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

by Des Barres, Pamela

  During the drive home from Pico, I realized that Sandra gave me a strange, all-over buzzy feeling. She certainly challenged my mind, bypassing the funny bone, making my head sort of sting with the way she pushed, prodded, so accurate in her throttling assessment of humanity. I loved the way she looked, long and angular, with a big-lipped Jaggeresque pouty quality, a direct, sexy gaze. What was this feeling? Could it be? Was I aroused? Nah . . .

  Mitch called to invite me to Sandra’s opening off-off-Broadway, Without You I’m Nothing, and I was going to be in Manhattan staying with Melanie, taping a couple more TV shows, and meeting with Rolling Stone about the review I wanted to write of Jackie Collins’s Rock Star. You know something’s happening, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Ms. Collins. So rude.

  Melanie was my date for the evening, and we settled in our center seats as the lights went down. It was jam-packed, opening night. Sandra used and abused her audience. When she spotted me, she announced, “I have Pamela Des Barres here tonight, to see me, and she’s definitely coming backstage later.” The spotlight lingered on my blushing face while she laughed. I wore a three-piece suit and red tie that my daddy wore back in ’51, and I was a nervous ruin. Why? After the finale where she stripped down to forties underwear, singing “Little Red Corvette,” I did meet her backstage, where she held my hand, proudly introduced me to her band and whispered the address of the party in my ear. Melanie had to go home because she was shooting early, so I went alone and undaunted into that wild, black New York night.

  The club was a frenetic madhouse, and I smacked straight into Richard Gere with two ravishing goddesses on each arm. I introduced myself and he didn’t care. I got a couple of stiff drinks and knocked them back fast. I was going to tell Sandra about this unusual heat she seemed to be generating inside my skull and in other surprising areas. My heart raced, revving like a wayward engine when I spotted her lounging in an antique velvet chair with a few other people, exultant, whooping it up. She grabbed hold of me, I sat on her lap, flirted with her. Where was this coming from? She raised her eyebrows in a question. What? She enjoyed it, she was amused by it. Why not? I touched her silky curls, bent to her ear, “I find that I have a wild crush on you,” I said rakishly while fireworks went off somewhere down deep where I was born female. She looked in my face, people were pulling on her, needing her attention, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra! and she said, “Why don’t we have brunch tomorrow? I’ll call you.”

  April 1, 1988—I was rummed out, so told Sandra I had a crush on her. Uh-oh. Can’t tell you the incredible fantasies I’ve had, SO unusual and I don’t know why it’s happening. She touches me and I go wild. We’re having brunch today and I’m a dribbling wreck. Kind of a new concept. Please, let me calm down.

  April 3—I’m gone over Sandra, I feel like we share some binding karma—lovers that kept being torn apart—hundreds of years ago. I was almost asleep last night and saw her as a beautiful black-haired young man with a moustache. To have a brand-new feeling at thirty-nine is so cool. So, sweet lunch—shedding layers, pretty comfortable right away. I was telling her how all men are bums and she enlightened me that it’s not a gender thing. She’s so real and warm, brilliant of course, and majorly vulnerable.

  That night Sandra, along with her girl drummer, met Melanie and me at Cafe Columbus, where we sat with Paul Sorvino in heated disagreement with just about everything he blustered about. He was mightily pissed off that night. Robert De Niro was at the next table and when Melanie introduced us, he raised his head slightly and mumbled, “Uh . . . hello.” I guess he didn’t remember me from the time Chuck Wein tried to offer him the two-bit second lead in that A+ movie, Arizonaslim—in which one of his lines would have been “A stiff dick has no brains.” After half a drink at the Beekman Tower bar, he told Chuck he would think it over, then went on to do Godfather II. I didn’t really expect him to remember me.

  The table was full, it was a tight squeeze, so Sandra pulled her chair in next to me and I could feel her thigh pushing against mine. The busy, dizzy hubbub went on around me, Mr. Sorvino’s action-packed monologue continued unabated, lots of witty, gritty girl rapping at the table, and I shook. Nobody noticed except Sandra. “Is something the matter, baby?” she asked, searching my trapped eyes. Baby. Baby? Does she call everybody that? I told her I was feeling a little strange and gave her a long, searing gaze. What was coming over me? I could tell her drummer was trying to figure me out. My crush was that apparent—nothing but a clear picture window in front of me, with no shades or curtains. Even Melanie gave me a quizzical look.

