Twelve Hours Ago

Having not even heard of the film, I watched Wild in the Streets last night. Comcast's blurb claimed it was a cult film from 1968. I was in high school then. How had I missed it?

By rallying teens in the streets, a 25-year-old pop idol forced the government to lower the voting age to 14, and then was elected president. He declared the US would lead the world in hedonism. He put everyone over the age of 35 into internment camps and kept them lolling on LSD.

Christopher Jones, heir to James Dean in those days, played the lead with Shelley Winters as his cum-hippy mother. Richard Prior played in the band. Ed Begley portayed an asshole political boss, and a young Hal Holbrook played the senator who used the youthful horde, but eventually they turned against him and hanged him.

The handsome Kevin Coughlin (looking 22) played a 15-year-old gay band member who had a thing for older—read in their 30s—men. The straight band members kept trying to fix him up with hot guys, but he had his mind set on the Senator, whom he growled at salaciously and attempted to paw, one place or another. Tons of snarky asides about the state of society and politics—asides that still fit today.

But in the middle of it, I had to hit pause. My ad-sales co-worker Sheryl called 3 times. Rapid fire. I don't take her calls after 7:00, as her evening energy is more than I care to handle, but I feared what might have happened. Sheryl's chain-smoking, Italian mother-in-law lives with Sheryl and her husband in a separate suite. Carlela has an aneurism in her stomach that could burst at any minute, but can’t be operated on since Carmela can't stop smoking for a month--a requirement before the surgery. This past week, concern for Carmela has been intense, and fearing the worst, I relented and called.

But the problem was nothing of the sort. Sheryl, who used to run wild in the streets herself and has won many Bette Midler look-alike, act-alike contests, used to use Midler's persona to flirt with presidents and CEOs of defense contractors to sell ads in DOD publications. Six years ago, she had an especially lucrative one, Mr. Brock, on the hook. He begged repeatedly, and she sent him one of her glamour-shots. But he retired 4 years ago, and was never heard from again.

Then, out of the blue at ten o'clock last night and likkered up, Brock called her. He announced he had moved to Atlanta, and wanted to marry her—or if she wouldn’t leave her husband, have a serious affair. He made it clear he had millions and would treat her right. Sheryl, having left her bawdy ways behind, tried to reason with him, but he insisted. She hung up on him. Only I (not her husband!) knew the extent of her previous, hussy ways, so she had to call.

Why hadn't I realized years ago that my propensity to collect characters would one day lead to the vocation of writing? I should have seen it coming.