High On Arrival

by Mackenzie Phillips

  Our whole lives we had known our father as a man who was always late coming and early going. It was in his nature, so his disappearance probably shouldn’t have been the shock that it was. He hadn’t really changed. But his absence also brought to light that in the time since I’d left her, my mother had changed. She was no longer the traditional mother who expected her children to be groomed and polite. Nor was she the warm, energetic person to whom I had been close all my life. Feeling trapped in a very difficult marriage, she had worn to a scared, vulnerable thread, doing all she could to hold the patches of her life together.

  Maybe her own life was too overwhelming; maybe she felt dethroned by Rosie; maybe she was drinking too much; whatever the reasons, my mother, like my father, also abdicated— though it was against her nature. I had left her house, but now she had disappeared from my life. I missed her, and I resented her dismissal of me, but I boxed that up for later. She wasn’t going to die tomorrow. The world wasn’t going to end. My mother was still right there, a phone call away. I was fourteen. Not speaking to my mother didn’t feel like a big deal. Besides, Rosie fed me, tried to discipline me, wanted to protect me. She attempted to do and be all that my mother had lost and given up.

  Thank God for Rosie. Without hesitation my aunt stepped into a parental role that was otherwise empty at that point in my life. Our palace was gone, my parents were MIA, but my home was with my aunt and my cousins. After American Graffiti I had started making enough money through acting gigs that I could now afford to rent a place for myself, Aunt Rosie, Nancy, and Patty. We went from a mansion in Bel Air to a funky, modest two-bedroom apartment in the Hollywood Hills that could have fit into my bathroom at 414 St. Pierre. Jeffrey moved back in with my mother and Lenny. The owners of 414 kept our belongings in storage, where they remain to this day, but we moved on. The new place was a relief after the trauma at 414. It felt like we were on an adventure.

  Patty, Nancy, and I were the Three Musketeers, devoted to one another. We got our hair cut together—the same long shags for all of us. We dressed in the same clothes—our uniform was denim asymmetrical miniskirts with rhinestone stars or lightning bolts on them from Grills & Yang, halter tops, and platform heels. We all wore the same eye shadow, dramatic swipes of pink, then blue, then more pink. We helped one another apply it, declaring that it looked “like a cloud in the sky!”

  I hate to unravel those moments, those amazing times with the cousins I loved dearly and still do. I’d like to leave them as they are in my head, young and blithe. To describe our early days together is to face that they were the beginning of something darker. The shadow of drugs was already over us, even seeping into us, forever changing who we were and what we could be, though we didn’t see it or feel it. Drugs were a friend who would betray us, but hadn’t yet. We loved life. Oh, Patty. She was beautiful, outgoing, and goofy. I loved her dearly.

  At night we’d get all dressed up, practicing dance moves, trading clothes, and drinking wine. It took us hours to get ready. We’d wait for Rosie to go to bed, then around ten o’clock we’d creep down the stairs, right past Rosie’s bedroom, and pile into the front seat of a tacky ’57 white pickup truck that belonged to Nancy and Patty’s older brother, my cousin Peter, and hit the clubs.

  We’d spill out of the truck on Sunset Boulevard at the Roxy or the Rainbow. Sometimes by the time we arrived we were already fucked up and falling over and they wouldn’t let us in, so we’d cheerfully pile back into the truck and head to another club.

  Nancy, Patty, and I attracted a lot of attention. If we were sober enough, the clubs always found a table for the three of us (though the VIP sections weren’t the velvet-rope enclaves they are today). I was still the Kid—men knew I was too young to hit on. But my older cousins were strikingly beautiful. We smoked and chatted and flirted. We choreographed elaborate pantomimes of Chicago songs like “Just You ’N’ Me” and belted them out as we went through our routines. Patty was a brilliant singer, a karaoke star before her time. We were happy and fun, a sparkling trio.

  After the clubs closed at two in the morning, everyone hung out in the parking lot to find a party. We became friends with a group of men who lived up on Mulholland Drive in great big houses. We’d leave Over the Rainbow and drive up Mulholland to Rico and Freddy’s house. We called it “Freako and Reddies,” and it was a real scene—pure seventies decadence.

