by Nancy Bacon
Insert the key and turn.
I could not do it. I had to put down the bag of vodka and mix, my purse and Shaunti’s leash, grasp my right hand in my left and try to hold it steady while I very carefully, very slowly stuck the key into the hole before my muscles spammed again. It took several tries before I managed it.
At this point in my addiction the electrolytes in my brain had begun to burn out, slowly and steadily leeched from my system, destroyed by booze. My central nervous system was shorting out, continuing to trigger itself without any outside stimulus. It was like stripping the insulation from an electrical cord.
I fell through the door and tore the cap off the vodka, taking a huge swallow straight from the bottle. Immediately, the burning lump in my throat disappeared and I was able to breathe normally. My heart still fluttered and beat erratically but I didn’t care. I could swallow again. So, I made myself a tall one and settled back down in front of the TV to watch Macy’s Christmas Parade. But I couldn’t see the images at all because tears blinded me.
I took the bottle of vodka into the living room with me so I wouldn’t have to get up and go into the kitchen when I needed a refill. The ordeal at the door with the key had exhausted me. I covered myself with a quilt and stared dully at TV, listening to Bob Eubanks and Stephanie Edwards describing the floats, their voices hearty and holiday bright. Methodically, I poured myself another drink. No mix this time. No ice. Just vodka.
Tears blinded me. I couldn’t stop crying. My life was in shambles. My career as a writer gone, my health shot all to hell. I had no money, no job and a very serious addiction to alcohol that I knew was fatal.
dawn
My next clear memory is of a bright, sunny Saturday morning in early January, 1987. I was being driven to The Clare Foundation, a sober-living facility in Santa Monica with strong emphasis on personal counseling. Lon Viser, whom I’d known since he was photographer and I was a model, had literally scraped me off the floor and was taking over.
Although I downed a pint of vodka that morning just to get ready, I was still shaking so much I could barely speak. I couldn’t even take one step without Lon holding me upright. He had to sign me in as well because I had lost my ability to write. I slumped in the corner of a sofa, half-dead, unable to return Lon’s goodbye hug, unable to call him back when he turned to leave. I completely panicked. I wanted to scream his name, beg him not to leave me there in that frightening place, but I was mute with terror.
The first two or three days were a blur of pain as I alternated between freezing chills and hot flashes. Diarrhea cramps sliced through my stomach like a sickle, making me nauseous and filling my mouth with sour bile. I suffered insomnia and my brain became a jumble of dark, painful memories, of deep remorse and paralyzing guilt. It was physically impossible to eat. My throat was swollen almost shut and I could not raise a forkful of food to my mouth; everything shook off before it ever reached its goal. I felt like an infant. I couldn’t do anything for myself. Not even go to the bathroom. Two male patients escorted me, one on either side, so I wouldn’t topple off the toilet. I was too sick to be embarrassed.
When I was finally able to go to the TV room with the others, I had to be helped there. When I sat down, I couldn’t get up without someone hauling me to my feet. I survived on orange juice, honey and hot water, a combination that nurses and patients swore by. It helped relieve the shakes by replacing the sugar in the system that had been deleted by alcohol. I was also prescribed a strong muscle relaxant for delirium tremens (DT’s) which helped me regain my equilibrium.
Everyone at Clare’s had chores to do. We woke at seven every morning and promptly began our assigned tasks, vacuuming, doing laundry, dusting, mopping, cooking breakfast. I was detailed to clean the women’s toilet before breakfast. It was the only job I could manage without dropping and breaking something.
After breakfast, we had two hours of free time before being called together for the first therapy meeting of the day. I spent that time curled in the room, watching old movies. The first time I saw Paul Newman’s image flash across the screen in living color, so handsome it hurt to look at him, I was stunned, shaken to my very soul. My life had been hedonistically full, a cornucopia over-flowing with abundance, sun-kissed and blessed.
What, then, was I doing in a shabby detox center in a seedy part of downtown Santa Monica, crushed like a broken doll in the corner of an old sofa that reeked of vomit and urine?
