No Lifeguard on Duty

by Janice Dickinson

  One night we were out to dinner with a few people, including that Italian film director and his beautiful wife, a celebrated actress. The director was across the table from me, and he could see that I was in a foul mood. I kept pestering Alberto, and he began to treat me like a child. “What do you want?” he snapped. “You sit there and whine and demand my attention, and when I ask what you want you don’t know.”

  “I want you to pay attention to me. That’s all.”

  “I’m supposed to just look at you?”

  “You can talk to me,” I suggested. “Or try smiling with your eyes.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t know. Anything.”

  “Let me know when you figure it out,” he said, popped his cigar back in his mouth, and turned his back.

  Suddenly I felt something jabbing my knee. I looked down. It was a foot. The director’s foot. He had taken off his shoe and was holding a slip of paper between his toes. I took the slip of paper, discreetly, and unfolded it next to my plate. “Meet me in the bathroom,” it said. I crumpled up the paper and tried not to look at him, then I got up and made my way to the bathroom. Alberto didn’t even notice. The director got up a few moments later and met me in the corridor, near the rest rooms.

  “I want you,” he said.

  “Take a number,” I said.

  “No, I’m serious. I need to see you. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to Rome tomorrow. I’m doing a shoot for Italian Vogue.”

  “Rome is perfect! I know a marvelous little church in Rome. Nobody knows about it.” Then he went on to tell me that I should meet him there at noon sharp, as the bells were tolling. And that he wanted me to dress like a nun.

  “You’re crazy,” I said.

  “Don’t let me down,” he said.

  I went back to the table and sat down and told Alberto I wanted to leave. “So leave,” he said. He was having a good time. He blew cigar smoke in the air and reached for his cognac. I got up and went outside. There was a beautiful red Ferrari in front of the restaurant, with the keys in the ignition. I got in and drove away. I looked in the rearview mirror. The poor valet chased me halfway down the block.

  I didn’t know what I was doing. I half-expected the police to come after me. But I knew Alberto would fix it. Money fixes everything. (Well, almost everything.) I turned toward home, but then changed my mind and made my way to the autostrada. I decided I would drive to Rome, and I did. Like a maniac. In high style.

  I reached Le Grand Hotel before daybreak and left the Ferrari a block away.

  “You are early, Miss Dickinson,” the clerk noted.

  “Yes,” I said. “Is my room ready?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll have someone show you the way. Any bags?”

  “None,” I said. “But I need a favor. Could you wake me at ten? And would you be good enough to find me a good costume shop.”

  “A costume shop?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A costume shop. You know. To dress up. We Americans do that from time to time.”

  “I know this!” he said. “It is Halloween already, yes?”

  “For some people it is.”

  They woke me at ten and I had breakfast and took a cab to the costume shop. It was a dank, musky place. The old woman who ran it found an antique nun’s outfit in the storage room. It was clean but needed a good pressing. She took care of it. I tried it on. It was a little big and she did what she could on such short notice and I wore it out into the street and flagged down a cab. I gave the driver the name of the church but he didn’t know it. We lost our way and went around in circles until an old man told us he knew the church and pointed us in the right direction. I paid the cabdriver and got out and went through the heavy front doors. There was no one there. It was beautiful inside. And deathly still. It was like a cathedral that had been shrunk down to manageable size: grand but small, if you know what I mean. My footfalls echoed on the marble floor. The bells began to toll. I looked at my watch. It was twelve on the button.

  At that moment, the heavy doors opened and a priest entered. I looked away, embarrassed, afraid of getting caught. I thought, If he talks to me, I’ll tell him I’m an American nun. If he asks me to explain my vestments, I’ll tell him I belong to an old Italian order of nuns who make their home in Brooklyn and believe in having a good time.

  The priest began moving toward me.

  “Please,” he said. His voice was familiar. I turned. It was my friend the director, also in disguise. With a theatrical sweep of the hand, he indicated the confessional. This looked like it might be fun. I got into my side of the confessional. He got into his. I could see him through the latticework. He slid back the small panel.