  Freddy and Rico were at least fifteen years older than I was—in their thirties. There was always a crowd of people at their pad, and vast quantities of drugs. Patty and I took tons of pills and did lots of coke. I smoked angel dust, the devil’s drug, at that house and could not move for hours. We never had to pay for drugs; we weren’t expected to have sex with the guys.

  Our escapades made Aunt Rosie batty. She’d call up wherever I was and say, “Put her in a cab home this minute or I’m sending the police over to have you arrested for statutory rape.” She’d scream on the phone, at her wits’ end. But, for a while anyway, she had less to fear than she realized. Everywhere I went I was the Kid, the mascot, untouchable. It was the crumb of protection that Dad had tossed behind him before he disappeared: he put the word out that if anyone touched me he’d kill them, so nobody made a move on me.

  We sometimes drove my other cousin Billy’s orange Volkswagen station wagon, which we called OIG because those were the letters on the license plate. At six a.m. we’d drive home— but we’d say that OIG brought us home, because none of us ever remembered driving. Shoes in hand, we’d creep back into the house. Aunt Rosie was always there, in her dressing gown. She’d say, “Laura Mackenzie Phillips,” “Patty Ann Throckmorton,” “Nancy Elizabeth Throckmorton,” pissed off and beside herself with frustration.

  What could she do? There was Rosie, recently retired from a personnel job at the Pentagon. She’d recovered from a minor heart attack, moved to her rock-star brother’s mansion, got kicked out, and took unofficial custody of a bunch of wild kids, one of whom was famous. How out of your element can you be? Aunt Rosie did a great job considering the circumstances, but she just couldn’t make us behave. We’d apologize sweetly and swear up and down that we’d never stay out all night again, then we’d go out and do the same thing the next night.

  In spite of my cautious aunt and somewhat protective cousins, there were some close calls. My old friend Danny Sugarman—who was the manager of the Doors and would become a pop culture icon in his own right—used to tell the story of the night we met. He was riding home from a Slade concert with Rodney Bingenheimer. Danny was in the front seat with Rodney and the driver, and one of the supporting bands was in the backseat. Apparently I too was in the backseat, making out with one of the band members, when they all decided to get in on it. Someone yelled “gang bang,” and amid my protests the backseat became a tangle of arms and legs. Danny didn’t like what he heard. He said, “All right, cut it the fuck out,” and flicked on the overhead light. The band members sheepishly pulled back, the driver pulled over, and I hopped into the front seat to thank my savior.

  Danny was nineteen—five years older than I—but we became partners in crime. He was handsome and fun, extremely bright and full of boundless energy. Between the two of us we had rock ’n’ roll carte blanche. We had our table at the Whisky. We could go backstage at any show. He knew he could count on me to behave myself, so he often brought me out for Chinese food with his father, to show that he was keeping company with a well-brought-up famous movie star. I gave him legitimacy in the eyes of his straitlaced father, who had no idea I was a wild kid.

  My days were almost as busy as my nights. My turn in American Graffiti was a golden ticket. I was a well-known young actress. My ex-stepmother, Michelle, ended up being the one who took me on the auditions that constantly sprang up at inconvenient times. Michelle, who had a very busy and full life and career, stepped up when my mother couldn’t or wouldn’t. She invested herself in my career and my future. It was incredibly generous, but she did it with her typical matter-of-fact manne
r.

  When she was married to my father, Michelle had been playful and warm, and I was a cute plaything for her. Over the years she’d developed into a cool Hollywood broad. She was also a mother now. She had a better perspective on my questionable upbringing and understood that children need protection and guidance. She did all she could to keep Chynna away from the insanity, and she tried to protect me too, in her own way. As we drove to one of my auditions she said, “Everyone in this town knows how talented you are, but they’re calling you the next Judy Garland, and you’re probably going to die just like her.” Michelle was tough and frank. This was her way of showing love and trying to protect me. Michelle was worried about my safety, but I didn’t take her seriously. The idea that “everyone in this town” even knew I existed was weird and incomprehensible to me. Besides, I didn’t have a real sense that what I was doing was wrong or dangerous. I just thought she was being mean.

