years old with a credit card. That had a $300 limit. The bill came to, with tip, $289.
I saw him a few times after that. Never in a restaurant setting again. Which is really what I was hoping for. See, I wanted to grift the grifter back. Stick him with the bill to complete the comedy. I suggested it. Several times. Each restaurant more ridiculously expensive than the next. Like a guy at Three-Card Monte table, I couldn’t stop. Mostly because I couldn’t accept having gotten got like that.
But he was always cordial to me and always seemed…happy to see me. Or was that amused?
And then he died.
Taking stock of what I had learned from him — John Travolta does a dead on impersonation of Marilyn Monroe, Richard Ramirez the NightStalker smelled bad, carrying a gun always made sense — I could now add: never wait for the check.
See that’s the kind of advice that doesn’t come cheap.
So I find, every now and again though, that I miss him. And my $289. But mostly him. And very clearly Tina was wrong. Any life lesson that leaves you still breathing and not bleeding is a good one to have. So, some good’s come out of it.
And they’ve closed Max’s Opera Cafe. Every time I pass the corner where it used to be I chuckle though.
“Goddamnit LaVey…”
[Note: the “people from Los Angeles” were the folks at Feral House, who became friends of mine later and benefactors in many ways and who never failed to mention that they came to LaVey by way of me in their Apocalypse Culture titles. They also did a much better job with his books than I ever could have. I salute them still.]
That’s hysterical...I too have fond memories of friends who are also motherfuckers who got over on me - not in a terrible way, but in a “life lessons” way that a) wasn’t terrible and b) brought clarity to the parameters of our association.
For example
“Cool guy. But NEVER let him borrow shit.”
“Fun to hang out with, but if he orders a third drink, find an excuse to leave. URGENTLY.”
“Nice guy, who would never try to steal your girlfriend. But if you break up, he’ll call her the next morning.”