Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  Back in Los Angeles, I found a little tree house of a place up in Laurel Canyon. It was well off the beaten path. And it was all mine. I had gathered my belongings from the loft and set up camp. It was the perfect place to get my feet back under me and to heal. One room was dedicated to my Buddhist practice again; that was also something I’d had to give up under Mickey’s roof.

  Slowly, I began to work again: Blumarine with Albert Watson, Italian Vogue with Herb Ritts. Clients were reassured that Mickey was a thing of the past. And for the moment he was.

  One day in late spring 1992, I got a call from Marie-Christine at the Look Model Agency in San Francisco. The makeup company Helena Rubinstein wanted to meet with me. They were interested in having me represent them.

  “Do you realize, Carré, that this is what we’ve worked for? This is the big time!” Marie-Christine whooped over the phone.

  Within days we were on a plane bound for Paris to meet with the Rubinstein CEO. It was an exciting trip, in such stark contrast to the struggles I had endured there years before. Now I was at the top of my game, resurrected and ready to work.

  When I returned from what had been a successful meeting in Paris, it appeared that summer had arrived in Los Angeles, too. The May gloom had lifted, and the city streets were already sweltering. From my little house in the canyon, I could hear the coyotes howling in the night, reminding me of the wildness and unpredictability of the course I was on. Word had it that Mickey had accepted another boxing match in Tokyo. I read about him in the tabloids, and it seemed everyone I knew had news as to his whereabouts.

  Word also had it that he was missing me. Profoundly. It tugged at my heartstrings, yet somehow I knew that he hadn’t changed. He couldn’t change. The man I’d been with was not a man I could be with going forward. Yet the longing remained. And as I began to hear more and more about him, that old homesickness returned. There was still a huge soft spot in my heart for him.

  So I wasn’t really surprised to get a call from Bruce in early June.

  “Yo, Otis! What’s up?” he asked.

  I laughed hearing his voice. Bruce was a central part of Mickey’s boys’ club. I was happy to hear from him. Like hearing from a long-lost brother.

  “Hey there! How are you?” I asked, smiling. I knew who was behind the call, and despite my reservations my heart raced, just as it had done the first time I’d been in close contact with Mickey. The rush of him, the adrenaline our relationship churned—it was unbeatable.

  “All’s good. But forget about me. What about you?”

  I played it cool. Played it happy. “I’m great, Bruce. Really, really good. Working and happy.” It was mostly true.

  “Yeah? That’s fantastic.” I could feel him waiting, pausing. He had called for a reason.

  “What, Bruce?” I pressed. He was loyal to Mickey, but he also cared. Bruce was a good guy. One of the few in the crowd that Mickey hung with.

  “Well, Mickey wants to see you. He wants to meet you—in Big Sur.” He waited, but I could hear him nervously drawing on a cigarette.

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked coyly. “I thought Mick was fighting in Japan?”

  “Yeah, he’s there. But, Christ, Otis, he’s . . . he’s going nuts. He needs to see you.”

  I swallowed. I could feel the fear come over me. I looked around my sweet little home, the oaks swaying gently in the warm, early-summer breeze. I took a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m sure he does, Bruce. I just don’t know if . . . if I want to see him.” I was holding firm. There had to be some reason that would motivate me to go. “I mean, come on, Bruce. Mick is fucked up. I can’t see him—be with him—if he hasn’t changed.”

  Bruce was silent for a moment. “But he has, Otis. He really has. It messed him up, you leaving him.” He was pleading.

  I interjected angrily, “He didn’t seem to give a shit in Miami, Bruce. Come on. Be real.”

  It was a stupid conversation. And why I bought any of it, I’m still not sure.

  “Carré, please. Just give him a chance. One chance. He said to tell you if what he has to say, what he has to ask you . . . if you don’t buy it, you can both walk.” Bruce was desperate. It was his job to get me to go.

  So my trip was planned. I gave in. Just like that. My longing, my loneliness, everything that remained unresolved, had me buying into the hope that we could still set ourselves on the right course.

