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Mike Nader calls him “the Cary Grant of surfers,” adding, “Johnny Fain was the Mickey Rooney.” Acolytes were also struck by his dazzle—his wildly intelligent, if disjointed, sentences, combined with a lot of blowhard paranoia.
From the age of eight, the boy took care of the histrionic, perpetually inebriated woman.
Working as a host at Frascati restaurant and as a parking attendant at the then brand-new Beverly Hilton hotel in 1955 were just about the last real jobs anyone remembers him having. In a town of creamy opportunism, the thefts by which he supported himself were so small-time, high-risk, and potentially humiliating that they bespoke a cockeyed integrity.
He made the patently tacky petty theft a symbol of bravado and status envy.
He called an ambulance the time she slit her wrists, the time she took too much phenobarbital, and the time she removed a pierced earring by yanking it right through her earlobe.
One night Kay started gagging when she was eating, and Larry ran for a doctor, who, before pronouncing her dead, opened her mouth, removed a piece of steak from her windpipe, and told the sobbing boy, “Just so you know, kid, for the next time: this is how you can save someone’s life.”Larry slid his board into the station wagon next to Mike’s and Duane’s, and off the lost boys sped to their Nirvana—Malibu.
“Surfing hedonist who became a hero to a generation of beach bums …