Los Angeles. Late 1983.
As the beleaguered St. Phil explained during his new-employee orientation speech to some guy named Dave [aka Mr. DaStinky], he himself had no need of money, despite having spent the previous decade supporting and mentoring the biological offspring he and his brother had spawned. He paused for effect and to light a new cigarette off the stub he was discarding.
“My brother is a miserable, antisocial, womanizing narcissist,” St. Phil explained with a smile to Mr. DaStinky. “An alley cat is a better father, and a garden slug is a better companion.”
Dave was pleased to be taken into the confidence of one of his new employers, but he rushed to assure St. Phil of his discretion. After all, the brothers were not only brothers but business partners.
“Never fear,” he said, “I will not disclose anything you’ve just said about your brother to anyone. And I certainly will not disclose a word of it to your brother.”
St. Phil sighed, exasperated. As though his brother would give this jerk the time of day.
“Listen to me, DaStinky, what’s the point of me telling you all this if you’re not going to pass it on? I rely on you to get the word out to as many people as you can about how disgusting my brother is. You won’t get to know him yourself because when he’s not onstage, you won’t see him. He’ll be off with a woman somewhere. So you’ll need to understand him through what I tell you about him, see? But please feel free to pass the information on as though you observed him firsthand, okay? It lends an air of authenticity.”
Dave’s brows shifted inward toward each other. “Are you saying that you want me to talk about this?”
“Certainly,” St. Phil continued, slowing the pace of his speech to ensure DaStinky’s comprehension. “And don’t worry about it. Embroider it a little, if you wish. As I said, you won’t get to know him, but I feel confident you will dislike him anyway. Look at the company he keeps—women, women, women. And in recent years he’s taken up with brainy, business-y types. Some of them don’t even wear makeup. And he makes them his personal managers, too. They’re particularly annoying, DaStinky.”
“Please, call me ‘Dave.’ And actually, I don’t care for women unless they find me attractive.”
St. Phil surveyed the balding wreck in front of him and realized he wouldn’t have to worry about Dave missing a night hanging out with the boys. He lit another Marlboro. “Well, Dave, I think we understand each other. Just remember when you see how faithfully I party with the band every night, I’m only doing this to save Donald.”
Yes, St. Phil mused, I’ll have to show up onstage to toss guitars and harmonize a bit, but there will be the opportunity to party with the band every night. There was nothing St. Phil enjoyed more than being with the guys. And it was, to be honest, a blessing that he could count on his evil brother keeping himself locked away with a woman. Or however many women he had with him. The bastard. Hmmm. Better watch it. That word could slip into my speech. Mama’s still alive, and she probably always will be.
Gradually St. Phil became aware that DaStinky was talking.
“. . . and I don’t have passports or tickets for that group of women in your brother’s entourage.”
“Don’t worry. You just need stuff for that bitch hanging on his arm. The others will stay stateside, and a different set will meet the plane in London.”
DaStinky decides that this is not the time to ask for an explanation.
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