I slid onto the front seat of my Pontiac Firebird and headed to West LA via the San Diego Freeway. My destination was Mar Vista. Compared to its westside neighbors, Mar Vista was more pedestrian than Culver City and less tony than Brentwood. No one, other than locals, cared about the difference. LA was just LA in the world’s view, and at age 22, I was trying to be as worldly as I could.
As the traffic slowed at the Ventura Freeway junction, I turned down the radio and practiced my impending conversation with Gregory.
“Thanks for the invitation. This is all new to me. I’m not really a believer, but I always try to keep an open mind,” I said out loud.
I wanted to sound earnest but not aloof, to pretend that, while I had better things to do, I had at least a passing curiosity in the paranormal. The truth was that, after ditching the Catholic Church in college, I wanted to believe in just me. But I’d found myself to be a rather disappointing object of veneration. I was looking for a new candle to light.
I first met Gregory at a UCLA Extension class called “The Occult for Beginners.” It was the summer of 1973, and the dark arts were in vogue in Southern California. Reincarnation, auras, witchcraft, hauntings, tarot card readings, and sinister divinations of all sorts were both the stuff of headlines and a recurrent subject of public chatter.