  On June 25, 1992, a limo picked me up in Los Angeles and drove me north up the coast to my old stomping grounds. I had always loved Big Sur. It held the wonderful, magical beginnings of Northern California. For as long as I could remember, I had marveled at the drama of its ocean, its craggy cliffs, and the humpback whales that migrated through its waters. Big Sur was more inviting to me than L.A. had ever been.

  I was driven to the then-brand-new Post Ranch Inn and at check-in was handed a note: “Wait for me in the Ocean House.” I looked around as if there might be cameras following me. Some sort of covert operation was seemingly under way. Obediently, I followed a silent concierge along the impressive path and down to an amazing suite that looked out over the crashing waves. Stunning views and the deep blue sea extended endlessly into space in front of me. It was breathtaking. The concierge placed my bag on the floor and poured me a glass of champagne.

  “Wait?” I asked, a question rather than a command. But she handed my glass to me and winked, then left me alone in the room. I walked to the terrace, opening the sliding glass doors to the ocean breeze. But before I could step outside, the phone rang. Picking it up, I could hear Bruce’s voice. “Otis, you there?”

  “Yeah, Bruce. What’s up? What’s going on?” I was confused. Why wasn’t Mickey here?

  “Mickey’s here. He’s waiting for you in the parking lot. Go out and meet him.”

  “What?” But Bruce had already hung up.

  Jesus, the drama! I thought.

  I slugged my glass of champagne and wandered back up the path I had come down. Sure enough, there he was, sitting on the hood of a tricked-out ’69 Road Runner hot rod. Periwinkle blue with a white stripe up the center. The top was down.

  “Hey,” Mickey said quietly. He seemed apprehensive, unwilling to look at me, gazing at his boxing shoes, one unlaced.

  “Hey, Mickey,” I said carefully. I was trying to conceal my own nervousness. We were like two teenagers, tangled in emotion, unable to move or speak.

  I stood my ground, waiting. I was holding firm to my insistence that I couldn’t be with him if he hadn’t changed. But in my naïve young heart, I truly thought or hoped that change could happen overnight. It’s not news that love is often both blind and foolish.

  “Otis . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say. I love you. I miss you. I need you. I . . . I want you.” He was stammering.

  “Mickey, you really fucking hurt me. I don’t even know why I’m here. Other than that I love you, too. But love . . . it shouldn’t hurt like this.” I was emotional. My lip was trembling. I was trying not to cry.

  “I’ve changed. I really have. Being without you, it’s like death. I don’t want to be alive if I can’t be with you.” He was putting on an impressive show. Mickey was a genius. He was brilliant. Above all he was an actor. I knew he loved me, but I was wary of all these things.

  Before I knew what he was doing, he got down on one knee. “Marry me, Carré,” he said.

  I was silent. I was shocked. I hadn’t seen that coming. Yet it was the one thing that he hadn’t asked before, or committed to. Hope surged through me. Is this proof of “the change”? I wondered to myself.

  I took a deep breath, summoning all my strength. “How do I know, Mick? How do I know you’ve changed?” I couldn’t answer his question until he could answer mine.

  “Marry me or I’ll die!” he cried.

  “Jesus, Mickey. Wait. I haven’t seen you in months!” I was starting to feel panicked. “I need time, some time to think about this.” A swirl of anxiety wrapped itself around me. That familiar pressure was back: to
answer, to do, to say, to obey. . . .

  “No. You answer me now,” he said firmly. Standing up, he went to the back of the car and opened the trunk. “I can’t live without you,” he said again, pulling out a long sword wrapped in beautiful Japanese cloth.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s a hari-kari knife,” he replied, unwrapping it. The long metal sword caught the afternoon light. Mickey stared into my eyes. “Answer me or I will die.”

  Was he serious? I wasn’t sure. I was terrified. I waited a beat. I wanted to ask, Mickey, why can’t I have time to think about this? I recognized his standard my-way-or the-highway ultimatum in all this, but it was tinged with a threat of a different kind this time. Numbness was descending on me quickly, and I couldn’t find the words to tell him as much.