Because booze had kicked me square in the ass. I couldn’t plead ignorance. I had been friends and lovers to some very famous alcoholics all my life and most of them had suffered alcohol related deaths. Yet I had continued to drink, confidant that I could handle it. And as I sat crumbled in the corner of that worn sofa, I still wasn’t sure I could stay off the sauce. Or even wanted to. I still believed, somewhere in the back of my brain, that I wouldn’t have to stop drinking. I would just get my coordination back, dry out, poisons from my system and then resume drinking completely.
I was at Clare for a week when a biker showed up, a big, burly dude adorned with tattoos and wearing a sleeveless Levi vest sans shirt. He watched me all day and I could tell by his eyes that he was high on something.
I didn’t suspect liquor because all patients were thoroughly frisked before signing in. Our belongings were searched for contraband of an alcoholic nature—perfume, cough syrup, anything with booze in it. Late in the afternoon the biker joined me on the sofa, withdrew a pint of vodka from his vest and offered me a slug. The bottle was open, right under my nose, and the pungent aroma spun my head around like a dervish. Saliva filled my mouth and there was a sudden humming in my ears.
I almost took it. I wanted to. Just one drink. But I didn’t. I got up and left, joining some other patients at the card table. The biker followed me. He had poured his vodka into a coffee cup and added some grape Kool Aid to disguise it. Everywhere I turned, he was there, offering me a drink, a sly, knowing grin on his lips.
When I tried to escape to my room, he followed me down the hall, grabbing my arm and twisting it viciously behind my back. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he snarled, shoving me against the wall. ‘Too fucking good to have a drink with me, huh? I’ve been watching you. You act like some kind of high and mighty cunt, but I could have you just like that!’ He snapped his fingers and took a pull from the coffee cup. ‘I can rape you anytime I want to, bitch.’ Now his voice was slurred, nasty, his eyes mean, shiny slits as he tightened his grip on my arm. ‘I’ll just take your ass into the laundry room and do it! Ain’t nobody gonna hear anything with all them machines running.’
He started pulling me down the hallway and my throat was paralyzed. I couldn’t scream and I wasn’t strong enough to pull free. I lost my balance and fell. He was dragging me toward the laundry room. He just kept on pulling me, as we came abreast of the men’s toilet, a patient asked me what was wrong.
The moment of distraction saved me. I scrambled to my feet. The biker quickly dropped my arm and I don’t know how I got the strength or balance, but I was out of there, running straight to the administrator’s office. To hell with being a squealer. I told him what had happened and within twenty minutes the biker was gone. The Clare Foundation did not waste their time on boozers who were just there for free food and shelter.
I was shocked to learn that all the patients there, some thirty-five or forty, were homeless street people. The main topic of discussion was where the best detox centers and free shelters were. Each had stories of the shelters they stayed in over the years and they exchanged addresses, information and phone numbers of future shelters that might take them in when they were released from Clare. Most state-run detoxification centers allowed patients to stay for two weeks only, then they were required to pay forty-five dollars per day for their room and meals.
My colleagues at Clare could not afford even forty-five cents a day, so as their time drew near, they scrambled like frenzied mice, looking for another hole to hide in. Most had spent the last several years
moving from one shelter to another, drying out (sobriety is a requirement if staying free of charge) and then, once they hit the streets, they’d be back on the bottle. The women turned tricks and the men committed petty crimes or panhandled to get money for their habit. After a few weeks of staying mostly drunk, sleeping in parks or doorways, they stumbled to another free shelter and begged admission. Many of them died between moves.
At one sharing session, everyone was talking about where they would go next, after Clare released them. I mostly listened, as I had nothing to offer. This was my first and only experience with a detox center and I swore it would be my last. A man I had befriended turned to me and asked, ‘Where are you going, Nancy, after you leave here?’
‘Home,’ I said, ‘to my apartment in Northridge.’
In a hushed tone, he repeated, ‘Home? You have a home?’ A dozen pairs of eyes stared at me incredulously and the word home just sort of hung heavily in the room, sounding eerie and haunted.
I felt a chill close around my heart as my gaze traveled about the room, taking in the wasted, used up lumps of humanity. Home. Home was a bottle. Death was what I smelled in this shabby little room. It was then and there that I quit drinking, for once and for all.
