Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up

by Des Barres, Pamela

  III

  I certainly wasn’t getting one at home. I still held down various nutty jobs, drove Michael everywhere, took care of the finances, the household, the bills, the meals, and the pets. And despite the fact that I loved Michael madly, our sex life had gradually diminished through the years, seemingly to the point of no return. It stung me to have to admit that he might not find me desirable anymore. I hadn’t let myself go, in fact, I took such good care of myself, it bordered on an Estée Lauder nightmare. I agonized about what to do about the situation, almost deciding to accept the chilly fact that after a certain period of time the mystery and excitement in a romantic relationship turns mundane and ordinary. You get to know each other too well to dredge up the former wild lust that used to rack your body like an orgasmic spasm at the mere thought of your beloved’s crotch area. I almost accepted this notion, but the fading image of an earlier me, prancing down the Sunset Strip, headed for a horny liaison, titties bouncing, wriggling all over—a sexual creature personified—kept me from accepting this atrocious, all-too-commonplace syndrome. I had fought hard for the right to my sexuality for too long to give in, give up, and get old. I had previously casually mentioned to Michael that I missed our horny closeness but was met with a noncommittal shrug, and since confrontation of any kind was nearly impossible for me, let alone a possible maelstrom of stamped-down passion, I used my straight-laced Virgo power and swept the concept under the already worn-out rug. And life, as they say, went on.

  Nothing will stay under that rug forever, so I forced myself to step into the deep end one night after Michael and I turned out the lights. I so much wanted to capture that faint heartbeat of waning desire before it became extinct like the sixties flower child, but after I attempted to seduce my husband and was rebuffed like a pesky gnat, I fell into a comalike lethargy and resigned. Checked out. I lay there in the dark room, shaking all over with a mixture of female embarrassment, disgust at myself, and loathing for Michael as he slept unpeacefully on the other side of the bed-chasm, filled to the brim with his own private angst. The next morning was like a death rattle. I lumped around making coffee and heating bran muffins until Michael decided to deal bravely with the issue. He said part of the reason he wasn’t able to feel aroused was because I came to bed with cream smeared on my face and wearing an old T-shirt, and it was a turn-off. I told him the cream kept me looking young and pretty, but he swore it was the culprit. That night I dolled up in lingerie and lipstick, went to bed with rust-colored cheekbones, and we made love like hot, wicked strangers. The next glorious night he carried me up the stairs in my lace baby-doll like Rhett Butler gone mad—and then it was over. Even though I tried to entice him with two different sets of garter belts, everything went back to “normal” after those two blissful, naughty nights. I floated on air and then landed back on Wonderland Avenue with a loud, ugly thud. If we just could have grabbed that moment and gone to a sex shrink. If he could have told me the other part of the reason he wasn’t able to feel aroused. If I had tried to make him tell me. If I had gone to a blasted Al-Anon meeting. If, if, if.

  Getting sober hadn’t improved Michael’s midnight moodiness either. At one point he had to take some penicillin for an unnamed reason, and was allergic to the shot. His rear end where the needle entered bulked up like a shiny red rubber ball, then his poor penis swelled up to the size of an Oscar Meyer weeniemobile, and he was entirely miserable. I played super-nurse and listened to his blustering outrage at being chosen by those sadistic powers that be for this hideous affliction, and I understood, I really did. It was a grotesque situation, but there was nothing I could do to make him feel better. I trundled around, trying to make him more comfortable, but I was a helpless buffoon in the face of this blasphemy. To top it right off, he was feeding the cats and sliced his pinkie finger almost to the bone, and when it got infected and oozy, he was so on-fire infuriated I thought he would combust and disappear in a puff of self-induced smoke.