  We all shared a cab home, and when Melanie and I got out, Sandra embraced me briefly, tightly, grazing my lips with her own.

  April 4—. . . I gave her my book, inscribed “To Sandra—the only girl I’ve ever had a crush on,” she was almost speechless. I’m so blatantly hetero, but I kept wanting to get close to her. We had a major hug and kiss, just a heartbeat longer than it should have been. What a turn of events. I just had a naughty, steamy session with myself, thinking about her. I’m wild.

  I called her the next day, needing to let her know I had been walking around in a daze with her name on it. It seemed to make her feel good, but she replied, “I don’t know what to say,” then asked me, “Why now?,” meaning why all of sudden was I attracted to a woman? I said it was because of her, and I had no idea how or why myself, it was just there. My imagination was running rampant and I was determined to pull in the reins, knowing I had said too much, but I was almost functionless. She told me she had written me a letter but then torn it up. My frightening, instantaneous super-crush was clearly mightily confusing—to both of us.

  V

  Back in L.A. boys wanted to take me out, especially guys in their twenties who were intrigued with the “older woman” who still dressed and acted like a bohemian freak, the older woman who had written “that book.” Was I actually “dating”? I hadn’t been on a real date since 1965, when Bob Martine took me to the Teen Center to do the slauson and the frug. What we did in the sixties wasn’t dating. It was meeting at love-ins, clubs, concerts, and hanging out, rocking out, grooving with each other. There were very few rules, and nobody knew what time it was. The formality of knocking on the door at eight was nonexistent. But here I was, straddling the big 4-0, being taken to restaurants and movies by guys who were in their cradles when I was sweating a stream on the Whisky dance floor. I went out with a twenty-one-year-old guy who ran a club in Venice, but I realized all his moody silence was a cover-up for being boring; had a couple sushi encounters with an ex–coke dealer, twice reformed, all his dirty money invested in some sort of self-help lecture series. I let the machine pick up, sorry. Then I got all hot and bothered over a greasy-haired former skateboard champion, dangerous punk, bad boy who took me to his brother’s wedding on our second “date.” The theme of the wedding was a fifties kind of thing, and my bad boy was the only one there who was totally comfortable in his attire: rolled-up blue jeans, white T-shirt, black leather jacket. But he stood me up one too many times. How about that concept? Being stood up. What a nightmare! Standing around the house, all dressed up, while the baby-sitter keeps checking the clock for me at seven bucks an hour. Nick saying, “Mom, I thought you were going out?”

  This prompted me to take a look at my age-old penchant for punky, perilous troublemakers with the kind of cocksure attitude that could set off smoke detectors. I know it started with James Dean, that rebel of all rebels, the very first one without a cause. When I was growing up he represented all that was brave, rebellious, and true. He slouched, he suffered, he gazed out of his squint from a place of potent pain that I couldn’t even fathom. If I couldn’t fathom it, maybe I could fix it? Uh-uh. Not anymore. There is nothing worse than cocky pain for a woman who feels the need to fix it all up. I had to be strong. In a burst of growth, I stopped seeing this particular dangerous punk, but still saw HIM on occasion and tried not to dwell on Sandra Bernhard.

