Foxy

by Pam Grier

  I drove much more carefully on the way home, completely exhausted from the ordeal. Just as we were pulling into the gates, I said to Richard, “You know what? Ginger hasn’t peed since this morning. We better get her out of the car fast. She must have a river of urine in her.”

  The gate closed behind us, I stopped the car, and just as we started to push Ginger out the door, she let her bladder go. In a moment, there was a gallon of horse piss soaking into the seats and the carpets of my Jag.

  “How can such a little horse have so much pee?” Richard asked as the yellow stream flowed like a river out of the car and onto the ground. We both laughed in spite of ourselves, but we were on very shaky ground. When I finally got a chance to take stock, I realized that this incident had been an omen. I’d saved Ginger, but I couldn’t save Richard.

  That was strike three.

  I got no sleep that night. I might have totaled my car, caused an accident, hurt both Richard and me and God knows who else. I realized that in essence, although I was in Richard’s house, I was alone. We were hardly lovers anymore, but I was there for him, and if need be, I could keep him safe. Who would keep me safe? Not Richard, who completely fell apart when Ginger had needed him. What if it had been our child? How many more tragedies did I need to convince me that I wasn’t capable of supporting my boyfriend? I decided that as talented and powerful as Richard was, I was not strong enough to be there for him in his heavily complicated life.

  The next morning, I got up after Richard left the house. I was done. I had given up too much of myself, and although I loved him and I knew he loved me, I couldn’t do this anymore. I rented a car and tearfully packed up my clothes. I patted the dogs’ heads, cried some more, and left a note saying that I was heading home to Colorado to spend some time with my family. Now, much to my relief, my grief, and my disappointment, I was outta there!

  CHAPTER 24

  Loss

  It was 1977, shortly after Richard and I split, when I got a disturbing phone call from Freddie. We hadn’t been together for about two years, and he sounded depressed and loaded out of his skull. Still, it surprised me when he said he’d been thinking about taking his life. “I have a gun, Pam,” he said, “and I’m thinking about using it.”

  He wanted me to come and help him since I was staying at a friend’s home only a few blocks from the Beverly Westwood Hotel, where he was staying. I thought about Freddie’s life and how he had handled it. Did I really want to go and rescue him? I had no professional background to help someone as disturbed as Freddie sounded. If I did show up, what could I do for him? Perhaps the most disturbing part was that he claimed he was broke and asked me for a loan for a couple hundred dollars. He said if I wouldn’t come to him, he could send a messenger to pick it up.

  “Why do you need money?” I asked. “You just signed a multimillion-dollar contract for Chico and the Man.”

  “I only need it for a little while. I have to pay back some guys.” I knew what that meant.

  “If you’re that broke, how can you afford to pay a messenger?” I asked him.

  “I can use the studio messengers.” He paused a moment and said, “They all keep screaming at me.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “My people.”

  I didn’t go rescue him, and I didn’t loan him any money. When the call came three days later that he had taken his life, I was heartbroken. For quite a while, I wondered if I could have helped him. I wanted to save his soul, but I knew that only he could help himself, and he hadn’t really wanted to. I had loved him, I always would, but some people just don’t survive the blitz and chaos of a show-business life, and Freddie was one of them. If only he’d had a larger group of friends who could have helped him.

  He was buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery overlooking some of the movie studios, but I didn’t go to the funeral. I had loved Freddie so much, I didn’t trust myself to keep quiet when I saw some of the people who I wish had helped him. So far, he was one of two men I’d dated whom I could have considered marrying or at least having a baby with—if the drugs hadn’t gotten in the way.

  I went to the cemetery alone the day after they put him in the ground. I laid a bouquet of white stargazer lilies at his grave and sat with him, feeling how much we had cared for each other. Then I threw myself into my work, taking as many roles as I could find.

  I was lonely, feeling the effects of Freddie’s death and the loss of my relationship with Richard, when the sun came out once again—in the form of meeting renowned musician Minnie Riperton. Originally a member of the group Rotary Connection and a backup singer for the amazing Stevie Wonder, she had sung with the greats: Etta James, Fontella Bass, Ramsey Lewis, Bo Diddley, Chuck Berry, and Muddy Waters, to name a few. Her most famous song, “Lovin’ You,” had made it to the top of the charts in 1975 in record time, and she was now one of the best-known and best-loved black singers.

  I discovered why she was so popular when I met her at a black entertainment awards show in Oakland, California. I was fortunate that they put Minnie, her husband, Richard Rudolph, her daughter, Maya, later of Saturday Night Live fame, and her son, Marc, at my table. I was such a fan, and I told Minnie how much I loved her music. She couldn’t have been kinder, and her eyes were filled with warmth and joy. There was no competitiveness or jealousy in her. I could tell that immediately. She was a rare kind of woman who embraced other women with compassion, love, and caring.

  “I have no interest in ever demeaning another woman,” I told her. “We get enough of that in the workplace, and I won’t add to it.”

  She agreed. She was as great a human being as she was a singer. Her daughter and her young son, Marc, loved her, and those of us whom she called her friends considered ourselves lucky. “We’ll be friends for life,” she told me. And we were. We just had no idea how short a period of time we were talking about, as I watched Minnie design her own clothes and go on tour dates. A true artist in every sense of the word, she dressed beautifully, her makeup was always meticulous, and she shared her knowledge and her experiences as a mother and a wife with me.

  At five foot six, Minnie could walk in stilettos like they were ballet slippers. She loved taking me shopping in Beverly Hills, where she showed me all the latest fashions and advised me on what to buy. She suggested rouge colors for my cheeks, I introduced her to yoga, and we experimented with herbal teas and metaphysics. We had stimulating discussions about Buddhism and other religions and cultures. It was so refreshing to be around a woman, a peer, who wasn’t envious of me and didn’t see me as a threat. She just took me under her wing, taught me what she knew, and I did the same with her.

  Minnie was so encouraging, she got me writing music and singing. “You have a great voice,” she said. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you can’t sing.”

  I followed her advice when I went into the studio with Giorgio Moroder. He had produced Donna Summer, and he wanted me to sound like her and kept trying to direct me toward a European disco sound. I, however, wanted to sound like myself, and Minnie agreed with me. “You have a distinct sound and feeling. It’s funk. You need to be yourself and sound like yourself. Not like somebody else.”

  My music career was short-lived, but Minnie and I savored our time together. She gave me great advice about men and dating. She said, “When you meet a man, he puts you in one of two categories—the woman he wants to marry or the woman he wants just for sex. The way you dress will help determine that. If he shows up in a suit and you have tattoos and urban apparel, he’ll want to have sex with you. Nothing more. Gentlemen always marry a lady.”

  I smiled. “I get it,” I said. “If the guy dresses urban, you can dress urban. If he dresses preppy, so do you.”

  “Now you’re getting it, girl. Oil and water don’t mix.”

  She was trying to protect me from being a notch on some guy’s belt, and I appreciated her advice. I told Minnie everything, as we went to restaurants together and noticed all the guys who were looking at us. When
she began categorizing them like they were categorizing us, I laughed my head off. We shared some incredibly intimate tidbits, like, “You know a man really loves you if he likes the smell of your armpits.” And “Everyone has baggage. Just make sure you and the guy have compatible baggage. I come from the land of Samsonite.” She was talking about compatibility.

  I was home in Colorado visiting my mother when Minnie was diagnosed with breast cancer about a year after we met. She was so young, about thirty, and I prayed that she would beat it. I was back in Los Angeles when she went in for surgery. I spent as much time with her as I could, aware that she needed to spend most of her time with her family, and I didn’t want to impose. But I missed our spontaneous phone calls day or night, to discuss men, our careers, and anything else that popped into our heads. Anytime I called, she used to called me back, but now, since she’d been going through chemotherapy, she was too weak to talk on the phone.

  One day when I called and she couldn’t come to the phone, I realized that her treatment plan was not working. She was sleeping most of the time, she was in a lot of pain, and she was slipping through my fingers. I called occasionally to check on her, and when she couldn’t talk, her sister would let me know how she was doing. I visited her for short periods and sometimes dropped things off for her when she was asleep or couldn’t see visitors.

  I called one day after her chemo was over, and she picked up the phone. She sounded like the old Minnie when she told me that in a few weeks she was going to record an album with Stevie Wonder. Did I dare hope she had beat the illness? She was very excited to be feeling better, and we made a plan to have lunch the next day.

  Whenever we had luncheon plans, she always called me an hour early to discuss what we were planning to wear. When she didn’t call that morning, I called her. Her sister answered the phone in a hushed tone. “Yes?” she said quietly.

  “Hi, it’s Pam,” I bubbled. “Minnie and I are having lunch pretty soon, and we haven’t talked about what we’re wearing.”

  “Oh, Pam,” she said tearfully, “Minnie just passed away.” It was July 12, 1979, a day I will never forget.

  I dropped onto the couch and sobbed. I hadn’t had a chance to say good-bye to Minnie, but she knew that I had been a true friend. I was in a fog a few days later when I picked up some of her family members and drove them to Westwood Cemetery. There, Minnie was interred in good company, as she was laid to rest in the vicinity of the grave of Marilyn Monroe. Minnie and I had shared a love of Chinese culture, and she was buried in a blue Chinese wedding dress. I had one just like it in red that she had given to me. I kept it, and it’s still a constant trigger for memories every time I look at it in my closet.

  When I think back, I see that Minnie gave me great wisdom and that she was a true friend. She always said that if we could have five good friends in this life, we were truly blessed. Minnie was one of mine, and I always think of her when I explore the meaning of a real friendship, recalling her unconditional presence and encouragement in my life.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Actor Prepares

  Mom was ill and Krista was battling cancer in the early eighties, so I was making various trips to Colorado to see them both. I had done some TV roles in the miniseries Roots and on Miami Vice and Crime Story, but I hadn’t had a good movie role since Greased Lightning. I was still passionate about acting, but the movie business had so many difficult twists and turns, I felt I was at a crossroads.

  There is a grassy area in West Los Angeles called the Santa Monica Esplanade, where people run up and down San Vicente Boulevard. I was jogging there, deciding if I should quit the business or do some serious theater, when I noticed a pleasant-looking man passing me, running in the opposite direction.

  “Aren’t you Pam Grier?” he called out to me, doing an about-face so he could run beside me.

  “Yeah, I am,” I said.

  “David Moss. I’m a theatrical agent.”

  The name was familiar, and I felt easy about him running beside me. I weighed about 117 at the time, soaking wet, and I was a size 4. He obviously liked what he saw, but he was not a bit obnoxious or even flirtatious. He was a perfect gentleman, and he even said, “Oh, my God, you’re a great actress.”

  “Thank you,” I said, as we continued running.

  “So what are you doing now?” he wanted to know.

  “I’m getting involved in theater. I really like it. But in California, there are very few theater productions.”

  He smiled, understanding what I meant. We ran in silence for a few minutes until he said, “There’s this role I’m trying to cast for a movie. If I could swing it, I think they’d see you.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “They’ve seen everybody,” he said, “but no one is quite right. It’s the role of a psychotic drug-addicted hooker/killer.”

  I looked down at my running shoes hitting the ground with each stride. What the hell kind of vibe was I giving off today?

  “Paul Newman is starring in it,” he added.

  I stopped running and so did he. Panting and sweating, my hands on my hips, I stared at him. “Paul Newman?”

  “The very one.”

  “Why me?” I wanted to know.

  “You have a quiet intensity,” David Moss said. “I’ve seen your work, and no one can see past your beauty. It gets in the way of your greatness. But I can see the real you in there. Give me your number and I’ll call you this week.”

  “Wait just a minute,” I said. “Playing a junkie hooker is not a walk in the park. I need time to do some serious preparation. You don’t get to that overnight.”

  “If you’re willing to do the preparation, Pam,” he said, “I’ll get you the audition and some time to prepare. A week at least.”

  “Is that all? A week? I’d love to work with Paul Newman,” I said, “but a week isn’t enough.”

  “It’ll have to be,” he said. “They’ll fly you to New York tomorrow. You can do your preparation there.”

  Never one to pass up a major opportunity, I tucked my bible, An Actor Prepares, under my arm and got on the plane, scared to death. I had a major challenge ahead of me. What if I failed in front of Paul Newman? The stakes were high. I checked into the Wyndham Hotel in Midtown Manhattan, where David Susskind, the producer, put me up. Now that I was there, I had some work to do.

  In my estimation, one actress stands out above all the rest in her ability to immerse herself in a role and make an emotional impact on everyone who watches her. I’m talking about Meryl Streep, and no movie better demonstrated her range of talent and emotion than Sophie’s Choice. After weeping my way through that Oscar-winning performance, I read that Alan Pakula had been looking for a European actress to play Sophie, even though Meryl Streep really wanted the part. As much as Pakula admired her work, he was not interested in casting her. He told her no, but Meryl refused to take no for an answer.

  Rather than calling her reps to lobby for the role for her, she took matters into her own hands. She hired a voice tutor to learn to speak with a perfect Polish accent, she studied the Polish culture, and then she literally forced her way into Pakula’s office. There, she gave the performance of a lifetime, and when she left, the role was hers. It was all about her superb preparation and her unwillingness to be deterred from her goal. In essence, she did a great deal more than read for the role of Sophie. She became Sophie from the inside out.

  Constantin Stanislavsky and Meryl Streep were my teachers as I anticipated my upcoming audition. The movie was called Fort Apache, the Bronx, a cop war/crime drama that takes place on the drug-addled streets of New York City. My role was as a drug addict named Charlotte—a hooker and a killer. They had seen everyone for this role, including my friend Tamara, and now it was my turn.

  Wanting to look the part, I went into a sleazy sex shop and got a blonde wig, red stockings, a garter belt, and some seriously high stilettos. Then I cleared my room by stacking all the furniture in the corner and began to st
udy my lines. But when I got to the part where Charlotte shoots up and overdoses, I panicked. How could I portray the life of a drug addict/prostitute when I had never met one? Well, if I had, I didn’t know it. What made me think I could I do better than the other actresses who already had read for the role and were passed over?

  This is not going to work, I thought. I picked up the phone to cancel the audition. Who was I kidding? As luck would have it, the line was busy, so I hung up and took stock of things. Maybe I should do the audition anyway, so they could at least see my work and keep me in mind for something else. How many times did the opportunity arise to read for Paul Newman?

  Hardly ever, was the answer, and I needed to do some on-the-spot research. I walked to Tenth Avenue, and there I was, in the shabbiest ’hood I’d ever seen. A few blocks from the subway, I spotted a street corner where groups of overly made-up, haggard-looking women were standing in high heels and ultra-short skirts, pretending to be alluring. Some men were being serviced right there on the street while others were making deals with the women from inside their cars. One hooker, who was very tall with a red wig, got into my face. “Whachou doin’ here?” she demanded in her street voice. “This my corner.”

  “I don’t want your corner,” I assured her. “I’m doing research for a film.”

  Her persona shifted dramatically as she leaned in and said in a normal voice, “I’m a schoolteacher. I have a degree, and I’m trying to put my husband through school and support my son. I make good money here. I once made two grand in one day.”

  I heard about a porn movie house off Forty-second Street where, for the right price, you could watch a film of women performing sexual acts with men and other women. It was a world of sexual gratification above all else, where men were certain to get the kind of sexual release they wanted. They got their manhood validated, and it was exciting for them to get what they desired without putting their marriages and relationships at risk. I could see both sides now that I was having a direct experience of a world I had only heard about in the ugliest of terms.