Yeah, right. Who was I kidding? Why would Carly Simon want to be my friend? I would have to win her over.
The minute I got home from school, I baked banana bread as an offering for Carly and the band. That evening we arrived early at the Troub and snagged our front row table. All through the first set I held the still-warm loaf in my lap, as protectively as if it were a newborn.
At intermission, Molly and I hurried upstairs. When Carly opened the door, she grinned, and the guitarist called out, “Hey, it’s the girls!”
The girls. We were the girls.
I handed Carly the banana bread. She thanked me and placed it on the coffee table, next to an overflowing ashtray, and the guys immediately dug in.
“Did you notice we cranked up the vocals on the up-tempo songs?” Carly asked. “Great suggestion last night, Hillary.”
I suppressed the squeal rising in my throat. “You sounded incredible.”
I had recently added the words “incredible” and “amazing” to my vocabulary because my friend Amy’s older sister said them, and she was cool—she had a black boyfriend who played the flute.
While Cat Stevens performed downstairs, we sat on the couch joining in the conversation as Carly and the band dissected their show. When we heard the applause at the end of Cat’s first set, I stood.
“Sorry we can’t stay, but we’ll see you tomorrow night.”
The band waved, thanking us for the bread. And this time at the door, Carly Simon kissed me good-bye.
All that week, bringing gifts of pumpkin, date-nut, cinnamon-raisin, and honey-walnut breads, recipes courtesy of The Tassajara Bread Book, Molly and I hung out in Carly’s dressing room. On the third night, she added us to the guest list—a great relief, since with the $4.00 ticket price and the cost of baking ingredients, my weekly allowance was hardly enough to keep up.
On closing night, when Cat Stevens ended his set, we knew the time to say good-bye had come. My eyes welled up with tears, but I bit my lip and held them back. Be strong. Be strong.
“Well,” I said as I headed to the door, “it was great hanging out with you guys.”
“Yeah,” Molly added. “Thanks for getting us in and all.”
Carly stood. As she leaned over to give us the good-bye hug and kiss we’d grown accustomed to, she said, “Next time I’m back, you promise to come see me?”
Was she kidding? Of course we’d come see her. What were friends for?
The next seven months dragged, the only high point being news of Carly’s success. “That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be,” a song from her first album, rose on the charts, and just as she released her second album, Anticipation, we learned she was returning to the Troub. This time as the headliner.
On a rainy November opening night, armed with a loaf of three-layer corn bread, Molly and I opted for a table in the back so we could unobtrusively leave our seats during the opening act and visit Carly upstairs. A singer-songwriter named Don McLean was onstage, performing a new song called “American Pie,” when Molly and I crept to the dressing room. My heart was beating faster and harder than it had the first time I knocked on that door. After all, Carly was a star now. What if she wasn’t as welcoming as before? Worse, what if she’d forgotten us?
I took a deep breath and knocked.
The door opened a crack and a man in a dark suit gruffly said, “Yes?”
“Uh, we’re here to say hi to Carly and give her this,” I said, holding out the loaf.
“She can’t see anyone now,” he snapped, obviously thinking we were just some fans. He started to close the door on us, but I stuck my foot inside and shouted, “Tell her it’s Hillary and Molly!”
In an instant, Carly appeared at the door.
“It’s the girls!” she cried, and she hugged and kissed us as if those seven months had only been a moment.
She was, truly, our friend.
So again Molly and I spent a week hanging out with Carly and the band. One night, between songs, Carly looked out at the audience and said, “This one is for Hillary and Molly,” then launched into “Anticipation.” The next night she dedicated “One More Time,” and every night after that, Carly dedicated a song to us.
I had never before felt so happy. So important.
Months passed. It was on an overly smoggy summer day, at a newsstand in Westwood Village, that I spotted an interview with Carly in Where It’s At, a popular music magazine. I began to read, when suddenly my heart nearly stopped.
“‘At the Troubadour, it’s been great,’” Carly was quoted. “‘There are these two girls who have really just made my evenings there.’”
Fuckin’ A! Carly was talking about me and Molly. In a magazine!
I threw money down on the counter, grabbed the magazine, and raced five blocks to Molly’s house. I arrived sweating and gasping heavily. “There’s an interview in…Carly…mentions us.”
Molly snatched the magazine and began to read aloud.
“‘At the Troubadour, it’s been great. There are these two girls who have really just made my evenings there.’”
“Can you believe it?” I yelled, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. The poodle next door began to yip.
“‘They’ve been sitting in the front row every night. They come to all the shows and they bake me bread, and they sing along.’”
“Amazing,” I screeched, then grabbed the magazine from Molly. I continued reading. “‘They know all the songs and, as many times as they’ve heard them, when I start them, they say, “Oh, great!” It’s really exciting to have such great…’”
I stopped midsentence.
“Such great what?” Molly barked.
I was devastated. Stunned into silence.
Molly grabbed the magazine from me and read. “‘It’s really exciting to have such great fans.’” She closed the magazine and looked at me. “What’s wrong?”
After a moment, I finally said, “Fans. She called us fans.”
