You know what’s Crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!
Having a mechanical device count every time someone enters or exits your home.
You heard me!
Click. Click. Click.
Scarff Street had a turnstile. Few people can say they had a turnstile in their home, unless they lived at Dodger Stadium under the bleachers.
The Scarff Street Derelicts had a turnstile. And for two years, people had to come and go pushing a large metal bar that registered your visit to our humble abode.
The turnstile must have weighed a couple of hundred pounds. It was bright blue and solid metal. It was waist high and filled up the entire doorway.
Adam Rogers Circa 1985 sleeps beside turnstile
I remember the first night I encountered the turnstile. It was 2 am. I parked in the alley under the apartment. As mentioned, the Harpy’s ran a chop shop back here. In the first few days they stole 2 batteries.
We quickly learned to hate the Harpy’s. One night, Schultz, Gilmore, Geroux and I waited in the dark with baseball bats, just hoping they would tamper with our cars.
They didn’t come.
So we started taking precautions.
This picture illustrates just how crazy living here was. I have just parked my truck, but that is the only the beginning. At Scarff Street, you pop the hood and undo the battery cables. Then you remove your 12 volt battery and in this case, you leave a handwritten note in the battery compartment.
I used the same note over and over. It simply said. “Hey Harpy’s F-off!”
Carrying your battery into your home every single time you park can be a drag, but it is less of a drag than constantly buying a new car battery.
On this particular night, I remember saying to no one in particular, “No battery for you tonight Harpys”
With my Delco under my arm, I started up the stairs. The 12 unit apartment building was filled with the angry snarl of Hank Williams Jr.
There was no doubt where that music was coming from. As I approached the apartment, the music was blaring, echoing, throughout the stucco corridor.
It was 2 am, but Scarff Street never slept. The apartment was like the island of Lost. It had a soul of its own. It didn’t let you leave unless it had a purpose for you leaving.
As I got to the security screen, I could tell the door was open. No telling what I would find inside. Would the Delta Chi frat house be over because we were way more fun than they were? Would Geroux’s 6 foot 8 inch football buddy “Big Boy” be inside trying to tunnel through the floor with a vacuum? Would Narcisse and the late shift crew from the Boys Supermarket be inside? Anything and everything was possible at Scarff Street.
As I got to the apartment, I could hear that the record was skipping over and over and over. Hank Jr. singing about a family tradition. Then suddenly: RIPPPPPP! Then he’d sing the same refrain again.
Don’t ask me Hank why do you drink?
Why do you roll smoke?
Why must you live out the songs that you wrote?
RIPPPPPPPP.
The sound was harsh. The skip ear piercing.
“Oh man, ” I said hastening my pace near apartment number 11. “African dude is going to shoot us.” I muttered to myself.
I pushed open the door and began to enter when suddenly: WHAMMMM.
Something hard pops me in the scrotum.
OUCH
What the hell? I look down and see it.
A bright blue turnstile blocking my entrance into my own apartment.
It’s 2 am. Hank Williams is screaming. All the lights are on. Beer bottles line the counter. There is a turnstile in my doorway and nobody is home.
I pushed my way through the heavy metal device and listen as the mechanism counts my entry.
CLICK
As I moved to the stereo I wondered which brain dead room mate was responsible for this security breach. It’s not like we don’t have a major LA street gang living under our house.
“Sure, just leave the front door wide open,” I shout at nobody in particular.
As I moved the needle to a song without a major scratch in the vinyl, I laughed. This apartment was alive, like an organism, partying by itself, pissing off African Dude all by itself.
I turned to look at the new decoration. A turnstile? I laughed out loud as I popped open a Coors light.
How the hell did they get that here?
As Gilmore will later tell the story, he and a guy named Dawson were at a USC basketball game at the Sports arena. Back in the day, nobody attended these events. There probably wasn’t a 1000 people there. When the team scored you heard crickets.
I am sure the boys had a few beers. The temptation coupled with the lack of security was just too great.
So they take a turnstile. But honestly, how the hell do you cart a turnstile from inside the Sports Arena, through the parking lot without someone saying; “Hey dude nice turnstile.”
Even if you do get it to car, how the heck do you get it home.
From what I remember: Dawson drove a camaro. How do you get a turnstile in the rear hatch of a Camaro?
Dedication to principle and purpose brought this magnificent counting device to our lair.
Pretty unbelievable. But that was the magic of Scarff Street. One day you open the door and walk in like a normal human. The next day, you push your way through a turnstile and your patronage is recorded.
Sadly, Gilmore reports he sold the turnstile at a garage sale.
Why would you sell something so priceless?
The guy who bought it is probably a nerd. He has know clue how many parties passed through this metal threshold.
You don’t think the girls from the L.A. fashion institute weren’t a little nervous when we made them walk through the turnstile before partying with the Derelicts?
Gilmore you should be angry at yourself.
The turnstile was cool. Mr. Ed was Awesome.
More on the number one attraction (that couldn’t cut its hair off with a steak knife) to the Scarff Street Palace tomorrow.