  March 30—It’s been mesmerizingly crushing around here lately. Michael’s persona is so gigantic and strong anyway that when he’s got any kind of physical or mental problem, it’s like having ten people around with the problem. And it’s me who takes up the excess, of which there is a ton. It would be easier for me to sympathize, empathize, and be tender if he could accept the pain for what it is and not put labels all over himself. It’s been so hard on me. (I know how hard it’s been on him—he suffers harder than most, like everything he does.) But I, in fact, could be called the victim in this case. I really do my best. I have no time for myself, with most energies directed toward Michael, and of course, Nicky (who is going through some very weird changes). I really feel “put upon,” knowing, of course, through Science of Mind that I put myself right where I am. Sometimes I have trouble with that concept. How could I have anything to do with a penicillin shot Michael got? I suppose it’s my attitude about the situation. I say positive affirmations over and over again to keep going, but where is my creativity? I push out the negative thoughts, but where is the success and joy? I am happy with a large part of my life, but there is a lack—and I’m not even supposed to think that. Oh, Lordy, I need to get the creative me out of the shadows. I’m just not up to peak. (I’m not supposed to say that either.) I don’t allow myself to be clear and work from my center, and then I’m guilty about it. AAAaaaHHH! I miss my great big daddy.

  In that desperate diary entry I told a humongous truth: I saw myself as a victim. Even though I was attempting to slog through the obvious crappy situation to the best of my flailing ability, I wasn’t going to get very far by seeing myself as a stooge. It was like finally coming across the Door, and finding no knob, latch, handle, or keyhole. By seeing myself as being victimized, I threw away any power, any strength I might have been trying to create directly onto the dung heap. Also, I seemed to think my creativity was playing hide-and-seek with me somewhere out in the murky shadows. Somewhere out there, somewhere outside myself. Somewhere over the fucking rainbow. Come out, come out, wherever you are, you peek-a-boo bitch. I’m down on my knees, begging you please, to come home.

  IV

  To complicate the brewing nightmare even further, my little boy was starting to have serious problems at preschool. It was almost time for kindergarten, and anything he might have learned in ABC Land was history to him already. If the rest of the world didn’t see things his way, he just didn’t understand and either flipped his tiny lid, ranting and seething, or went into a doomy funk that lasted way too long for such a little guy. Michael and I took him back to UCLA, where we found out he was (gulp) “gifted,” and needed (oh no) “special attention.” I remember walking down a long corridor with a bespectacled serious science type. Peering over her glasses, she said, “Mrs. Des Barres, I think you should know your son is one in twenty thousand.” Interesting odds, lady. What do you say to that? What was I supposed to do about it? Nicky went into therapy once a week with a genuinely sweet graduate student named Cynthia, who tried in vain to figure out why he was so intense. He never opened up to her, preferring to stay petrified and withdrawn all by himself. He had started to say “I hate myself,” and “I wish I was dead,” when the teensiest little thing went wrong. He paid too much attention to fine details, and if they didn’t go according to his plan, all Hades broke loose. He kicked and bawled and banged his head on the floor. The drawings that had once given him so much pleasure and satisfaction now tormented him unless they were perfect. He shredded his artwork if it didn’t measure up and then went into a wild rage or catatonic despair. He became agonizingly shy, he began to stutter, and I fluttered around him like fifteen confused mother hens. Sometimes his adorable cherubic glory shined through and his ever-expanding vocabulary would amaze all our friends, but I knew something was severely amiss, and I could hardly bear it. He took piano lessons with our friend, Prescott Niles from the Knack, he treasured the KISS records given to him by Gene Simmons, playing them over and over, memorizing each lick. But his little brow was always
furrowed, his shoulders bent. I asked him one day what his biggest problem was, and he looked straight at me and said, “The state of the world.”

  How did this happen? Miss Goody Two Shoes, Pollyanna, cutesiepoo, Snow White, Minnie Mouse, heart-lady had a stunning little blond boy with a head full of deep, dark, dangerous thoughts, and he wasn’t even five years old! Could the tragic Des Barres lineage have anything to do with Nick’s complex and unruly confusion? Could there be some genetic factor contributing to his early self-doubt and sadness? If so, what then? Michael and I were both at a loving loss to comprehend the seemingly fathomless depth of our little boy’s pain. What did his worry stem from? I had been a big worry-wort as a kid, remembering my fanatic pangs of all-consuming grief about the “Big C,” but Nick’s inner torment seemed vast and impenetrable. I tucked him in at night and his eyes said “Mommy, help me,” but I couldn’t get in.