“Oh.” Molly paused. “Well, she called us great fans. And she also said a lot of other cool things about us.”
“I thought we were friends.”
I left Molly’s house and trudged home. There I locked myself in my room, where I ate an entire still-frozen Sara Lee pound cake and listened to records—anyone but Carly. The words “such great fans” echoed through my head, replacing previous insults classmates had heaped upon me. “Fat ass.” “Lezzie.”
After four days I knew what I had to do. If Carly were truly my friend, she would understand why I had to write. I composed ten drafts of a letter before settling on the final version, which I then reread twenty times.
Dear Carly:
We saw your interview in Where It’s At and have to say, were very disappointed. We were surprised to be thrown into the category of “fans” with so many others who, I’m sure, you appreciate, but, well—we just thought we were more. We thought we were friends. I guess we were wrong. If we’re wrong about being wrong, please write back. We still think you’re a very talented woman.
Hillary and Molly
I jumped on my bike, rode to the corner mailbox, and dropped in the letter before I could change my mind.
Every day after school I waited in the driveway for Felix, our mailman, and every day he shook his head and said, “Sorry, nothing for you today. You waiting for grades? An invitation to a bar mitzvah?”
“No, Felix,” I said brusquely, not bothering to give him any more information, since he clearly didn’t get me.
Finally, after two weeks of disappointment, Felix drove up holding a powder blue envelope with my name written on it in neat, loopy handwriting.
“This what you’ve been waiting for?” he asked, handing me the envelope.
“Yes!” I squealed. I tore into the house then upstairs to my room and closed the door. Sitting on my twin bed, I carefully opened the envelope and inhaled the patchouli oil that wafted up from the stationery. The letter was handwritten:
I sat on
my bed, unable to hold back tears of relief and joy. Just then, my brother barged into the room without knocking.
“GET OUT!!!!!!!” I screamed so loudly he jumped, then slammed the door.
I put on a Carly record and turned up the volume, singing “The Love’s Still Growing” along with her while I tucked the letter safely inside my shirt and pressed it to my skin.
In early May, Molly and I returned to the Troub. Carly was a huge star by then. Even though she’d won a Grammy for Best New Artist, free tickets still awaited us, and the front table was reserved for us at every show. After the performances, we hung out in the dressing room that had become so familiar I knew every stain on that plaid couch.
On closing night I brought along a clunky tape recorder that I held on my lap during the show. It was a perfect performance to tape because just as Carly was about to sing “Summer’s Coming Around Again,” my favorite song, she leaned into the microphone and said:
“This song is dedicated to Hillary and Molly, who have been in the front seats of this club more times this week than I have. They’re very loyal fans, and they bake. You should meet them, because if they like you, they’re a powerful, powerful duo.”
What stands out on the tape over Carly’s voice is held-back, breathy, fourteen-year-old excitement escaping from me in short, giddy giggles. I was so high from her lengthy dedication and her hearty hug and kiss good-bye, it wasn’t until I returned home well after midnight and played the tape that I heard the word.
Fans.
She called us fans.
Still, when I climbed out my bedroom window and crawled onto the roof, I played the tape over and over again. Sitting beneath a dim crescent moon, I didn’t mind anymore. Was Carly leaving free tickets and reserving front-row seats for anyone else? Who was she mentioning in interviews, writing letters to, dedicating songs to, and calling powerful? Who did she invite up to her dressing room every night and not only ask for opinions but listen to them as if they counted? And who was the one who had made it all happen?
Me.
I turned up the tape recorder, looked at the Moon, and let Carly’s lyrics seep into my being, my every cell.
“We want you to love the world, to know it well and play a part. And we’ll help you to learn to love yourself ’cause that’s where lovin’ really starts.”
Summer
1971
I go downtown to watch a Black Panther trial and wind up talking to the Manson girls, who hold a daily vigil for Charlie outside the courthouse. I can’t help but stare at the Xs carved crudely in their foreheads and admire the playing card designs they embroider on muslin.
I cut my hair to look like Jane Fonda in Klute but instead end up looking like Keith Partridge.
Although cigarette ads are banned on TV, my father doesn’t quit his three-pack-a-day habit. He chain-smokes all the way through Marcus Welby, M.D. and Medical Center.
Apollo 15 carries the first men to drive on the Moon in the Lunar Rover. I go on a crash diet and eat only Space Food Sticks: butterscotch for breakfast, peanut butter for lunch, and chocolate for dinner.
The Twenty-Sixth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution lowers the voting age from twenty-one to eighteen. Good news, but at fourteen, I still have four years to go before I can vote, and I can’t wait—especially after the Pentagon Papers are leaked.
I see snow for the first time—at the top of the tram in Palm Springs!
Jim Morrison ODs in Paris. Because Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin have recently died, some fans believe all three are alive and in hiding or have been assassinated by an anti-rock conspiracy. I’m still convinced Paul McCartney is dead and continue to gather clues for proof.
Steal This Book, by yippie Abbie Hoffman, is released. My best friend, Greg, and I join in “challenging the status quo” by going to Figaro’s restaurant, ordering a huge amount of food on one check and two Cokes on a separate check, then going up to the cashier and paying only the check for the Cokes. Right on.
