Author's Introduction
Preface by Bennie Strange
Logan Airport
The Briefing
The Red Barn
The Stones Might Come
The Stones Are Coming
The Stones Aren't Coming
The Slender Strand
Twin Cessna 75 X-Ray
Keith Richards
Jane Rose
For Engineers Only
Systems, Inc.
Joe Rascoff
Ian Stewart
The Little Boys' Room
Master of All He Surveys
Paul Wasserman
The Tennis Courts
Bill & Astrid
A Typical Morning
A Typical Mid-Morning
My Friend Mark
The Pantry
The Rock Wall
Fraternity Brothers
The Red Line
Club Owners
A Typical Rehearsal
Rob Barnett
One Sunday Afternoon
Bennie Strange in Worcester
The Show Must Go On
Bill Graham
Little Girls
Steve Morse
The Raging Rose Saloon
The Publicist's Handbook
Charlie Watts
Mick and Freedom
Press Conference
The Strange Afterglow
Appendix A
Appendix B
Appendix C
Wire-copy news
Stones Cinderella Story
The Tennis Court Fiasco

The Rock Wall

"There's a particularly mean looking one... Tattoos. Beer. Something metal hanging from his belt. Tell Callahan I may have to go out there."

    There's a long rock wall down at the bottom of the valley dividing our farm from Stanley's. Seen from the Farmhouse, it begins off to the left on very high ground, dips down behind the riding ring, and continues off and up toward the right, behind the pond. On the other side of the rock wall, which is about a quarter mile from the front porch of the Farmhouse, the land dips down sharply, toward Stanley's house and barn. You can stand on Stanley's side of the rock wall and be only as tall as a person kneeling on the Long View side of the same wall, and so the rock wall provides natural camouflage and cover for people coming from Stanley's who might want to spy on Long View.
    "Stanley," I said, "you can't let people onto your property. You don't understand what will happen. People are coming from all over the country trying to find out how to get to Long View. They'll come across your land in droves, trying to make it to the rock wall. The wall is within a rifle shot of the porch at Long View, and that's too close. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, Stanley? Besides, they'll trample your hay and hassle your cows and maybe set fire to something. You've got to listen to me, Stanley, you just don't know what you're up against." Stanley looked at me for a moment, spat, and spoke.
    "Would'a been eighty-seven today, Bessie would'a. Typhoid took her away in the winter of '44, leavin' Jeb with those six kids of hers, and not the brains God gave a green apple. Never much good, Jeb."
    Stanley always knew how old a lot of dead people would have been had they not died when they did. That's loyalty to a frame of reference like I've never seen before.
    "Stanley," I said, "what does that have to do with the Rolling Stones? I'm simply asking you to close off your road, for God's sake. You don't know what you're dealing with." Stanley changed his mind before he was done, and closed off his driveway with piles of hay bales and wouldn't let people walk across his land toward ours, and that helped a lot.
    But on this particular Sunday afternoon, early on during the stay of the Stones at Long View, Stanley was doing nothing to help. Visitors would get as far as the roadblock at the bottom of Stoddard Road, argue in vain with the officers on duty, and generally be shunted on past the reservoir, toward Stanley's. And at the spot where Stanley's driveway met the road, there was a really good view of Long View in the distance, up on the hill, and so it's here that the cars would slow to a halt, and usually park. We could see them easily from the Farmhouse at Long View — see them roll up their windows, lock their cars, and casually walk up Stanley's long driveway, toward us, until the driveway ended. Then they'd set out across the field, generally in groups of two's or three's, heads bobbing up and down as they ducked from one piece of natural cover to the next, edging ever closer to the rock wall, to Long View, and to the Rolling Stones. We had several pairs of binoculars going.
    "There's a particularly mean looking one," said Bob Bender, Stones security man, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, peering intently through the glasses, toward the east. "Tattoos. Beer. Something metal hanging from his belt. Tell Callahan I may have to go out there."
    Although Jim Callahan was chief in charge of security for the Stones, his main concern was the bodily safety of the stars, not logistics or perimeters. Bob Bender was more interested in the perimeters, and crowd control, and so was I.
    "I'll go down there," I said to Bob. "I need some exercise, and I know where not to step. It's wet in places. Just give me a few minutes to finish my drink."
    That was fine with Bender. He'd much rather stay up by the swing, smoke cigarettes, and play with Robert, Kathleen's three year old son. Robert and Bob Bender got along famously. They would imitate each other. So I swilled down the end of my screwdriver and ambled down toward the pond, where I'd cut across over to the wall. From there I would see what was happening, and maybe talk some people into leaving. I had my boots, jeans, shirt and tie, and the black pin-striped jacket that Cat Stevens gave me just before he left. My standard countryside rock mogul get-up.1
    More activity now, it seemed, as I got closer. More frequent bobbing up and down of heads at the wall itself. First over to the left, accompanied by a puff of smoke indicating not artillery, but probably a joint being passed around. Then off to the right, punctuated by a howl of some sort. Some kid attempting to sound like an Indian, was the best you could make of it. Then right down in front, not one head bobbing, but all of a sudden six of them. There was clearly something going on on the other side of the wall, now just a few steps in front of me, on the top of the rise.