  “I’m listening, child,” he said. He was very serious. He was really into it.

  “I’ve been bad, Father.”

  “How have you been bad?”

  “Oh Father, I’ve been bad in every way it’s possible to be bad. I wouldn’t know where to begin. We’d have to go away for a weekend just to get through the first few chapters of my badness.”

  “Perhaps that can be arranged.”

  “So you’re one of those priests,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I want to fuck you.”

  “Oh heavenly Father!”

  He left the confessional and came round to my side and helped me out. I followed him through the empty church to a small alcove in back, and he lifted my robes and fucked me against the cold stone walls.

  “You’re a dirty slut,” he said.

  “Yes, I am,” I said. (But I make a pretty good nun.)

  He drove me back to the hotel after we were done, and as we were pulling up we saw Alberto getting out of a cab. I ducked down and he sped past and parked around the corner. I was still wearing my nun’s outfit. I told my priestly friend I would see him later and got out and hurried back to the hotel.

  Alberto was still in the lobby. He turned as I came in, and his jaw dropped.

  “Janice!”

  “Hello, Alberto. What are you doing here?”

  I walked across the lobby to the bar. He followed me, still in shock, his mouth still open.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I’m thinking of joining a convent,” I said. I reached the bar and ordered a Bellini. There were few people at the bar at that early hour, but even a blind man would notice a nun at a bar, drinking. They stared. The bartender stared. He set the flute in front of me.

  “Janice, I asked you a question.” Alberto was in serious daddy mode.

  “Now you’re paying attention to me?” I said, and kicked back the Bellini like a truck driver. I looked out the window: They were towing the Ferrari.

  He told me his friend the actress was worried about her husband. “She thinks something is going on with you two.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I came to Rome dressed like a nun and fucked him in a little church about a mile from here.”

  “Janice!”

  “He was dressed as a priest. With no underwear.”

  “You are making me very angry,” he said.

  “Well, I have news for you, Alberto. I don’t give a shit.”

  It was over.

  By the end of the month, I was gone.

  Milan was history.

  CITY OF ANGELS

  In 1988, at the age of thirty-three, I moved to Los Angeles. I wanted a fresh start. I wanted to reinvent myself. And I’d been told Los Angeles was just the place for it.

  I moved in with my flamboyant friend Angelo DiBiaso, a hugely successful hairdresser. He was a big favorite with the rock stars. David Bowie, Duran Duran, even my old pal Mr. Jagger, all availed themselves of his talent. Angelo took me everywhere with him. He showed me the city and introduced me to his friends.

  Meanwhile, I buckled down and got to work. Or tried to, anyway. I heard about a bathing suit shoot in Maui and really lobbied for it. I didn’t get it. Then there was a shoot in Ojai�
��I could’ve driven there; it’s a lousy hour and a half from L.A.—but I didn’t get that, either.

  One morning I was flipping through Playboy—God only knows what Angelo was doing with a copy of Playboy—and came across a spread of Elle McPherson, shot by Herb Ritts. That should have been me, I thought. But I knew I was kidding myself. Elle looking fucking great. I wondered if my best days were behind me—in terms of modeling, anyway—and the thought filled me with terror. I signed up for acting classes and yoga, went on long hikes in the surrounding mountains. I tried to fill every minute of every day so that I’d go to bed exhausted, and sleep sweet, dreamless sleep. It worked, sometimes. But the truth is, I was going through withdrawal. I had become addicted to seeing myself in magazines and on billboards and smiling at the world from the sides of buses; addicted to the spotlight. Suddenly I didn’t have that anymore, and I felt lost and empty. I needed validation. Don’t we all?

  One morning, Angelo and I were having breakfast at Hugo’s, on Santa Monica Boulevard, when he indicated a man across the restaurant. “That’s Simon Fields,” he said. “He runs a big production company. They do lots of videos. You should get to know him.”

  Simon looked up at that very moment. He was paying his bill. Angelo waved. Simon left some money on his table and came over. He smiled at me. He had a big gap between his front teeth, like Alfred E. Newman.

