Flew Too High (eBook)

A gay drug smuggler's transcendent odyssey in the heyday of Studio 54

Louie Mandrapilias (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
284 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-8835-2 (ISBN)

Infos

In the heyday of Studio 54, a naïve gay college student is seduced by a demonic Svengali into smuggling a hash-lined suitcase from India, but detours to a mystical ashram and explores new worlds. The untested disciple must then find his way back to New York for the biggest score of all - saving his own soul.

Dropping out of art school, Louie Mandrapilias moved to New York City to pursue a brief career in drug smuggling, followed by a journey into the art of woodworking in a Midtown Manhattan loft. He returned to the University of Houston to complete his B.A. in Graphic Design. Louie has spent the past forty years in the world of media -including LGBTQ+ publishing pioneers The Advocate and Out magazines-and designing for luxury brands Fortuny Fabrics and Agraria Home Fragrances. An imaginary conversation with his father resulted in his memoir 'Flew Too High'. Coming full circle, Louie recently completed a full renovation of a historic Brooklyn brownstone. He lives a blessed life in the City of Angels.

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Growing up in the shadow of his towering Greek father, a southern gay college boy sets out for the Big Apple where a demonic Svengali lures the naive student into the razor-wire underworld of international drug smuggling. Upon his arrival in Bombay, Louie now rechristened Eli detours to the mystical ashram of guru Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (Netflix's "e;Wild, Wild Country"e; ) and explores new possibilities. With a flawed moral compass, he's trapped in purgatory: Is it too late to walk away, or is he fated to follow in the nefarious footsteps of his father, Nick the Greek??Woven throughout is a proud heritage dating back to ancient Sparta, the struggle between a pious mother and rebel father, and the battle that rages on in the soul of their only son. Fasten your seatbelts it's not "e;My Big Fat Greek Wedding"e;.

Textauszug

PLEASED TO MEET YOU,

WON’T YOU GUESS MY NAME

I WON’T TRY TO WEAVE THIS TALE so you’ll like me better, say I was young and naïve, and the big bad wolf seduced me. Even when I was too young to know it, I had one eye on the next scam. When the wolf came knocking, I could hardly wait to let him in, which I did in the searing summer of 1978.

I attended the University of Houston, far from my North Louisiana hometown of Shreveport, where I’d be free to experiment with my sexuality and drugs. Drugs provided an escape from my confused, shame-filled adolescence. I’d taken acid a few times with varying degrees of success. Quaaludes were high on my list, but more than once, I mixed them with beer and blacked out. High on angel dust, I saw Female Trouble, a midnight movie on campus.Smoking cigarettes in the girls’ bathroom, chief anarchist Dawn Davenport declared, “I’d like to set fire to this dump. I hope I get arrested.” That resonated with me. I wanted to go underground.

New York City would provide that portal.

I had just arrived in the Big Apple for a two-week getaway, a postponed 21st birthday gift to myself, before the start of my senior year of college. The gay scene in New York was legendary. After the Stonewall Riots in 1969, when fed-up drag queens led the fight against harassment and forced the police to retreat, enforcement of sodomy laws gradually laxed. Almost a decade later, packed, dark bars and steamy bathhouses all but welcomed sexual encounters.

Just what I’m looking for.

Even on my meager student budget, I would have enough money for a fun visit—meals, museums, and sundry drugs. I took in the hustle and bustle, as passing buses advertised the latest in entertainment. The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas had just opened on Broadway, a sweet callback to home.

Standing inside the phone booth, I caught my reflection in the glass doors, never comfortable with my large Greek nose and thick lips framed by my feathered brown shag haircut.

God, just like my dad.

I dialed the number Ian had scribbled on the back of his business card. Ian, a friend, okay, maybe more than a friend, was a notable art dealer, cultured, and in a not so committed relationship. I used my slim, boyish body as currency, fulfilling Ian’s sexual fantasies he never realized with his uptight partner Oliver, in exchange for nice dinners and help with my rent on more than one occasion.

The phone started to ring. It continued ringing. I was about to hang up.

I can try again later…

“Hello?” a commanding voice answered.

“Trey? Hey, my name’s Louie Mandrapilias,” suddenly self-conscious of my southern drawl. “Ian gave me your number. Just flew in from Houston.” I had no idea who Trey was—perhaps a stuffy colleague from the world of antiques?

Digging my finger in the coin return looking for change, I heard his deep voice again. “Ian?”

“Yeah, Ian Meckler. Listen, it’s my first time in New York City,” I started, looking out, itching to explore this new world. “You think we could meet for a drink?”

An awkward pause followed, as the constant stream of pedestrians raced past. “How long will you be here?”

“Couple of weeks. Ian said you’d show me around.” That was a lie.

“Why don’t we meet at the entrance of the West Side Y on West 64th?”

“The YMCA?” I wanted to be sure I understood him.

“Off the corner of Central Park West. Say 20 minutes?”

I checked my Casio watch. “Cool. I’ll see you then.”