While songs like “One Less Bell to Answer,” “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves,” and “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing” are in the top ten, I know every lyric on every Joni Mitchell album and “fill my drawing book with line” so I can be like Trina, one of Joni’s “Ladies of the Canyon.”
The King Case
I knew I had found a kindred spirit in Greg when we were in the seventh grade and bonded over Bea Benaderet. After a rousing game of spin the bottle, complete with closed-mouth kissing, our party host, Melanie Morgan, turned off all the lights in her den and lit a candle, creating an eerie mood for a séance.
“Let’s bring back JFK,” Melanie suggested to the twelve of us sitting in a circle around the candle.
“We always do JFK,” Ricky Marx said. “Let’s contact Marilyn Monroe!”
And then as if we had rehearsed the moment, Greg and I simultaneously said, “How about Bea Benaderet?”
“Who?” Everyone else in the room turned and looked at us like we were freaks.
“The actress from Petticoat Junction,” I explained.
“She just died yesterday,” Greg added.
It was the start of a long friendship.
A cross between David Bowie and Albert Einstein, Greg’s thick nest of dark blond hair hung well past his shoulders, making him appear much older than his thirteen years. When he spoke he drew out each word in singsongy precision. He called me “Doll,” but it was more like “Dolllllllllllllll.” He was obviously gay, a fact his parents were made painfully aware of when, at the age of three, he took to wearing his mother’s pearls. Although I hadn’t yet realized that I, too, was gay, it was clear in our relationship who wore the pants.
Greg and I shared a passion for the unconventional and eccentric. We devoured Grapefruit, Yoko Ono’s book of “happenings,” and created our own “events,” constantly daring each other to do random, outlandish things in public—like the time when we were walking out of the Ahmanson Theatre, after seeing Richard Chamberlain in Night of the Iguana, and Greg gave me a dare that, of course, I had to fulfill. Amid the stylish post-theater crowd, I strolled across the busy downtown street, subtly untied my wrap-around skirt, and let it fall to the ground, pretending not to notice. I walked for three blocks in only my underwear.
Greg and I also shared a love of music—the more obscure, the better. Together we discovered performers like the jazz vocal group Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross, who scatted their way through “Halloween Spooks,” and Frances Faye, featuring Jack Costanzo on bongos, whose album we bought simply because we liked her short, snazzy haircut and the liner notes that stated she lived in Hollywood with her “secretary and four French poodles.”
One night in late November, Greg and I went to the Troub to see James Taylor. But, once again, I was even more blown away by James’s opening act. This singer’s résumé of songs she had written for other artists was amazing, and now she was striking out on her own. Her name was Carole King.
Something about Carole moved me beyond the feelings I had for other performers I’d seen—even, dare I say, Carly. Her raspy voice, her peasanty looks—she seemed so down to earth, so heartfelt. She was definitely a “Natural Woman.” As a review of the concert I read in the Los Angeles Times put it, “she is very capable of transmitting a chill with the clarity and honesty of her songs.” My chillometer was on high.
Four months later Carole released Tapestry; an immediate hit, it shot to number one on the charts and stayed there for fifteen weeks. In May she returned to the Troubadour as the headliner, and Greg and I went to see her seven times. Replacing Molly as my sidekick, Greg joined me as we tried to sneak up to Carole’s dressing room, but there were always men guarding her door.
That wasn’t about to stop me.
The Tuesday after Sunday’s closing night show, we were sitting in Greg’s kitchen eating the buttery, doughy balls dusted with powdered sugar that his grandmother always baked—since her last name was Sapperstein, we called them “Sappho cookies.” That
’s when inspiration struck.
“Do you have two empty notebooks?” I asked, wiping the powdered sugar off my chin.
“I think so. Come on.” Greg got up from the table and sashayed toward his faux knotty-pine bedroom. He found two empty binders that lay on a shelf in a dusty pile next to the complete set of Anaïs Nin’s diaries. We each cut out a picture of Carole from a music magazine and glued it to the cover of our binders.
“What are we doing?” he asked, rubbing the extra glue off the edges of his picture into little balls.
“THE KING CASE,” I declared. “Only we can’t write that on the cover. Our covert operation could be exposed. We have till the end of summer to accomplish our mission.”
“Uhh…Just what is our mission?” Greg asked.
“We find Carole King and become friends with her.”
THE KING CASE
Tuesday, May 25, 1971, 5:00 p.m. PST–Sunday, June 13
The last few weeks before summer vacation!! YIPPEE!! Greg and I have been doing research on Carole at the library and newsstands (writing down info from music mags). Too bad I can’t get school credit—I’m working way harder on this than any homework I’ve ever done!! HA! We’ve found out that Carole King was born Carole Klein, in Brooklyn, and she wrote some of the ’60s greatest hits with her husband (#1), Gerry Goffin. I’ve compiled a complete discography of every song she’s ever written (in a separate notebook—too long to put in here). I also wrote letters to her old record labels, using a fake name. Example:
Queen of the Oddballs Page 4