The thing about being sober is that you remember everything you drank all those years to forget. I was never drunk enough to drive those memories back into the black hole of forgetfulness where they had lived these past years. The memories stayed, refusing to be banished. They danced and shimmered in vivid color just behind my closed eyelids. Beautiful, glorious, happy memories of a fantastic life that played out like a breathless, enchanted fairy tale. A life worth remembering.
That is what got me through. I had to live up to my own memories, my own life. When I got home, I changed everything. I left Chris. I apologized to everyone I’d hurt. Slowly, my friends and family returned. I moved far, far away from Hollywood, taking nothing but Shaunti and my typewriter with me. And, eventually, I got my writing career back.
The all-powerful, wisecracking, super-bitch who can handle it all by herself is gone—and I don’t miss her a bit. God, when I think about it now, it must have put a lot of people off, but I guess they didn’t want to shatter me by telling me what a fool I was making of myself. I love them for understanding. My daughter and I reconciled, and our bond is stronger than ever.
All in all, I’ve had a great life.
afterword
Much of this memoir was written in the mid-seventies, and was published under the title Stars In My Eyes, Stars In My Bed. (The publisher folded shortly after it was published, so the few surviving copies are very scarce.) In keeping with the jargon of the time, I’ve decided to leave in words like ball, grass, chick, and teenybopper in this version. The less star-studded, sensationalist parts of my story—how I got started as a bit-player, my mastectomy and alcoholism—are collected from previously unpublished manuscripts I wrote in the seventies and eighties.
I am seventy-seven years old at the time of this writing, living happily in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. I’ve never lost my passion for prose. I still ghostwrite and cowrite memoirs. My most recent book is a collaboration with Barbara Williamson, the pioneer sex goddess and cofounder of Sandstone Retreat. It’s called An Extraordinary Life: Love, Sex, and Commitment. The next book I plan on writing is a deeply personal one… even more intimate than this one. I call it The Wilder Years. It’s a (barely) fictionalized account of my life, exploring my abusive childhood and beyond.
I’m proud that my daughter Staci has followed in my keystrokes and become an accomplished writer in her own right. Look for an excerpt from her own memoir, So L.A., at the end of this book.
acknowledgements
Thank you to my computer-savvy daughter for taking the reins on this project and shaping this book: from scanning and piecing together yellowing old pages and fading photos, streamlining, editing, minor rewrites, and designing the cover, to getting my whole story out, available, and directly to you.
Without Peter Viser, there would be no book—no me—had he not brought me back to health after I stopped drinking and left everything behind. I’m so grateful for his love.
I wish to thank some very special, dear women in my life. Beth Sinclair has not only been a lifelong friend, but she’s gone above and beyond everything ever expected in helping me through very tough times. Gwen Michaels has been wonderfully thoughtful, kind and generous. Linda Rose has been a great help in reading this manuscript through to make sure all the t’s are crossed, all the i’s are dotted, and the p’s and q’s are minded. Carrie Lundgren physically scanned my entire paperback, and all of my unpublished manuscripts written by typewriter decades ago.
I must acknowledge my remaining sisters Wanda Harmon, and Barbara Wheatley. Through our ups and downs, they’ve always been there for me. The same is true of my ex-husband, Don Wilson; even though we were only married a few years, our daughter united us forever and fifty years (fifty years?!) after our divorce, he’s still there for me when I need him.
Last but far from least, I gratefully thank my supporters Mark Wheaton, Craig Martinez, Jon Condit, Shirin Behnia, Stephanie Paris, Anne Retamal, Curt Lambert, Lisa Johnson Mandell, Renate Andrasevits-Reed, Shawn Adler, Joe Edmunds, Kaci Hansen, Rob Brantz, Ricardo H. Fujisawa, Traci York, Colleen Scott, and Tonjia Atomic.
So L.A. – A Hollywood Memoir by Staci Layne Wilson (excerpt)
While my parents were feuding, I was riding. I’d disappear for hours on my new pony, Smokey. He was glossy black with one white “sugar foot,” a wide diamond between his eyes, and a small one between his nostrils. Smokey’s muzzle was soft like velvet, and smelled of warm clover. His eyes were deep chocolate brown.
