The Sunset Strip Diaries (31 page)

On the weekends, I took the bus to a place that felt like heaven: Birdie’s house. I had to take two buses across town and then walk from a bus stop to her parent’s townhouse up a hill somewhere. They lived in a modest place although it was clear that they could have easily been more extravagant.

I would have walked through rain, sleet, and flying monkeys to get to her house because it was there that I could take a luxurious shower. I stood under steaming hot water and lathered up with lemon grapefruit soap from the South of France. I scrubbed myself with almond scrubs and sea sponges, used her coconut-scented shampoo and a vanilla-scented deep conditioner. I was never so grateful as when I was over there showering in the hot water. I got to use her thick, baby blue towels and actual hair products: shine serums, glosses, sprays, mousses, sets of large rollers- a whole salon’s worth of supplies. Round brushes, curling irons, barrettes and ribbon. It was divine. I borrowed her Estee Lauder foundations in thick matte glass bottles, powders in deep cobalt blue compacts and lipsticks in heavy gold tubes. It was so much better than using a clothes iron to do my hair and a Sharpie marker for eyeliner. I was using a left-over bottle of Aziza foundation from 1986, I had been so broke. She had a closet of beautiful, expensive, and showy clothing, and shoes stacked in boxes to the ceiling. Her room was a painted a pale, cotton candy pink with white shelves containing stacks of fashion magazines and perfume bottles. Pages of French and Italian
Vogue
were plastered on the walls amongst stuffed animals and a few random childhood trinkets. She was still part child, really. It felt comforting to me. I used to sit in her pink recliner and read her beat-up copies of
Sweet Valley High
while she spent hours on her makeup and hair.

I also loved the feeling of being safe under her parents’ roof. I went there as often as I could, listening to her father yell at people in his deep green office, or her mother speaking French or Italian to her friends on the phone. We could
eat
things in the kitchen! Brie and crackers, strawberries, fresh squeezed orange juice, cold chicken, slices of baguettes, chocolate chip cookies with cold milk. I wished so badly that I could move in with her, amongst the comforts of her home and her family and her old, little dog.

We went out every weekend, most of the time wearing coordinated outfits for maximum free stuff. Our favorite outfits were the sheer, short baby doll dresses that the dancers wore in Prince’s “
Gett Off” video. Birdie had the black with white polka dots and I had the white with black polka dots. We got them at different points in time at Playmates on Hollywood Boulevard. With those dresses, we wore our hair slicked back into high ponytails, big hoop earrings, and false eyelashes. We also did a beach bunny theme: we tanned very dark and wore baby pink lipstick, dark smoky eye makeup, and very tiny half shirts in pale colors, with our hair half up and half down. We had a disco theme with lots of silver glitter eye makeup and our hair in big, bouncy disco curls. Whatever we did, it always caused a lot of commotion. While that was the point, and it was fun, it was also a little embarrassing. I felt sort of childish dressing alike with another girl. It felt very silly- it wasn’t me. I also felt it was making a pretty bold statement as to how close we were to each other. Birdie was not well-liked among the girls in Hollywood, and I knew that I would soon have more enemies by pairing up with her in such an extreme way. It didn’t deter me though; being around Birdie was too comforting. Her warm home, her girliness, the security of her parents- it was all too delicious for me to give up.

We paid for nothing
when we went out. She was exceptionally beautiful and I had an exceptional figure. Combined, we partied for free every single time we went out. I had already been enjoying that sort of treatment for a few years by then, but it was taken to another level once I paired up with her. People looked at her face and let her talk them into going to the ATM and taking out money to hand over to her. I am not kidding you. A guy handed over his wallet once and she opened it and took out as many bills as she wanted and went and partied with the money. I couldn’t believe it. I am sure these people were drunk off their asses, but still. When we walked up to a club, the crowds parted and we were pulled to the front of the lines. We sat down at tables and ordered huge dinners and strangers picked up the tab. Cindy Crawford was the big supermodel of the time and everywhere we went, people thought Birdie looked like a young Cindy Crawford: the hair, the mole, the face, the height.