  I watched him sleep; the sweetest platinum-haired angel boy that was ever born, and prayed so hard for him to be happy. My pillow was soaked in tears, and once again I beseeched all the holy saints who had helped to make Michael sober to smile on my innocent son. I’d always had a very hard time saying no. I thought that if I kept saying, “No, you can’t do this, you can’t do that,” it would be too much negative input and might squelch his free-flying soul. And now I doted on Nicky like Abraham Lincoln had never freed the slaves, hoping that by my drenching him in attention, flooding him with love, and doing everything for him, he would regain his sunny, lamblike babyhood grin and enjoy life like I did. I still put on his socks and tied his shoes. I bought him whatever he wanted; anything to give him a few moments of little-kid pleasure and to see his eyes shine.

  Remember that dumb line about a baby not being born with a guide book? I truly wish one had been included with the merchandise.

  V

  Consumed as I was with taking care of Michael and Nicky, about all I was doing for little old me was working out, an obsession I found I could parlay into always-needed cash. I started teaching exercise part-time with my friend Buddy, using those machines I had first discovered with Kim Lee; the ones that helped me tighten that baby flab I had acquired along with Nicky. I also cleaned the studio in exchange for free use of the wondrous machinery. One spring evening I was hard at work, making sure Ted Danson and Marilu Henner were tightening their abs as hard as they could, when Buddy blasted through the studio door carrying a thin black puppy in his perfect pumped-up arms. “Look what I found about to get killed on Sunset Boulevard!”

  The large puppy romped directly at me, wagging all over, and grinned like I was covered in Alpo. It was double love at first sight, so I surprised the entire household with a fabulous new pet! Blanche and Harry, our mother and son cats were definitely not amused, but Michael accepted her right away, and Stevie and Nick puppied her to pieces, so she was instantly spoiled. We called her Sunset Nellie Blue, and she was the first dog who ever spoke to me. I could get her to make sounds just like a whining, whimpering, happy human by rubbing her tummy in a certain spot. It was uncanny. Steve took a particular shine to Nellie, and she always sat all over him like a lapdog even though she eventually weighed thirty pounds and we found out she was mostly pit bull.

  This divine canine addition to our lives forced us to leave Vista Street in a hurry. Apparently our lease said no dogs, and besides, now that Nick was way past the baby stage, Mrs. Finagle had lost her goo-goo interest in him. Once again I pored through the classifieds and cruised the streets, finally coming across a two-story winner at the top of Wonderland Avenue in Laurel Canyon. Aah! the glory of God’s golden backyard once again!

  We all moved into the tree-shaded retreat a couple weeks later; Mikie, me, and Nick, Steve Jones with his girlfriend, Nina, and of course, Nellie and the cats, Harry and Blanche, who headed for the hills in ecstasy. The lease came with a warning: The house was for sale and could be bought at any minute. But the idea of living in Laurel Canyon far outweighed that looming possibility. Nicky started first grade at Wonderland Avenue School, right down the street, skipping kindergarten altogether for obvious reasons, and I became school mom, attending PTA meetings, baking cupcakes and dumb casseroles for various functions, trying really hard to fit in, so that he might fit in. Maybe we could all make a fabulous fresh new start!

  CHAPTER NINE

  I

  Having unfamiliar cupboards and closets, different color walls and tiles in the kitchen makes you feel like something new is going on, and this time we were surrounded by layers and layers of green; Mother Nature was our neighbor on all sides. Overly optimistic (is there such a thing?) as usual, I felt the promise of a new day dawning! Good things were about to happen! The only way was up! Up the long and winding, scalding green hill of Wonderland Avenue.

  Two things happened right about this time to confirm my heartening suspicions: I started a writing course at Everywoman’s Village, a lib-type ladies’ school in the Valley that specialized in yanking out artistic female expression, and I got a call from dear Danny Goldberg about setting up an interview with a friend of his who was writing a book on Led Zeppelin.