  I was under such pressure. I felt as if I were about to implode. And as the dread washed over me, I heard myself say, “Yes, Mickey. I will marry you.” I wept, rushing into his arms.

  He covered me with kisses, wiping away my tears. But I don’t think to this day that he knew why I was crying. I’d been pushed to the brink, been forced to make an impulsive decision. If I’d given him the wrong answer, I would have lost him—and he might have followed through on his threat with the sword. So once again it was his relationship, with his rules and his timing. I didn’t feel confident enough in my own strength to say no.

  As far as I could see, my only option was to stay with him or lose him forever. The caretaker in me really thought he would die if I didn’t choose him. My paralysis was monumental, but also painfully familiar. It was one of the oldest themes of my life.

  I don’t know if I would have said yes to Mickey—I don’t know if I would even have been with him at that time—if it hadn’t been for what happened with my ninth-grade boyfriend, Scott. I hadn’t been able to save Scott from his demons—the ones that drove him to take his own life—because I’d been too young. Our relationship was too new. Even though he’d come to me for help just an hour before he shot himself, I’d had no idea of what he was planning to do. I had felt responsible for his death ever since. Now another man was coming to me in need, making it clear that I could save him. The difference between Mickey and Scott was that Mickey was telling me in no uncertain terms what he would do if I said no. I simply couldn’t lose another lover to suicide. Not when it was so obvious to me that I had the power to prevent it.

  Though I wasn’t aware of it at the time, I now see the great paradox in my relationship with Mickey. It’s a paradox I see in other women’s relationships with abusive and simultaneously self-destructive men. On the one hand, I felt powerless. I was so much less certain than he was. I was afraid of his violence. On the other hand, I felt a responsibility to save him. I can now see that I’d protected men from themselves all my life. I kept Elliott from certain death when I stepped between him and that seriously pissed-off, gun-toting trucker. It was something I knew how to do even then. Something I felt I could do. In this case something I had to do.

  Mickey and I were married the next day, June 26, in my hometown of San Francisco. A justice of the peace oversaw our vows as we stood several feet from a Dumpster in Golden Gate Park.

  Mickey’s anxiety attack that morning should have made it clear to me that he, too, was doing it for the wrong reasons. He also must have thought that if he didn’t propose to me, he would lose me. Lose me to someone else, lose his chance, lose his family. We were married in the hope that our love would fulfill all that our lives up until that point had not. In the hope that somehow a piece of paper would magically heal the wounds we’d suffered at the hands of others and had inflicted on ourselves and each other.

  We were wrong. Sadly and predictably, so very, very wrong.

  HONEYMOON TO HELL

  So who do you call when you’re twenty-three years old and you’ve just married Mickey Rourke?

  I wasn’t entirely sure, but I desperately wanted someone to be happy for me. If I could find just one person, I thought it might convince me to be happy for myself. It might convince me that my decision was the right one. Yet somewhere deep inside me, an anxiety was brewing. Try as I might to push it further and further down during the weeks to come, I simply couldn’t. I really wanted to believe I was on the right path, that all along it had been Mickey’s inability to commit that had caused us such problems. I wanted to believe that now, married, it would be just the two of us—no more entourage, no more boys’ club, no more lies and deceit.

  We found ourselves trying to catch the tiger’s tail of the fantasy we had just bought into. The truth was, neither of us could run hard enough or fast enough to grab it. But damn, we tried.

  Before leaving San Francisco on our honeymoon, I made two phone calls at Mickey’s insistence. The first was to my sister to share the news; the second was to Marie-Christine to tell her not only that I was married but that I was quitting modeling, too.

  “But, Mickey, that is so ridiculous,” I argued. “Why should I do that? I’m about to sign a million-dollar contract!” I was frustrated and angry. I didn’t entirely understand what Mickey meant when he said I now had “wifely duties.” Yet in his mind it was perfectly clear. I was to give up everything else—my modeling career especially—because my new occupation was to be utterly devoted to him.

  “Otis, baby, that’s the way it goes. Now more than ever. I will always take care of you.” It was a line in keeping with the fantasy we were both trying to create. And sustaining that fantasy required certain rules. Unknown until created, then law once Mickey spoke them.