Mom’s friend Beth gave him to me because he was getting fat and lazy with nobody to ride him. Basically, he was the equine equivalent of Dom Deluise. That casual handoff would result in one of the most enduring and profound friendships of my life. Smokey was the best thing that ever could have happened to me at that time. He was kind, wise, patient and well-trained. He seemed to adjust himself to my riding ability, only going faster after my balance improved. I never fell off, and before long I was riding him bareback all over the neighborhood.
Poor Smokey had to bear the indignity of wearing cone-shaped birthday hats, groom’s outfits (he got married more often than Mickey Rooney), silly ties of various style and fashion, and even goofy alien antenna affixed to the crown of his bridle. He accepted my “dress up” phase with his usual quiet dignity, and even gave the cats and my pet rats rides on his back at my behest (not at the same time… even the long-suffering Smokey would have drawn the line there, I think).
Tarzana was zoned for horses in some areas, but it was mainly a residential neighborhood. We had to ride across a lot of sidewalks to get to roads with dirt shoulders. And even farther, to get to the golf course. My friend Laurie would borrow a horse named Punkin and we’d hit the green and try to get in a good gallop before the groundskeeper ran us off, yelling and shaking his fist in the air. We were the bane of the block.
One time, I rode Smokey across a neighbor’s newly-paved driveway. I was hoping the old dude wouldn’t figure out who did it, but there was only one newly-shod pony in the area. When the neighbor came knocking on our door, I’d just finished cleaning all the wet cement out of Smokey’s hooves. My mom shrugged and invited the red-faced man to come out back and take a look. “It couldn’t possibly have been our pony. See how spotless his hooves are?” Mom had my back.
My friend Laurie’s mount Punkin was a Hollywood horse, of course. The palomino was already well into his teens when I came to know him, but he was still sound and going strong. Laurie wasn’t lucky enough to have her own pony like I did so she made do by exercising some of the neighborhood horses for their owners. As soon as the man with three beautiful beasties moved into the corner house down the way, Laurie and I made our move and before long we were fast friends with Black Lightning, Fire Queen, and Punkin.
/> We were thrilled when we learned that Punkin had actually been a stand-in for our favorite TV star, Mister Ed! Punkin also starred in an episode of Green Acres, called Horse? What Horse?, which aired during the first season in 1966. Punkin’s golden coat had faded to a pale yellow and his once muscular body had become flaccid with age, but to two little girls he was a dream come true. One of our favorite things about Punkin was how he would “talk” like mad whenever we pointed to his muzzle. We delighted in showing off this trick to all of our friends. Punkin loved Cheetos, and he always got that special nosh after performing for us.
Smokey and I shared lots of adventures — I loved riding him to the window of the Pup ‘n’ Taco fast food drive-thru and seeing the smiles on the faces of the cashiers. (What health code violation?) At Halloween we’d go trick-or-treating. And we didn’t even have to do it in a mall or a parking lot. This was old-school, door-to-door, baby. I could ride Smokey right up on the front porches. One neighbor looked at the pony and quipped, “That’s one helluva costume, kid!” We even made the newspaper when we went out as a unicorn and princess in outfits my mom made by hand. My first boyfriend, Stan, was in a Prince Charming costume and he rode double on Smokey with me. Smokey loved Halloween because I always split my candy haul with him.
Our pets were like members of the family. My mom had this mink coat she wore a lot, and she would let my rat, Squeaky, ride in the pocket. I’m guessing the climate in The Valley must have been cooler in the 1970s because you’d have to pay me big bucks to wear so much as long sleeves these days! We also had a squirrel named Twinkles. I found him as a newborn, eyes still sealed shut, lying at the bottom of one of the tall palm trees in our yard. Mom showed me how to feed him with an eyedropper, and we kept him until he was old enough to fend for himself. Setting Twinkles free was hard on me, but occasionally he’d come back to visit and have a snack — all the squirrels loved our plum trees. We also had a vegetable garden that my mom tended. (Who better than the editor of Confidential magazine to dig in the dirt?)