Being Frank by Nigey Lennon Page A

future Male Hollywood Showbiz Exec Look (minus the ‘90s regulation single earring).
    The three of us walked out of the auditorium to a station wagon parked near the loading area. Dick climbed behind the wheel, I squeezed in next to him, and Frank rode on the outside; luckily the front seat was fairly wide, because two of us had wider ones .
    We pulled out into the tree-lined Berkeley streets, dappled with light and shadow. In the distance the Oakland Bridge’s massive gray exoskeleton, and the delicate rust-red spans of the San Francisco Bay Bridge, fluttered in the air like mirages. Farther off yet, the scrubbed white buildings on the San Francisco hills seemed to defy gravity, exploding into space from all directions, more light than matter. The breeze was cool, but I felt a thousand tiny flames licking my cheek.
    I got up my nerve and asked Frank if I’d be playing with the band at the concert that night. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Most of it’s going to be material you don’t know,” he answered. “I think it would be a good idea for you to listen to the show tonight and get an idea of the unfamrliar songs.” That sounded reasonableenough. It was true — I didn’t know a lot of the material, I hadn’t had a chance to attend a full band rehearsal in L.A. before the tour started.
    After a short drive down Shattuck Avenue during which I found myself staring intently at the billboards we were passing, the station wagon turned into the parking lot of the Berkeley House motel, I glanced sideways at Frank, who caught me looking at him. His eyes still had that mischief in them, although the playfulness had deepened into something a little more serious. Dick pulled up at the motel entrance, and fast as lightning Frank popped the door open and climbed out, I followed, with a sweaty feeling of anticipation.
    We walked through glass doors into the lobby. There it was — that unmistakable motel smell of Lysol and naugahyde. The Muzak was pumping out a bassless, drumless, rhythmless rendition of “Light My Fire.” We joined a gaggle of tourists waiting for the elevator. There were some sideways glances at Frank, a pronounced nervous drifting away from us as Mr. and Mrs. America sensed the menace lurking inside that brown tweed disguise.
    Just then a couple of lads who looked like they were playing hooky from Cal came strolling down the hall on their way to the swimming pool. They spied Frank and immediately began gaping. The elevator, meanwhile, seemed to be hung up in the attic somewhere. Finally one of the boys summoned his courage: “Are — are you Frank Zappa?”
    Frank nodded.
    â€œIs it really true that you ate shit on stage?” asked the other guy with a nervous smirk. (This was a persistent canard that had been plaguing Frank at least since the late 1960s, but at the time I had never heard it before.)
    Frank stared him down. “ That’s a vicious rumor ,” he answered in his sardonic drawl. “ The closest thing to shit I ever ate was the Beef Wellington from the buffet at a Holiday Inn in Newark, New Jersey. ”
    The elevator door swung open just then, and as we piled in, we were confronted head on by the major disgust of Mr. and Mrs. America. Our middle-aged lady actually pressed herself flat against the side of the elevator as she entered, trying to avoid any possibility of contamination by this vile coprophage; her husband looked daggers at us from the other side of the elevator. Frank and I were suffused with smothered laughter and by the time we were out of the elevator and into the upstairs hall, neither of us could hold it back. In front of the door toroom 303, we both collapsed, falling all over each other I thought he was going to die laughing , right there in the hall of the third floor at the Berkeley House motel. Somebody get me a Steadi-Cam! FRANK ZAPPA DIES LAUGHING! Film at 11!
    Finally Frank caught