The Bakersfield Bukowski midnight meeting with Berg that never happened - By N.L. Belardes
Yes, there was the creepiest of emails Monday, December 5th:
I want to read your book. Meet me at The Mint, midnight. Can you do it?
Of course I could. At first I talked to Matildakay. But then I thought about how fun it always is to surprise and get a rise out of her with controversial/surprising entries. She’s one of my faithful readers who comments on every entry and is a good yardstick for metering the impact of specific pieces.
Then I thought, Flower in the Dale. She’s young, vivacious and loves a good adventure. She came by and we jumped in her speedster; oh yes, she drives a million miles an hour and quickly started my Bakersfield Bukowski tour out in Oildale, where she took me through the north-of-the-river hood to show me some of the places where she grew up, and where her father died of a drug overdose.
The streets were wet from a light fog. It was dark and misted, and close to midnight as we drove through Oildale streets. We slowed next to an apartment where she discovered her father’s lifeless body laying on the living room floor when she was 15. She lives in the hood, is ten years older now but still looks 21. “There’s an AA close to where I live,” she said. You might as well include the Longbranch Saloon and Trout’s bar where old Red Simpson still plays songs to Bakersfield barflies. They're close too. These were the streets of Bakersfield, the history of country music where Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, Billy Mize, and even folks like writer Gerald Haslam hung out, grew up, fought…
Just as fast as we'd gotten there we zoomed back over the river, past the River Belle Terrace and the old auto yard on Chester Avenue and headed downtown to the Mint.
Flower in the Dale grew nervous. “What if this guy tries to kill you?”
“He’s not going to kill me.”
“Maybe he will.”
“You can protect me. Look, if he’s not there in ten minutes then we’ll leave. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“You don’t know what he looks like? You’ll be dead for sure.”
“I’m not worried. Besides, he had a shotgun in his face as he broke up a kidnapping in Fresno. He wants to talk about it. He's the star witness.”
We arrived at the Mint and could hear rock music coming from inside. A band called Sex Slaves was performing right inside the front door: looked like a bunch of New York rockers with their tattoos shadowlike up their arms, rocked out clothes and wild hair. Another band, Cockpit had just performed. They were from LA. We had to squeeze by the performing band, past folks all lining the bar, heads bobbing to the music. We walked past the crowd and listened to a few songs. I poked my head out the back door and looked onto the patio. No one approached me.
I did notice one guy at the bar I thought might be Nate Berg: a blond guy in a jacket with an English coat of arms emblem, talking to a girl.
He wasn’t what I imagined for an alleged intimidator of the downtown scene, or a voyaging criminal of the American wastelands.
He didn’t approach me. And I didn’t approach him. So we left. It was to become the midnight meeting that never happened. I called Matildakay when I got home: "No dice."
Berg did write me the next day:
I was there 1030-100am, good looking blond guy in the jacket with English coat of arms emblem, talking to all the chicks. smile on my face. Cockpit (from Los Angeles) and Sex Slaves (New York City) both played, so I raise you and see you double.
two ships in the night??
Now I’m hearing that Nate Berg is working for Jon Coley—he’s the promoter for shows over at the Pizza-a-go-go… not sure if that’s true, could just be another stopping point in the ongoing voyages of Nate Berg…
I want to read your book. Meet me at The Mint, midnight. Can you do it?
Of course I could. At first I talked to Matildakay. But then I thought about how fun it always is to surprise and get a rise out of her with controversial/surprising entries. She’s one of my faithful readers who comments on every entry and is a good yardstick for metering the impact of specific pieces.
Then I thought, Flower in the Dale. She’s young, vivacious and loves a good adventure. She came by and we jumped in her speedster; oh yes, she drives a million miles an hour and quickly started my Bakersfield Bukowski tour out in Oildale, where she took me through the north-of-the-river hood to show me some of the places where she grew up, and where her father died of a drug overdose.
The streets were wet from a light fog. It was dark and misted, and close to midnight as we drove through Oildale streets. We slowed next to an apartment where she discovered her father’s lifeless body laying on the living room floor when she was 15. She lives in the hood, is ten years older now but still looks 21. “There’s an AA close to where I live,” she said. You might as well include the Longbranch Saloon and Trout’s bar where old Red Simpson still plays songs to Bakersfield barflies. They're close too. These were the streets of Bakersfield, the history of country music where Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, Billy Mize, and even folks like writer Gerald Haslam hung out, grew up, fought…
Just as fast as we'd gotten there we zoomed back over the river, past the River Belle Terrace and the old auto yard on Chester Avenue and headed downtown to the Mint.
Flower in the Dale grew nervous. “What if this guy tries to kill you?”
“He’s not going to kill me.”
“Maybe he will.”
“You can protect me. Look, if he’s not there in ten minutes then we’ll leave. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“You don’t know what he looks like? You’ll be dead for sure.”
“I’m not worried. Besides, he had a shotgun in his face as he broke up a kidnapping in Fresno. He wants to talk about it. He's the star witness.”
We arrived at the Mint and could hear rock music coming from inside. A band called Sex Slaves was performing right inside the front door: looked like a bunch of New York rockers with their tattoos shadowlike up their arms, rocked out clothes and wild hair. Another band, Cockpit had just performed. They were from LA. We had to squeeze by the performing band, past folks all lining the bar, heads bobbing to the music. We walked past the crowd and listened to a few songs. I poked my head out the back door and looked onto the patio. No one approached me.
I did notice one guy at the bar I thought might be Nate Berg: a blond guy in a jacket with an English coat of arms emblem, talking to a girl.
He wasn’t what I imagined for an alleged intimidator of the downtown scene, or a voyaging criminal of the American wastelands.
He didn’t approach me. And I didn’t approach him. So we left. It was to become the midnight meeting that never happened. I called Matildakay when I got home: "No dice."
Berg did write me the next day:
I was there 1030-100am, good looking blond guy in the jacket with English coat of arms emblem, talking to all the chicks. smile on my face. Cockpit (from Los Angeles) and Sex Slaves (New York City) both played, so I raise you and see you double.
two ships in the night??
Now I’m hearing that Nate Berg is working for Jon Coley—he’s the promoter for shows over at the Pizza-a-go-go… not sure if that’s true, could just be another stopping point in the ongoing voyages of Nate Berg…
This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on
Saturday, December 10, 2005.
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