  “I can’t. I don’t want to,” I protested. “Marie-Christine worked so hard to put this together.” I was shaking, but I couldn’t find the courage to tell him I was going to do otherwise.

  He picked up the phone, dialed my agent’s number, and placed the receiver in my hand. I was filled with dread and shame. This wasn’t my wish. But it was now the law of the land, the one I was to abide by.

  “M.C.?” I whispered into the phone.

  “Oui. Yes? Carré?”

  She knew me well. She knew that something was up.

  “Oh, no. Merde,” she said quietly in her thick French accent. “You are back together with him, yes?” I didn’t have to say much. She already knew.

  “Yes, M.C.,” I replied quickly. I looked toward Mickey, who was pacing and waiting, smoking a cigarette. He wanted her to know I was his. Not hers.

  “I’m married, M.C. We just got married,” I said, trying to sound happy, but I knew she could hear the concern in my voice.

  A big sigh on the other end. “Well, my dear . . . I had to know this was coming. Are congratulations in order?” she asked, a bit coolly. Mickey pointed at his watch and mouthed, Wrap it up, Otis. I looked down at my Converse sneakers, crossed and uncrossed my legs.

  “I’m turning down Helena Rubinstein, M.C.,” I said flatly.

  “Why on earth would you do that, Carré? There is no need. You can have both. Don’t be foolish! Don’t throw it all away. . . .” Her voice trailed off. I could hear her disappointment, sense her desperation.

  “I . . . I . . . I can’t, M.C. It’s done. It’s over.” I was near weeping, and Mickey wasn’t liking the tone I was taking. He came over and silently placed his hand on the phone, indicating to me that I needed to end my call. We stood for a moment eye to eye.

  “Now call your family. At least they should be happy for you,” he said, trying to sound bold as well as reassuring.

  But that call was even worse. There was sadness when I announced my news. A disappointment all around. Looking back, I realize that everyone was concerned, gravely worried that I had just signed away my life. It would be a while before I fully acknowledged the truth in that.

  Our honeymoon was to be a road trip. We packed into the car and drove through the night, heading north up toward Eureka. We didn’t know where or how far we were going. We just knew that our life together depended on the speed of our escape. It was actually the first time si
nce I’d met Mickey that it was just the two of us, adventuring and exploring together. For a short while, it was heaven. To have him all to myself, with the top down and the early-summer sun shining on us, was bliss. We had entered into the realm of make-believe. Mickey left behind his agents, his entourage, his movies, and the paparazzi. For that brief time, we were like the two ­people we’d been when we met and fell in mad, crazy love.

  We laughed and took turns at the wheel. We listened to U2’s “One” over and over again, tearing up, holding hands, our hair whipping in the wind. We confessed our desires, our concerns, our love and respect for each other. It felt like the first time we’d met, at Zalman King’s house. I thought the moment would last forever. I was more and more convinced that Mickey was a changed man and able to leave it all behind.

  From California we headed toward Montana. We drove until the sun set and stayed in whatever place we found along the way. We laughed and shared bottles of beer in cheap hotel-room beds. One night near Bozeman, we were almost out of gas, clearly at the end of the line. The only place available to spend the night was above a bar in a dilapidated old house. The walls were paper thin. Our neighbor vomited endlessly till morning. Reality was starting to seep into our fantasy. But we pressed on anyway. Our lives depended on it. It was as if we were on the run from something. And in a sense we were. Ourselves. The truth. The world that, sooner or later, we’d have to return to.

  After Montana and Wyoming, we veered toward Utah. Just before Salt Lake City, our car broke down.

  “Shit!” Mickey screamed. “What now?” He acted like a kid whose ice-cream cone had just hit the ground.

  “It’s okay, Mickey. We can just call AAA.” But in that moment the reality we’d been dodging caught up with us. He had lost control. We had lost momentum. We’d come to a screeching halt. Mind you, a delay in Salt Lake City might put anyone over the edge, but it was here that the gears really shifted.