The phone booth door unfolded like an accordion ushering in the free-form Midtown symphony, the sounds and smells of everything sizzling in the concrete frying pan. Searching through T-shirts and bikini underwear in my red backpack, I pulled out a small map to chart my course.

August. I hated the heat, muggy as only New York in August can be with a hazy gray coat hanging in the air, the collar of my white Izod tennis shirt sticking to my neck. But I was invigorated by the heartbeat of the city, determined to enjoy every moment of the next fourteen days.

Continuing north across East 58th I spotted the Plaza Hotel. So imposing,so stately. Well-groomed bellmen assisted travelers from all corners of the globe with their luggage. The building wrapped around the block and faced out to the park—Central Park.

Staying on the outskirts of the low stone-walled preserve, it seemed too grand to enter. I had to stop at the confusing intersection of tangled arteries at Columbus Circle near the Gulf and Western Building.

God, too many cars. This is a deathtrap. Which way should I go?

I double-checked every thruway, then crossed. Exiting a long black limousine, a long-haired mogul type in a bold plaid suit stood alongside two well-heeled women in chic midi-length wrap dresses. Glancing down to check out their strappy sandals, I glimpsed a large rat peeking out of a gutter. What other horrors were hiding beneath the surface?

Walking up Central Park West, a trail of sweaty male gym goers in dancers’ socks and tight short shorts confirmed I was getting close to my destination. Back home at the Houston Y, everyone looked so nice and neat and vanilla in their gym-supplied uniforms. Not here. Everything was real, every flavor, every combination, all the toppings.

Glancing up at the West 64th Street sign, I turned the corner.

God, is that him?

Leaning against an imposing cylindrical column, Trey looked like a GQ model waiting for the camera shutter to click, one foot resting on a square stone base, his thighs spread apart unapologetically. Six feet tall. A few inches taller than me. Wavy hair, intense eyes filled with darkness and light, reminding me of Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind. Forty and fit with smooth, translucent skin peeking out of his tight red Izod, collar up. We both wore Levi jeans. Izods and Levi’s—the all-American gay ’70s uniform.

“Trey?”

“Hey Louie,” his voice an octave deeper than when we spoke on the phone. I reached out to shake his hand. A nice firm grip—nothing worse than a limp handshake. “My friends call me Govind.”

What kind of a name is that? I thought his name was Trey?

I had to over enunciate his name to get it right. “Okay. Go-vind. What should we do first? The Statue of Liberty? The Empire State Building? I want to see everything.”

I felt his eyes checking me out, but he couldn’t be interested in me—way too good-looking, way out of my league—even though months of working out had put a bit of muscle on my 27-inch-waist Jagger look.

“Let’s go hang out,” he said, pointing to the urban forest. At the very least, he seemed willing to spend a few minutes with me.

Crossing the busy thoroughfare, we spotted a vendor, his metallic cart covered with a large hot dog photo. “You want anything?”

“I’ll have a Coke,” I answered, pretending to reach for my wallet.

“I’ve got it,” Govind offered. “Perrier, please.”

Cutting through bike paths filled with joggers and roller skaters in rainbow colors, his walk fascinated me. Body movements disciplined but fluid. Not at all feminine, and yet graceful. Govind’s mysterious confidence perfectly contrasted my wide-eyed curiosity.

“How do you know Ian?” I asked.

“We were lovers in the ’60s.”

“Lovers?” I didn’t remember Ian mentioning anything about that.

“He wanted to move to Houston. I went for a visit. And you?”

“We’re friends,” I said slyly. “You know, dinner now and then.”

“Dinner? Does Oliver know?”

I didn’t feel the need to clarify.

I couldn’t grasp the vastness of Central Park. In the distance sat a small, enchanting cottage nestled in the trees. Govind read my mind. “That’s Tavern on the Green, a posh restaurant.”

Posh? You’re posh, mister.

He led me to an open meadow under the shade of bright foliage at its summer peak. Huge boulders, lush vegetation, so much green under the suddenly big blue sky—open acres of nature corralled by rigid concrete and steel towering above mighty elms three stories tall. “Far out! It’s like we’re in the country.”

Govind remained guarded, somewhat aloof. “The city can be harsh. I come here to recharge.”

“Recharge?”

“I come here and soak in all the energy that exists in nature.”

Soak in all the energy? I never thought about that.

Summertime activities filled the park. Shirtless teenage boys tossed footballs and Frisbees. Nannies with baby carriages strolled by. A ragtag band played salsa music, a repetitive tribal beat fusing with the elements. Govind motioned me to sit across from him under a never-ending emerald canopy, shielding his alabaster shell from sunlight. A slight breeze blowing, but still hot and muggy. Twitching from side to side, I pulled at my shirt to let some air in.

“I didn’t catch your last name on the phone,” crossing his legs in a lotus position, the palms of his hands open to face me.

“Mandrapilias.”

“Wait....

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 20.12.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-8835-2 / 9798350988352