  “Hi, Simon,” Angelo said. “This is my friend Janice Dickinson.”

  We exchanged numbers. He was very sweet. He called me the next night and asked me to dinner. He gave me directions to his house and cooked a fantastic meal. I think I fell in love before we got to the main course. Yeah. I know. It’s crazy. But that was the pathology. I couldn’t be without a man. I didn’t know who I was without a man. If I wasn’t being wanted, loved, ached over, fought with—well, I just plain didn’t exist at all.

  And Simon fell in love right back (though he probably waited until after dessert). He was wonderful, witty, funny, whip-smart, and immensely talented. He was making videos for MTV: Madonna, Prince, Peter Gabriel, Michael Jackson, Rod Stewart, Paul McCartney. He had energy. He loved life. He was great. He made me feel great. We were great together. I was great.

  Four months later, lo and behold, I was pregnant.

  So I moved in with him, of course. And I started spinning out my future in my head. I was going to have a family, the one I’d always dreamed of. I loved the way my body began to change. I loved the feeling of life growing inside me. I started developing breasts and hips. I stopped drinking and smoking. I wouldn’t eat a lousy hot dog because I thought the nitrates might harm my beautiful little baby. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t smooth sailing every day. When those hormones kicked in—get back, motherfucker! I was the Devil, disguised as a lovely, glowing, pregnant woman. But I always came back, became the glowing pregnant woman again. I was giddy with happiness. My jaw ached from smiling. I laughed out of context all the time. And I cried a lot. For no reason. For every reason. For the life ahead of me. For the life I was leaving behind. For the life inside me. Those fucking hormones. Still, when all is said and done, I felt completely right about everything for the first time in my life. This was it. This is what it was all about. Motherhood. Children. Family.

  MY GOOD FRIEND LIONEL GEORGE AND MY BRIDEGROOM, SIMON, AT OUR WEDDING.

  PREPARING FOR THE WEDDING WITH DEBBIE. I LOVE MY SISTER.

  On the appointed day, Simon and I were in the hospital together, having our baby. Or trying to, anyway. It was the most painful experience of my life. I was in labor for twenty-three hours. I couldn’t stop screaming and cursing. (Think of The Exorcist—on crack.) Our son, Nathan, refused to come out. I began to think that some sixth sense was telling him I was going to make a lousy mother. In the end, the nurse was practically sitting on my stomach, and the doctor was down between my legs, with some kind of suction pump. And then—there he was! A little baby boy! In my arms. He was gorgeous. His little lips were searching for my wonderful big new tits. He was crawling around on my belly, groping, mewling, trying to find his way, when, boom!—our eyes met and I started to cry. I just lost it. Completely. I had never felt love like that in my life. Right then and there I swore I would give Nathan everything I had been denied. “Thank you,” I told Simon, still blubbering. “You’ve made me the happiest woman in the world.” God. Taking him home. What an experience! We’d bought the regulation car seat and everything, like they told us to, and an orderly came to fetch me with a wheelchair. It was hospital policy. I sat down, holding my tiny baby in my arms. Simon walked beside us to the elevator, and down the corridor to the exit. I looked up at him, the good wife. He was beaming his proud-papa beam. People looked and nodded and smiled. Life is good, motherfucker! I was so in love! With my child, my husband, the whole fucking world.

  We got to the car and strapped the baby in and pulled away, and I began crying in earnest.

  “What are you crying about?” Simon said. “This is a great moment. You should be happy.”

  “I am happy. I’ve never been happier in my life!”

  Motherhood. I was so in love with Nathan. I couldn’t stop taking his picture. That’s all I did all day. Love him and shoot his picture and glow. I’d glow when I drove him to the market. I’d glow when people stopped me on the street to tell me how beautiful he was. I glowed when he laughed and glowed when he cried and glowed when he shat. It’s a fucking miracle I didn’t short-circuit from all that glowing.