  The class consisted of me and six other frustrated ladies looking for an outlet, a way to express themselves. PLEASE. The wonderfully eccentric teacher who wore long gray braids and Indian print skirts, set an orange on the table and asked us to describe it in three paragraphs. She had us write a three-page sentence, using no punctuation, and then concoct a poem about the death of a pet. Our last assignment was to take a day out of our past and bring it to life. I relished this one and wrote two and a half pages about the day I waited in that long, teen-scream line to see the Rolling Stones back in ’65. The teacher flipped her wonderfully eccentric lid, and on the last day of class told me I was really onto something. She encouraged me to continue with my story, adding that she enjoyed my “voice.” I didn’t even know I had a voice, so this was spectacular news indeed. Then Stephen Davis, who was about to wreck the rep of Zep by writing Hammer of the Gods, came to the pad in Laurel Canyon to quiz Michael on the heaviest, most enigmatic of rock bands and to pick my brain for titillating groupie stories. He turned out to be a very charming, easygoing gentleman and the source of some excellent advice for me. “Hold on to your stories,” he insisted. “Don’t tell them to anybody until you’re ready to tell them for yourself.” He also suggested that I get a cowriter and gave me a couple of names. I had to lie down on the couch after Stephen left and stare at the blank ceiling for twenty minutes to contemplate the vast implication: A published author and a writing teacher both thought my little tale was important enough to tell.

  So I finally plugged up the negative holes so those mischief-making doubts couldn’t get through and poked through the dusty, musty, slanted rays in Mom’s garage, looking for the old gargantuan box of diaries/journals. I went way, way back into my past, starting with the first diary I ever wrote at age ten. Mom had stuck the blue, plastic Deb-U-Teen in my stocking for Christmas, and I felt obliged to write in it dutifully every day:

  January 1—Dear Diary, I watched the Rose Parade. After it was over, Harvellee came over to play ball and with balloons. She is a poor sport, she was grouchy. For dinner I had steak, mash potatoes, and Marvo-Mix. Well, so long.

  March 16—Today the teacher read our grades. I let down on four subjects. I was very sad after school. I went to Iva’s and we traded comics. I was reading Little Lulu before I wrote in you.

  April 2—I stayed home from school and watched Our Miss Brooks, Amos and Andy and many more. Lassie was fed some poisoned meat by a mean little girl; she made Lassie lose the race. She got sick right in the middle of it. I got some M&Ms. I picked one up off the ground and ate it. It wasn’t dirty.

  June 10—I had to dance with Jonathan for the square dance, and I had “Jonathan and Pamela” written on my leg, so I went down on the floor and hid it, but before I did that I wiped as much off as I could. I wish he would kiss me on the mouth. Guess what? Harvellee and I made up a new style: one braid
and one pony tail. We wore it to school today.

  October 26—I was talking to Daddy in a funny language like Donald Duck. Boy, did he laugh. After school, I tried Harvellee’s paper doll’s doll clothes on her paper doll, then she chased me all over trying to touch the pink dots on my chest. I ran. My parakeet Sunny is sick.

  December 12—Sunny died of cancer in his liver. Cancer had eaten his liver away. I was really crying. Gosh, when I was trying to get him to take a bath a month ago, stupid ol’ cancer was eating Sunny’s liver up. I always look at the cage he was in and cry.

  The Big C again. And if sinless, little budgies can get it, can children get it? And what about Harvellee? On top of being a poor sport, she tried to touch the pink dots on my chest on more than one occasion. I would fend her off, using Barbie’s pointy toes as a sword and call to my mom for help, but when she came running into my room with a dish towel in her hands, Harvellee’s halo appeared like wide-eyed, innocent-kid magic every time. Even her freckles glowed.

  After getting filthy with prehistoric garage grime, I found the ragged box full of the dumb notes about boys, passed back and forth in school. I found my goofy, pained adolescent poetry, so proud of myself for saving every scrap of that teen nonsense for posterity. I came across many crucial, babbling documents—a dreamy wish-letter written to me from me with someone else’s signature: