by Amy Asbury
Okay, two things happened around then that set me back. And let me please state for the record that now, twenty years later, my thought is this: You can’t blame your parents for your own bad behavior. It is up to you to control your own actions, to turn away from bad direction. You can’t go be an asshole and say, “Well, my parents were jerks, so what do you expect from me?” That is bullshit. A cop out. But back then, as a seventeen-year-old, it was hard for me not to hate them and blame them for every single one of my problems.
One day after school, I was sitting at a bus stop in a bad part of town. I sat there waiting for the bus, hungry and tired; wishing I could be one of the lucky people who were in cars, driving straight to their destinations without stopping for thirty other people in the same vehicle. I looked up at a truck and saw one particular man’s head looking at me. I focused on his face. It was my father. We met eyes for a split second and he saw that I noticed him. Just when I thought he would stop and give me a ride home, he turned his head and kept driving. I couldn’t believe he left me sitting there. I watched as his truck got smaller and smaller. I had dealt with a lot of crap from him through my short life, but that really got to me. It crushed me pretty hard to see that truck pass me by.
That incident set me off and put me into another bad depression. I had troubling episodes of mania and violence in the following months. I started feeling really worthless and was basically full of rage inside. Jimmy and I started arguing, but not just arguing like regular people. We argued like typical Hollywood people: violently. One of the times, I dove at him and choked him as hard as I could, and then started socking him with all of my might. I could practically kick his ass. He crouched over and let me go at it. He never hit me back. One time he shoved me against a wall, but that was it (in my crowd, that was basically standard). I felt such guilt after my violent episodes that I crawled out of the room, locked myself in a bathroom, and beat myself with anything I could find: a brush, curling iron, whatever.
The second thing that affected me was that my mother threw me out of the house for not having a job. I know that I should have definitely had a job after school, but the way she went about the whole thing really hurt me. She told me that I had, like, a week to get a job and if I didn’t have one by then, I had to get out. It was almost as if she knew I couldn’t get one that quickly and was just trying to get rid of me. I was surprised at the whole thing, taken aback at the suddenness of the situation. I was out partying all of the time- I wasn’t some great teenager. I am sure she had to do what she had to do, but her delivery was just so…detached. I just remember being really hurt looking at her eyes. They were dead. Flat. Black. She had no emotion whatsoever. She didn’t care where I went. I just had to get the fuck out. Bye bye. So I went and lived with Jimmy until I got a job.
I tried not thinking about my parents, but I couldn’t help it sometimes. I felt like, Damn, the two people who are supposed to love me and care for me no matter what… don’t give two shits about me. My mom told me to go kill myself and my dad not only laughed at me for being institutionalized, but he just drove by and left me sitting at a bus stop in a bad part of town. Now mind you, I forgot all about this stuff when I was buzzed and out with my friends, but from time to time, I had to face my situation. I had these intense feelings that I wasn’t mature enough to deal with in another way. I was so deeply hurt by these people that it stabbed at a spot really, really deep inside of me- a spot deeper than I thought my body could go.
Tricia and Pierre went with Jimmy and me to see a Tryx show at The Roxy the next weekend. Tricia was interested in walking down the rest of the Sunset Strip and seeing the Whisky. When our guys started talking, we left and walked down there. We didn’t discuss what we would say to our boyfriends when we got back, I just assumed we were going to tell them what we did- I didn’t see it as anything wrong. When we got back, they asked us where we went. At the same time, we answered two different things. I said “the Whisky” and she said “Nowhere.” The guys were like, Uh, which is it?
“Tricia,” I said, laughing, “We went to the Whisky, come on.” She looked at them with a straight face and said, “No, we didn’t.” I wanted to strangle her in her white, lace-up rubber dress.
I called her the next day and asked why she lied and she said she didn’t lie, she was trying to save her relationship. She said Pierre was highly jealous and she couldn’t tell him she was at another club without him there. I told her that I understood, but by doing that, she was making me out to be a liar. She said she valued him over me, sorry, but that was the way it was going to be. I hung up thinking, oh hell no; this bitch needs to slow her roll.
I asked Jimmy to take me over there so I could talk to her. He told me not to do anything stupid, because he was in a band with Pierre and he didn’t want to ruin it. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I said. He took me over to her place. She was very cocky right off the bat and wouldn’t talk to me in the parking lot. She insisted we go by the pool, where people were hanging about. Fine. I followed her, looking at her tiny, cut-off denim shorts and little, red halter top, like the girl in Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” video. I tried to talk to her and reason with her and she was bitchy, smirky, and rude. I sat for about five minutes and stared straight ahead, trying to compose myself. I looked down at my shoe. I should have been thinking, Why am I wearing these awful half boot/half shoes? But instead, I thought I am going to beat this bitch with my shoe... I have to calm down…Jimmy will be pissed. Then after some time I said, “I can do what I want to do, or what other people want me to do.” She cocked an eyebrow, smirked and said, “What do YOU want to do?” while chomping open-mouthed on some gum. I said, “You know what? It’s no wonder you have no friends- you are-” I didn’t finish my sentence. The cocked eyebrow did it. I immediately jumped on her, ripped her head back by her hair and started socking her in the face. She curled up into a little ball and tried to protect her face, but I pounded right over her hands.
She was screaming, squawking, and shrieking. I could hear the sound of my fist slamming her face over and over and over. Curse words were coming out of my mouth that I didn’t even know existed, like the kid in A Christmas Story. I even scared myself a little bit. In mid-pounding, a lady came out of an apartment and screamed at me to get off Tricia or she was calling the police. I didn’t feel like being arrested again. I stopped, but I wasn’t done. I got behind Tricia and ripped her up by her hair. I put my mouth in her ear and said, “If you fucking scratch me; if you even THINK about touching me you fucking bitch, I will kill you. I will beat you into the fucking ground, do you hear me?” and she nodded, with her hands up in the air. Then, the best part: I said, “I have a job interview tomorrow and I don’t need to be all scratched up.” Always thinking ahead. Then I threw her scrawny ass across a bunch of lawn chairs. She went flying. I was thinking, Damn, either I am really strong or she is really light. I think it was both. We composed ourselves and walked out of the same gate, her in front of me. She stopped and turned around toward me, her hair looking like a firecracker had been set off on her head. Blood was peeking from one of her nostrils. She screamed “GAAAT OUT!” in a crow-like voice and pointed in the general direction of a maze of paths in her apartment building. I quietly walked past her, saying nothing. I let her have her dignity. I guessed she needed that.
I walked back to the parking lot and got into Jimmy’s car. He had no clue what had happened until I showed him my hand. It was swollen and red. I was afraid he would be pissed at me, but he just told me that I wasn’t using the right part of my hand to punch. He showed me how to make a fist and tried to tell me how to tuck my fingers so they wouldn’t get hurt. We went back to his place and I iced my hand.
Tricia dropped out of school with only a few months to go until we graduated our senior year. She never got a diploma. A small twinge of guilt hit me. I had affected her life; I had prevented her from achieving a milestone. But as always, I quickly washed it away with some booze. Life wasn’t easy. Tough shit for her. It
wasn’t my fault that she was afraid to come back to school, or whatever was wrong. I know…I was an asshole. I really was. The girl was bitchy, yes. But she got beat down pretty badly over something pretty trivial. I didn’t know how to deal with anger. I didn’t know how to solve issues with people without being violent. I couldn’t control my impulses. I definitely would not do that today, but my mindset at that time was one of extremes.
I made it to my job interview (with no scratches) and got a job at a beauty supply store. The girl who hired me, Gwen, told her manager on the phone: “She is really pretty, I can’t believe she doesn’t already have a job.” Pretty? I thought. Was that my qualification?
Gwen was a total bimbo. It was totally exaggerated to where I thought she had to be kidding. She was in her early twenties and bottom heavy, with big pores and blond hair. She giggled at everything. She showed me briefly how to run credit cards and how to count the drawer. Then she showed me how to bring the money to the bank in a deposit bag and drop it in the merchant’s slot. I had to put a certain amount in the store safe for the next day’s drawer. As I tried to remember it all, she said, “Did you get all that? Good. See ya!” and bounced out to play tennis. I was like, Wait! Come back! but she never did. I ended up figuring it out after much trial and error. I remember customers having to help me run their credit cards. They had to get behind the counter and show me how to do it.
Razz and Michael came into the store in their little rolled-up sweats and visors and stole the beauty products right in plain sight. Razz walked around filling up a basket with nail polish and hairspray as if he owned the joint. Stealing beauty supplies for myself felt justified for some reason, but I felt weird letting Razz just rob the place without batting a mascara-caked eyelash. I didn’t want to get fired. I worked there part time in the evenings and on the weekends. I enjoyed being around all of the beauty supplies and cosmetics. I always gave myself manicures and tried on the makeup, leaving my germs all over products that I eventually sold to other people.
The store was soon bought by a discount chain and stripped of all the good products. Gwen was gone with the old storefront. By that time, I was an old pro, ringing up bottles of Clairol hair color without even looking. I eventually memorized every code to every type of hair color and could key it on the ten key without even getting off the phone to stop my gossip. I didn’t even greet the customers. I just talked about getting drunk and cute guys to whoever was on the other line and the customers had to stand there and listen. I only stopped to look at them when I figured out their total and it was time for them to pay me. Then it was back to gossiping. I was a totally rude employee! One time I even fell asleep on some cases of perms in the back.
I had to wear a smock that said “Ask me! I am an Expert.” I looked at the thing and thought, The only thing I am an expert on is partying. People were always coming in the store with hair dye issues, namely fixing a color they didn’t like. After studying a color wheel and some pamphlets, I decided Okay, I am an expert now. Ask away. I started helping people with color corrections, toners, bleach, peroxide levels, everything under the sun. I understood the acrylic nail supplies. I tried out the waxes and provided transsexuals with instructions on waxing their nether regions.
My father showed up on my sister’s birthday that year. It was hard on us because we hadn’t talked to him in a while. I tried to be nice to him and forgive him because he was so pathetic. He kept telling us how miserable he was. I got sick of hearing it after a while; I just wanted it to stop. He didn’t ask us how we were or what was going on in our lives. While we were glad to know he wasn’t having the time of his life being away from his family, we were hurt that he was not interested in knowing who we were, who we had grown into or how his departure had affected us. He tried to curse a lot and act tough to try and relate with us, but we were embarrassed and disgusted. I knew I couldn’t trust him and distanced myself from him, emotionally.
We always reacted to seeing our father, even if we didn’t realize it. My sister insisted it wasn’t affecting her, but she cried at school the next day and said she didn’t know what was wrong. The day after that, she found herself crying at work with no explanation. Then she was caught stealing at Newberry’s. Soon after that, she got in a car accident with her new boyfriend.
My sister was out of Middleton by that time and had entered the tenth grade at the local public high school in Canoga Park. It was very different for her. It was in a pretty bad area. One time I was driving by there and I saw a cloud of dust, along with a ton of flashing lights, in my rear view mirror. From behind me came the sound of sirens. A car was being chased by the police and was coming right toward me! I was on a single lane part of the street and there was nowhere to pull over. The car got closer and closer to me. Before it slammed right into me, I pulled my car over onto someone’s front lawn and let the whole train of chaos pass me.
My sister was really into the Red Hot Chili Peppers during those years and we laughed at the songs together. It was one of the few things that allowed us to still relate to each other, though we were living separate lives with separate crowds. We always bonded on the Chili Peppers. We sang songs like “Yertle the Turtle” and other funky, weird songs that were very “her.” Some were even very “me,” i.e. “Stone Cold Bush.” It was no surprise she chose that ‘funny’ music because things were not very laughable in our lives then.
My mother started dating a new guy that spring. He was an old family friend, a friend of my dad’s. He was very nice to me and complimentary. My mother didn’t like it. I remember she was sitting on the couch with him one day, and she called me over to them and told me to turn around so she could check out the back of my legs because she said she could see cellulite. She started pointing it out to him, as if I weren’t there. She asked me what I had been eating. I yawned, filed my fingernail, blew dust off it, and lifted my eyebrows, which translated to Bitch please. No need to try so hard to make me look bad. And by the way, I am now an old pro at dealing with envious women- this shit is nothing new to me.
Although my mind was set to only one dial, Hollywood, there were times when things appeared to be more normal, like in my journalism class at school. I got some validation from working on the school paper and started to think about maybe not being such a die-hard party girl. I had figured out that wearing my Hollywood clothes to school was a big mistake. I learned my lesson in tenth grade. By my senior year, people had stopped yelling things at me on the school grounds. I still wanted to show that I was a Hollywood chick because I was very proud of it, but I didn’t want to look like a stripper. Well, not at school anyway. I was writing for the school paper, for goodness sake; I had to have a little bit of credibility. I tried getting away from too “rocker” of an image. I let the purple fade from my hair, letting it become a more natural brown. I swept it into a long ponytail and wore my big hoop earrings. I couldn’t buy a whole new wardrobe, but a pack of white men’s T-shirts helped me to hide my cleavage and cover myself better. I still wore Jimmy’s Cathouse T-shirts from time to time (one in white and one in black, both with bright pink writing), and his Lip Service shorts with little skulls and daggers, but mostly, I looked pretty normal for the times.
I enjoyed feeling more accepted at school. I even felt like a regular teenager on some days. When I wrote stories for the school paper, I felt important and smart instead of a freak, a troubled kid, or a tough girl. I realized I didn’t need to try to separate myself so much from the norm. I didn’t need to pigeonhole myself, which would only take away my opportunities. I started to feel better about being a student, and as a person as a whole. I started to feel more valued academically.
Journal Entry 3/12/91
I just interviewed Coach Green, who kicked me out of P.E. in the tenth grade. He said I conduct a very good interview. I thought he was kidding because he was just grunting and stuff, but he wasn’t. He said, “You’re very intelligent. You just don’t let people know it. You got me talking and now you have
filled up that whole paper. Most people couldn’t do that.” I felt good. I was wearing all black on Friday and it made me feel…dark. Just putting on white made me feel more alive. I told Jimmy I didn’t like wearing his black Lip Service jacket with the skulls and crosses on it any more. He was insulted. I mean…I used to find it so cool, but now it looks evil to me. I told him that I got much more respect dressing like a normal teenager and I liked being respected. He got defensive and said, “Hey, I don’t care who likes me. This is what I dress like!” But I don’t like being judged as dark and evil, especially when it doesn’t really represent me. Jimmy made me feel like a sell-out, like I was turning my back on my own kind.