- Quimby Street. San Diego. He snorted a line and handed the rolled up bill to the thin leggy girl beside him. She looked delicious with her peanut butter brown skin and long fine hair. They had been up all night and a pall of cigarette smoke hung near the ceiling. Empty Heineken bottles stood on virtually every available flat surface. Dawn burned orange through the blinds. Bobby rubbed his eyes. They were red-rimmed and sore… as was his nose. He and the girl were wrung out like water from a twisted rag. Marathon sex was hours behind them and still the mirror whispered its mantra ….
- Bobby Piercy. Rumors abound. Grist for the mill. Playboy bunnies, cocaine, BMW’s…. the high life. Bobby was a superstar. Reportedly, he was the kind of guy that loved life and lived that life to its fullest. He was a World Class skateboarder. He won slalom & downhill races, rode pools, parks and pipes. He had fine ladies around him at all times. He was a ripper.
One day, Bobby simply disappeared. He wasn’t there anymore. It was as if a giant hole opened up in Point Loma and swallowed him up. The grapevine. Innuendo. Subtle hushed conversations. “Bobby was arrested for dealing blow.” Furtive looks and worried expressions… “He’s now in the Witness Protection Program.” Yet who really knows the truth? Can anyone ever truly know? Is he dead? Some stories describe Bobby as being executed in a drug deal gone wrong. Has he actually just moved on and is living his life as a baldy, big-bellied hardware store clerk in Utah somewhere? Bobby Piercy knows but he’s not talking. At least not to anyone who knew him back in sunny San Diego in the 1970’s.
I prefer to think of Bobby as he lived. Wide open. Possibilities. Unlimited and lawless…. that is the Bobby Piercy that I admired. Thanks to Jim Goodrich for the images. Skate- Ozzie