But there is always something that puts you in your place when you get to that point. In this case, it was the night I realized that there is a little private club above The Roxy. David Faustino, the guy that played Bud Bundy on
Married…with Children
stuck his head out of the door and we laughed about how short he was. He heard us, walked over to us with a bottle of water, and dumped it over both of our heads in front of a huge crowd of people. We were soaked! As we walked away with frizzy hair and smeared make-up, we couldn’t even look at each other. People were laughing hysterically and pointing at us, snapping pictures. We were brought down to earth momentarily.

One night we couldn’t find anything to do. We went to a party with the dirty Seattle crowd, much to my dismay. Three or four of the black-haired girls went into a dimly lit bathroom at the top of a stairway. They said they were going to do heroin and asked us if we wanted some. I said no. I was too scared. Birdie paused. Then she looked at me and said she wanted to try it. I said, “Are you
crazy
?” But she wanted to experience it. The girls had tried to kick her ass only six months prior and they appeared to be making peace. Maybe that is why she went. Maybe she was trying to prove something. I don’t know. But she went in the bathroom with them and did it. I was totally upset by the whole thing, sitting on the stairway, waiting. I felt disturbed, worried for her. This wasn’t some worldly dancer. This was a young teenager. I sat there trying to think of how I was going to make sure she never did it again. Would it be too late after the first time? Would she be hooked already? What could I do? What could I say? I knew she really cared about what I thought, so I decided to use that.

On the way home, I told her that I lost a lot of respect for her. I told her I couldn’t truly be close with anyone on drugs, especially because of what it had done to my own family. I told her she was becoming a huge loser and I didn’t want to be friends with losers. I tried to say anything and everything I could think of. She felt horrible- she started crying.

But she didn’t stop doing heroin.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Blackmail: Not
So Fun After All

I knew a little of what brought Birdie to Hollywood. Besides her love of adventure and rock music, she had a background story similar to mine: someone in her family had sexually abused her. From what she explained to me, she actually came forward and told on the person, but the whole thing was covered up and swept under a rug because it was a beloved family member. The parents didn’t want to make a big scene. From that moment on, her life was never the same. She even had the same violent episodes that I had, trying to attack her parents with knives.

I didn’t know the details as far as the lack of protection, but as the victim, I could relate. Feeling like you weren’t protected was almost worse than the actual abuse. Abuse may have murdered your soul, but the fact that someone could have helped you, and didn’t, really fucked with
you. It made you full of rage. It made you ask, “
Why was I not worth saving?
” It made you decide you must be a piece of shit and it made you want to destroy yourself.

Birdie’s parents seemed to be nice people. Her mother was a tall, blond Swiss woman and her father a short, dark-haired businessman, a commodities broker formerly from Manhattan. They were cultured and polite and seemed to have it all, except when it came to Birdie. They couldn’t control her. She told them what she was going to do and they kind of bowed to her like,
Yes Master.
They always looked worried around her and they never said no to her when I was at her house. They always seemed so guilty, like they were afraid of her telling on them or relapsing into a violent episode. They bought her whatever she wanted, including the very expensive makeup, clothes, and shoes. They appeared to feel badly for not protecting her, even though they were not helping her by giving in to her demands, including driving her down to Hollywood when she couldn’t get a ride. Her mother would put on a bathrobe, drive us down there, and drop us off on the street!

My own mother still hadn’t acknowledged that she let my father stay in the house with us after she suspected he might be a pedophile. It was as if it never happened. My family was quick to paint me as the dramatic problem child whose word could not be trusted, in case I decided to talk about it. All of my partying did little to fix that image. I was tired and broken down. I was bothered staying with my father and became more involved in partying to cover up my uncomfortable feeling. I became increasingly depressed when I was faced with reality each morning. I was attending college, but was barely making it.  My stomach was always growling and I was constantly sick. I felt dirty. I longed for the house I grew up in, before things turned ugly in my life. I longed for the time when I felt protected and secure, back before my dad got into drugs.  I longed to be in my lavender bed full of stuffed animals, I longed to be back playing with the kids in the neighborhood, to be back on beach trips, roasting marshmallows at night. I longed to nuzzle my baby bunnies, to eat cinnamon-sprinkled toast while watching cartoons with my sister. I longed to make paper chains during Christmas time, to dye eggs for Easter with my Dudley Shake-An-Egg kit. Adulthood had been downright horrible. I didn’t know why anyone would ever want to grow up. It was the biggest bust, the biggest disappointment. I sat on the bus, looking out the windows at the shops passing me by in the Valley. Would it have been better if I had played it straight? Not looked for adventure, not had curiosity for the city that was Hollywood? Not met all of the people I had met? Not been influenced by the girls I befriended? Not seen the things I had seen?