  My mother wasn’t completely absent. She must have called during this period, because I remember asking her to drive me to some of my auditions. She declined. And for me that was the last straw. It was more clear than ever that her life and her marriage were more important than I was. From then on, whenever she questioned me in a maternal way, asking what I was doing, where I was going, how late I’d be out, my response was—if not in so many words—“Where do you get off grilling me?” As far as I was concerned, she had given up her rights.

  Thanks to Fred Roos, I auditioned for Taxi Driver and The Exorcist, both parts I didn’t get—though in hindsight Jodie Foster’s off-screen blowjob was a little too much for me, and Linda Blair’s head spinning, well, I had better ways to make my head spin. But I landed plenty of parts. I worked constantly after I got the job in American Graffiti. While it was in production I did an episode of Movin’ On, and a TV movie, Go Ask Alice. After the movie came out I did another TV movie—Miles to Go Before I Sleep with Martin Balsam—and single-episode parts in Baretta and Mary Tyler Moore. I also got a part in a film called Rafferty and the Goldust Twins with Sally Kellerman and Alan Arkin.

  Alan Arkin was a great teacher and a gentle soul. How lucky I was to work with him at such a young age. Much of Rafferty was shot in Arizona. We all were there together. Rosie was my legal guardian on the set, Nancy was my stand-in, and Patty was my best friend. I became, at fourteen, involved with a stunt man in his thirties. Rosie, consistent in her distrust of older men, hated him and the trouble she was sure he’d cause. But we girls loved him.

  When Rafferty came out in 1975 the attention was intoxicating. I flew to New York for the premiere, appearing in one of the first issues of People magazine. A profile of me in Interview said that I walked around like a young Bette Davis sucking on my cigarettes and flicking the ashes to the floor. I just loved my work. I loved what I did.

  In New York I found Dad living in the Stanhope, a luxury hotel favored among celebrities that was on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park. I walked into the room and he said, “Hey, Laurabug, give your old dad a hug.” This was the first time I’d seen my father since he left us to be evicted, but there was no drama, no accusations or recriminations. I was just grateful to have him back. This may sound strange, but it never occurred to me to be mad at him for disappearing. Anger didn’t exist, not for me, and seemingly not for his other children, wives, friends, or Aunt Rosie. Dad was a remarkable man. He was so powerful and charming and brilliant that being around him, being in that orbit, was glory enough. We didn’t expect him to adhere to the social standards of the common man. That wasn’t how he lived. We knew that he never promised anything. It was hard to hold him accountable when he accepted no responsibility. He just was so clearly and consistently himself that for a long time we took him as he was and even loved him for it, in a warped way. Later, my family would have reason to be angry at him on my behalf, and even later than that I would excavate my own ingrown shards of anger. But in those days we all let it go.

  Now, in my new incarnation as a press-worthy child star, my father relished the attention I was getting. It matched the high-flying life he and Gen were living, hanging out with luminaries like Colin Tennant, who owned the island of Mustique, and Princess Margaret. Besides, Dad was suffering a bit of withdrawal from the attention he’d received as the brains behind the Mamas & the Papas. He craved the limelight. Hitting the scene with his famous daughter more than doubled the buzz. We led a fancy life, going to Mr. Chow every night and to nightclubs.

  When Colin Tennant rented the Kennedy compound on Montauk, Dad brought me out to stay. One of Andy Warhol’s cronies was there with his niece. I got in big, big trouble for seducing the niece. I don’t know exactly how it happened. She and I were friends, about the same age, and one night we started playing some rather innocent but naked games in my bedroom. In the morning her uncle pounded on the door, telling us to open up, while Dad appeared at the window. Her uncle was very upset, shouting, “How dare you? She’s just a child!” I was kinda thinking, Well, what am I? After that I wasn’t allowed near her anymore. For the rest of the vacation we’d wave at each other from across the room apologetically.

  I didn’t see how her uncle could judge me—he was flamingly gay—but I wasn’t fazed. This wasn’t my first same-sex dalliance and it wouldn’t be my last. Like my father, I let momentary desire carry me like a current—I never drew lines at gender, age, circumstance. Later, when I was clean, I would discover that those lines existed, that they were coded in my DNA. At the time I thought my open sexuality was natural, but in reality it was the drugs. I’m straight.