    A few moments later I was to realize as never before the extent of our security problem at Long View; one second I was making my way toward the rock wall, listening to the birds cheeping, and even a bit lost in deep-country reverie, the next second I had reached the rock wall and was looking over it, first to the left, then to the right, and into the eyes of scores of Stones watchers, all crouched up against the wall, sometimes two or three deep. They had binoculars, joints, beers, infants-in-arms, girlfriends, and an occasional walkie-talkie. These people were of all ages, and they were all looking at me. Intently. I glanced nervously over my shoulder, and back toward the Farm. I could see Bob Bender on the porch, looking at me through his glasses. He waved one arm over his head. The little lump down and to his right had to be Robert. All of a sudden, I wished I was back up there.
    "Well, looky-here," a nearby voice said. I wheeled around to confront a young kid who looked about fourteen. He was obese from beer, and on his upper lip he had a dirty-looking peach fuzz, which was apparently under cultivation. He wore a plain white tee-shirt, which was sweat stained and soiled with the dirt of the land. It strained around the spare tires of his fat, adolescent stomach. Only a corner of the shirt was tucked into his jeans, which were also filthy. He wore a wide, black belt that had silver studs or bolts in it, or something. This kid was mean, and not much fun to look at.
    "Well, wadda we got here? Da Stones in dere?" he spat at me. "You got da Stones up dere?"
    "Yes," I said. "The Rolling Stones are in there, and let me tell you, they're madder'n hell. Mad that they've come all this way for some peace and quiet, and that they get this, instead."  I waved my arm in a grand flourish, encompassing all those crouched by the wall, smoking joints, and laughing at me.
    The kid spat again, then moved toward me, smirking. He was flanked by two urchins who were obviously much younger still, and who were trading playful pugilistic shots at each other, yelping, and occasionally bumping into the filthy jeans of the bigger kid.
    "Hey," the big one said. "You a banker?"
    "Let's play wit da banker," the little one on the left said.
    "You wanna play, big shot?" spoke the little one on the right.
    The fourteen year old obese one was still smirking, and now had his barrel chest and peach fuzz lip only a few inches away from the buttons of my Cat Stevens jacket. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman Stones watcher off to the left old enough to be my mother. She was crouched behind the wall, too, in a good position, and she was shaking her fist at me. Shouting something, too, but I couldn't hear quite what. Then I figured it out. She was booing me. And then suddenly some others started booing me, too. The boos traveled quickly along the rock wall in both directions, to the left and to the right, until I was hearing good stereo.
    "All right," I said, in my most calm and measured tones. "But it's simply not going to work. They're not going to come out of the house with their six security guys and dogs and whatnot and come down here to the rock wall to sign autographs. The fact is, Mick's in New York, and Keith has just crashed after being up for three days, and everybody else is asleep, too. You'll be here a couple of days before anything stirs up there, and I can guarantee you they're not going to play tonight in the barn, so you're just wasting your time and getting cold and wet."
    The boos had now subsided somewhat, and a few people were actually listening to me.
    "And I'd be happier if you just up and left. It would make our job easier. You ought to think of us once before trampling over our land with your beer cans and binoculars and getting people all paranoid and up-tight. John Lennon was shot last December, and he's dead now. Can you imagine what's going through their minds up there at the Farmhouse when they look down here and see puffs of smoke, walkie-talkies, and guys with tattoos and too much to drink? They start talking 'security,' that's what they do, and that comes down hard on us. So why don't you go home and warm up? Maybe they'll play tomorrow night, who knows?"
    "But that's Monday," I heard someone growl, and I realized with some relief that Monday was the first day of school for most schools in Massachusetts.
    "Yeah," the fat kid said. "Dat's Monday."
    Bob Bender was still up on the swing, with Robert, looking at me through his large binoculars. I waved back at him this time, forced a smile in the direction of this rag-tag bunch of Stones watchers who were now in some visible disarray, not knowing what to do — whether to go or to stay.
    "Listen," I said, "you do what you want. Just don't count on seeing any Rolling Stones, 'cause it's not going to happen. Not today, at any rate. I'm going back up there. You do what you want."
    Already I could see one or two groups along the edges gathering up their things, kicking at the rock wall, and preparing to leave. The lady old enough to be my mother was muttering something, but she wasn't booing me anymore. The fat kid suddenly seemed at a loss for words. I wasn't going to get socked, after all. Must have been what I said about Mick being in New York. Or about Keith having crashed. Invoking the word and image of the Rolling Stones produces results. Interesting, I thought. These people were going to go away because Mick was in New York, and because Keith was asleep.
    And, maybe I had something to do with this charade, too. Gil Markle — honest broker in the service of superstars. That fat kid hadn't scared me a bit. I straightened up in my boots, wheeled about, and headed back toward the Farm, feeling quite satisfied with my performance, and useful for a change. It occurred to me that if we got through this weekend, and school actually started, we'd have it made.

    1 How many times more do we have to hear that Cat Stevens gave him that suit jacket? The fact is, Cat Stevens couldn't stand the thing, and he'd just sent the girl who gave it to him off in a limousine, back to New York, in tears. That was in 1977. "Here," he said to Gil, "you keep this stupid thing. It'll probably fit you."
    Gil makes out like it had been presented to him in a box, or something. B.S.

 All original material copyright © Gilbert Scott Markle. All rights reserved.