Journal Entry 9/28/1992

I am in school and I’m freaking out because this desk is an asshole. Now I am freaking out because I just wrote that. There is a barrier- well, I guess it’s really a table leg- directly to the side of my leg and I don’t like it. If it were on the right side, it would be all right. I am about to get up and throw this chair and tip over this desk in front of everyone. I am really restless. I am annoyed, my nose is twitching.

Now I am in a different class, waiting for it to start. I am realizing that my eyes are glossed over and I am tired. I took pep pills in the morning so I could pay attention, but they didn’t work. I think I missed most of the lecture because I started daydreaming. There are a lot of things in my life that I can't let myself think about. I have to stay afloat somehow.

Journal Entry 9/29/1992

I accidentally got fucked up; I didn’t mean to. I took some Mexican antibiotics that my dad gave me this morning, along with some other pill, and I didn’t realize they don’t mix very well. I feel numb. I hate myself right now. I just got through with my public relations class and I made two people hate me instead of making two new friends. I wish it were last year. I had new clothes, a new car, and a job. I had an actual manicure and was hanging out with Harmony. Now look at me. I am wearing a T-shirt that smells like B.O., I have to take the bus, I have no job, and I am mingling with the Seattle people. I am a total loser.

My dad is supposed to pick me up from school today in that boat of a car he is borrowing from somewhere (my car is broken down again). I guess I don’t care if it’s embarrassing. This isn’t junior high. A big paper was due today in English 101 and I didn’t do it because I didn’t understand it. I started crying when I was trying to do it on my dad’s coffee table. I wish I could think more clearly and just figure it out.  I just want to get on to the next class and feel better about it. The teacher sort of intimidates me. She is young, pretty, proper and smart- you can tell she just started teaching because she is all serious about it. She has a huge rock on her finger. She probably has this great life. She has never had to deal with people like me. She has no idea how someone could be distracted, tired, broken, exhausted.

You could say it’s nerdy, but I normally like sitting in classrooms (when the temperature is okay) and having bendy, shiny books with highlighted passages and paper clips marking the pages. I like having a big bag and folders full of papers. I normally
like
to learn. I have to take the bus today and I guess it’s alright. There are some things you just have to do.

I have realized a few things about myself in the past few years. First of all, I have felt uncomfortable writing about the real me. I have another side of me that has been buried. It kind of peeked through the dirt the other day. I was watching another old black and white Hitchcock film in Cinema class and I became like, sick with longing to be in the past. I wanted to cry. I actually thought to myself
, I am from the past, aren’t I? I was someone back then, wasn’t I, God?
I have to have been. I feel pain sometimes, looking at those old movies. It feels like heartbreak when I see detailed old homes like the one in Meet Me in St. Louis. I feel hurt in my heart hearing that Big Band sort of music- it makes me feel sick because I love it so much. Even the voice inflictions in those old movies- the way the women spoke with those breathy, innocent, questioning voices with slightly British accents- it both comforts me and makes me homesick.

People wouldn’t know this about me, but I love literature. I love old books. I like to read Shakespeare and memorize as much of it as I can. When I’m alone I have the urge to do ballet or gymnastics- I like to have balance and form. I also wish that people still had formal manners…sometimes I make guys kiss my hand, no matter how wild they are, and that really is crazy because the guys today will let a door slam in your face (and have, to me). I’m torn on what I would want my future to be. I would love to have a conservative, traditional life where I stay home to raise children with a professional husband. But another part of me questions the rules, criticizes everything and would want to work for my own money and not depend on anyone.