  My mother came to visit. She cooed at Nathan and talked about the Good Lord and his mysterious ways and I didn’t hear a word. I was so besotted with Nathan that the world didn’t exist. There was only Nathan and me: The rest didn’t matter. Certainly my mother and her problems didn’t matter. She sat there in our house in Beverly Hills, a house that had once belonged to Liz Taylor, crotcheting a little blanket for Nathan and talking about the rat bastard. He’s very sick, she said. His heart is bad, she said. He has Alzheimer’s. “Sometimes I come home and he doesn’t recognize me and beats me.”

  Hello! He beats you when he does recognize you. But I bit my tongue and rocked my baby boy.

  “Why don’t you call him?” she said. “He’d love to hear from you.”

  “Look at my little Nathan,” I said, not hearing her, not wanting to hear her. “Isn’t he the most wonderful creature in the world?”

  She started filling me in about “our Alexis,” who had become addicted to anything even remotely connected to self-help and self-improvement. Yoga. Meditation. EST. Rolfing. Actualization therapy. Deep colonics. God. And about “our Debbie,” who’d fallen madly in love with Mohammed Khashoggi, who plied her with rich food and champagne and caviar and surrounded her with fawning servants. They were always on the go. If Mohammed heard that a new restaurant in Cannes had just been awarded three stars in the Michelin guide, they’d hop into his jet and be there in time for dinner.

  THE GREAT NATE!

  I didn’t speak much to either of my sisters in those days. We each had lives of our own, clearly, and we all struggled with the usual sibling rivalries. Debbie had been a great model in her own right, but I think she’d lost patience with me. She stopped returning my calls. And Alexis lived in another world. She was growing vegetables and painting and sculpting with glass, and I was in Hollywood, being a Hollywood wife and mother—though definitely not in that order—and I guess we didn’t have a lot in common.

  “It’s a pity you girls don’t talk much anymore,” Mom said.

  “Well,” I said. “I try.” But that wasn’t true. I didn’t try at all. I was just as wrapped up in my shit as they were in theirs.

  Finally Mom went home and Simon and I went back to our happy lives. Well, I was happy. I can’t speak for Simon. But then his father got sick and died. I felt awful about it. Simon had actually loved his father, been close to him. I wished the reaper had taken my father instead.

  Within six months, I was pregnant again.

  “I don’t want another child,” Simon
said. I’d heard that before, and it wasn’t getting better with age.

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t fucking cope right now, Janice. My father is dead and I’m feeling lost and I just fucking can’t, okay?”

  No, not okay; not really. “Don’t make me have an abortion,” I begged. “It’s going to make me resent you.”

  “We’re not having another baby,” he said.

  So I had the abortion. And I began to resent him. I knew myself pretty well by that point.

  I was unhappy. And very restless. I’d get out of bed in the morning and wouldn’t know what to do with myself. I needed something, but I didn’t know what. And then one day I was climbing out of the bathtub, and I looked in the mirror, and I realized that my big lovely tits were gone. And I thought, If I can’t have another kid, maybe I should at least buy myself a pair of new tits. I mean, Christ—I deserved a little something.

  So I lined up the best tit-man in town. And weeks later, there I was, ready for my state-of-the-art 36-C rad puppies. Getting wheeled into surgery, already groggy with anesthetic. And I remembered the rat bastard telling me I looked like a boy. And all I could think was, Just you wait.

  Within weeks I was working again, as both a model and a photographer. I went to Antigua and did a shoot for a Chesterfield cigarettes campaign. I took Nathan and the nanny. It was great. I could have it all, after all!

  I came back and Billy Baldwin posed for me. I shot Matthew Modine. I shot Dylan McDermott and Randy Quaid. I shot Carre Otis. I shot Beverly Johnson for the cover of She. I shot myself, naked, for the cover of Photo. It was sensational. I got a call from one of the top photo agencies, Sygma, asking if they could represent me. I said I’d think about it.

  I shot a famous actress, who arrived late and proceeded to behave like a complete bitch. “Hey!” I shouted. “I was a bigger bitch than you could ever hope to be. Now shut the fuck up and get to work.” Her jaw dropped, but she didn’t say a word. The rest of the shoot went beautifully, and we became great friends. (And, no—I won’t rat her out; you’ll have to guess.)