  Reviews for my performance in Rafferty were good and led to a pilot deal for a show called One Day at a Time. I didn’t even audition. I just met with Norman Lear, whom I knew was the brilliant creator of All in the Family, The Jeffersons, and Sanford and Son, and the deal was done. At the time, landing the role of Julie Cooper seemed like just another exciting job to me—I had no idea that it would be on the air for the next nine years and would prove to be the defining role of my career. I came from a family with a father who left houses when he got bored or ran out of dough, a mother who was under the sway of a cruel husband, and a brother who was in and out of trouble. I had a recreational drug habit that was quickly becoming a way of life. For all the chaos in my life, One Day at a Time would prove a point of stability. It would be, in some ways, the closest thing I had to a home.

  7

  Originally One Day at a Time was built around me, the little starlet who was getting so much attention. I’d been on the scene for so long, in fact, that when Bonnie Franklin heard that she was going to play my mother on the show, her first reaction was that I was too old to be her daughter. Bonnie’s character—Ann Romano—was supposed to be thirty-five. I was only fifteen— two years younger than my character!—so I definitely wasn’t too old, but it had been three years since I’d shot Graffiti. I had a very public life. I was such a familiar face that she assumed I was much older.

  Shooting the pilot wasn’t momentous for me. It wasn’t a new-enough experience to be nerve-racking or exceptionally exciting, and, as I’ve said, I had no idea how significant the role would be in my life. I don’t remember rehearsing it, shooting it, watching it, or celebrating it.

  Needless to say, my lack of awareness was immaterial. CBS loved the pilot, with one exception. In the pilot my character, Julie Cooper, was an only child. CBS’s major note was that they wanted a sibling for me, so Valerie Bertinelli was cast as my younger sister, Barbara Cooper. Later they’d be patting themselves on the back for that wise and show-saving decision.

  Valerie remembers the first time we met better than I do. She always tells it that we were in an elevator on our way to the rehearsal hall. I don’t remember the setting, but I know that I was a lot taller than she was and different in every way. I remember seeing a cute little kid—we were only six months apart in age, but she seemed like a young child to me. Not only was she five inches shorter than I was, but I wore platforms that made me almost six feet tall. She wore
sneakers. I wore tight jeans and leather jackets. She wore headbands; I wore shades. I was so young, but at the time I didn’t feel like a kid, not with my work schedule during the day and the older crowd I ran with at night.

  The encounter may not be burnt on my soul, but I can guarantee that Val greeted me as she always did, with a characteristically sweet and enthusiastic “Hi!” With my seasoned club-kid attitude I probably said something understated, like “Hey. So you’re my sister.” I wasn’t trying to intimidate her, but apparently I did.

  Julie and Barbara were basically the sanitized, Hollywoodized versions of me and Val. Julie was a rebel. In the pilot she wanted to go on a coed camping trip. She hitchhiked, she became a Jesus freak, she talked back to her mother, she ran away, and she … well, she may not have done anything terrible, but she sure talked back to her mother a lot. Julie also dated a man twice her age—in that case life was soon to imitate art. She may not have been rolling joints for her father at the age of ten, clubbing on Sunset Strip, or getting high with seasoned pros, but the part wasn’t exactly a stretch for me.

  The main difference between my character and me was Julie’s attitude. Her parents had split up, and Ann, her mother, was trying to stay positive. But whenever she tried to bond with her daughters, Julie was like, “Can you get to the point? I got boys waiting for me outside.” I was never rude or verbally defiant— actions got me in trouble, not words.

  Also, I definitely thought of myself as way cooler than my character. I didn’t have boundaries. Aunt Rosie had certain rules, but when I walked out the door of our house (which I rented) I could do whatever I wanted, and I did. I had freedom and I had money. I saw poor Julie as trapped in her dorky sitcom world of eye-rolling frustration and teenaged howls of “Mo-om!” Her life was specific and ordered by the powers that be. In that way—in her limited freedom and resources—the fictional Julie was more of a real kid than I was.