I don’t fix the radio when it starts coming in with static. I often cry when I hear songs by the Beach Boys or Elton John, namely “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues,” and a few more songs that I either don’t know the names of or I do and don’t want to see them in writing or I really will cry. I am attracted to abusive people, women or men. And if the person isn’t abusive, you can bet I will end up abusing
them
. I always see how far I can get in being mean to somebody. I don’t like what I look like. I have sinus problems- my ears plug up all the time. I think it’s from the dust in this joint. I used to play hopscotch by myself when I was a kid. I strongly believe in God. I am a very heavy drinker and most of my friends either drink very heavily or do drugs. I have been taken advantage of many times because I was too drunk to stop it. I think about killing myself a lot. I often go nuts thinking of old childhood memories, because it was so nice back then. I love my younger sister Becky more than anything. I don’t have nightmares or cavities. I hate to be full and I like to discipline myself. It is hard to sleep at night. I sit and wait for phone calls. I get obsessed with people and can’t take a hint sometimes. I settle for less, a lot. I have dancer’s feet, the bone structure. I am very scared to die because of what is after death. I always think bugs are crawling on me and my fingers and hands lock up a lot.

Journal Entry 9/30/92

My mouth tastes like blood again and I am getting the chills. I am sick again. I have been sick since June! I am on Lithium right now so I will calm down and won’t kill myself (seriously). It makes you numb. I have never noticed it before. I have been trying to tranquilize myself so I can be knocked out cold, but now I have decided to stay awake. I have been thinking about moving to Colorado. I need to get out of Hollywood before I die. There are less and less people I care about in Hollywood now. I could forget about Lesli. I could forget about Michael and Strange. I could forget Birdie. Maybe I will.

I hate it so much when I am loaded on anything. I hate hearing my heartbeat, feeling blood in my wrists, feeling like scratching people and turning them inside out. I hate moving and I can’t stand still. You would think I am a bad person if you heard all of the things I have done throughout my life. I am not really bad inside. I’m just lost. My mom hurts me constantly. My friends indirectly hurt me in various ways. Like when Birdie wanted me to watch her purse, out there on Detroit Street. It is a horrible area of Hollywood, a drug neighborhood. I was sitting by myself, sober for once, under a lamppost. I was sitting on a cement wall for a minute, but jumped off when I saw that snails and worms were crawling out of the cracks. Birdie was down the street with a guy named Stevie. I hate that silver purse.

I ran into one of the guys I used to know when I was fifteen that night. He said he saw me a couple of weeks ago and I was a real bitch. He said he was saying hello to me and I was really wired and my eyes were really red and I pushed his hand away from me and said “
Fuck
you” when he tried to be friendly. I was secretly pleased to hear that I did that, because he was someone who took advantage of me as a young girl. He pushed his way into my home and into my bedroom, and I didn’t have the balls to stop him. My mother and sister were even home when it happened and no one said or did anything. Fuck him.

I hated that horrible party on Detroit Street. It was a far cry from the fun, colorful, happening parties of a few years ago. This party was a bunch of whores, fat girls, and drug addicts. Some were a combination of all three. Most of the girls were openly fiending for speed. They sat around rolling joints instead. They are the jealous types- it makes girls look so bad. I overheard their plots to kill Birdie when they discovered that their precious Stevie, one of maybe two people in their whole Seattle crowd who is attractive, was with her. Birdie had on this stretchy red dress and big soft curls in her hair. She pulled a Yankees jersey over her dress and made out with Stevie on the hood of a car. He kissed her like the old movie stars kiss. I always wanted to be kissed like that. I was jealous. Not on display though, naturally. She called me the next day and was mad at me for letting her leave the house in the red dress- she said it made her look fat, and if I were her real friend, I would have told her so.

***

They say to be careful how you treat people on the way up, because you will be seeing them again on the way back down. During my heyday, I had ignored that Seattle crowd, treating them with rude and snobby behavior. They remembered that behavior quite well when I was showing up to their parties with Birdie and were sure to treat me just as bad if not worse than I had treated them. Sometimes they wouldn’t even let me in the door, and they almost always called me names.

So needless to say, I was starting to get bored. Don’t ask me how it happened, but somehow, I got the great idea that I should be a femme fatale and try some daring shit like Sharon Stone in
Basic Instinct
. I was lying around thinking,
Hmmm...I need to try to put the fear of God into some motherfuckers in this town. I am slipping.
I scanned my mental Rolodex and the first name that popped up was that French piece of shit, Andre. He was Jimmy’s good friend and bandmate who I had made out with and who had later called me and said he wasn’t even attracted to me and that I was a big ho who seduced him. I didn’t like how the conversation ended and it bugged me that he got away with insulting me like that. I had to destroy him.