  But eventually I had to return to
New York on beeswax, and Sandra and I went out for a drink after her show, and in the bar I boldly tampered with her hair, stroked her fingertips, asked questions about her childhood, her family, her lovers. Still not knowing what to do with me, she rested her head on my shoulder and sighed. We walked back to her temporary Village pad, arm in arm, laughing, intimate, nervous. Her place was bright and blank; she hadn’t been there long. A bare bulb blazed into my flushed face as I sat down on the couch with her, awkward, clumsy, junior high school revisited. The melee of feelings I was having were big news to me, and I told her so. I nuzzled her in the glare of that blasted bulb, heart wrenching. If the lighting had been more pleasant and gentle the whole thing might have been different. I wanted to kiss her but couldn’t do it. She sat there stroking my leg, sort of humming to herself. Why didn’t she kiss me? I was a mass of thunderous heartbeats, momentarily deaf, dumb, and sightless. She got up to make tea and I followed her blindly, attempting to hold her to me, and she sweetly pushed away, held me at arm’s length against the stove, looking at me, leveling. “You love men! I know because I read your book! Remember how much you love men.” She was smiling at me. What could I say? I smiled back at her, silent, wanting to say so much, realizing I was right near the door—escape from rejection—so told her I’d better get going. As I slid back the lock, she held me from behind, kissed me on the neck, and told me how sweet I was. Breath caught in my throat, a panicky surge of desire moving through like a wagonload of spun glass. “See you soon, honey.” Honey. Did she call everybody that?

  I wandered around the Village very confused. It was late, my feet hurt in the high heels, I was chilled, I was cross-eyed. I went back to Melanie’s and everyone was in bed. I made a hot, hot cup of tea and contemplated, questioned, attempted to turn inward. I had been tied down for so long, a very married woman, out of commission, and now untethered, I floundered—bewildered, green, groping around on a constant blind date. I felt like my nerve endings were raw, on display. As I wrote when I was seventeen, about some wild Sunset Strip boy who wouldn’t give me the time of night, “Unrequited lust is worse, by far, by far, than unrequited love.” Even though that’s not exactly true, it sure feels savage when you’re going through it. And Sandra was right; I do love men. She is the only girl I ever really wanted. Of course, I’m not dead yet. Ha ha.

  So I took Sandra’s rejection on the chin. I took it like a woman. The next day I scoured thrift stores, antique markets, and lamp shops looking for a very special item for Sandra, finally finding exactly what I wanted from an old man going out of business on Christopher Street. On my way to the airport I dropped the present at the door to her apartment—half fearing, half hoping that she’d burst out and see me, bumbling and mumbling with my gaily wrapped gift, ribbons and bows in profusion. There was no word from her when I got back to L.A. so I had to bust down and call her. “So, did you get the present I left you?” “Oh, yes,” she said. “Thank you so much for that sweet little lampshade. It makes such a pretty glow in the room.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I

  The first thing I did when I got back to L.A. was to cash my very first—big!—royalty check and buy two tickets to Japan. Nick had always dreamed of going to Japan, his extreme fascination for everything Japanese having continued unabated. He was so excited, genuine joy spread across his face when I handed him the tickets, and it was worth all the tea in Kyoto. The day school let out (much to Nick’s relief), we boarded a bird for Tokyo, a twelve-hour flight, and Nick was the perfect child. No complaining, no demands—actual happiness! We put on our Japanese slippers, played cards, ate white rice with chopsticks, watched dumb movies, and tried in vain to sleep a little. He was so electrified by the time we arrived, I thought he would pass out with exhilarated expectation. Instantly at home, he seemed entirely comfortable on the wide, crowded streets. A serenity enveloped him that I had never seen before, a feeling of “fitting in” at last. The massive hustle-bustle madness of Tokyo somehow calmed him down.

  It was Nick’s holiday, so besides all the wonderful meditative times spent at Buddhist temples and calming moments in immaculate gardens, with white deer all around us, we spent tons of hours in modern techno malls, perusing the latest in video systems. He wound up getting the newest version of Famicom, the Japanese Nintendo, and several nutty games, all in Japanese, of course. He was already teaching himself the Japanese language and today is almost fluent. Pretty good timing.

  June 22—Mommy and Nicky are in Tokyo! Nick gets up every morning and makes me a cup of coffee in the little pot provided in our hotel room. We went to see the long row of rock bands today—all so loud, each clashing with the other—miles of giant James Dean pompadours, Kiss clones. Nick was especially curious about a punk band called Burst Head. Spent hours in Kiddieland, the biggest toy store in Japan. I just had a shrimp burger and a delicious, cheap cappuccino. It’s true that picture-perfect melons are a hundred dollars, but if you don’t hang out in touristland, prices aren’t bad. Yesterday Nick crawled through the nostril of the world’s biggest Buddha and is supposed to get tons of good luck. Maybe we’ll find the perfect school in the fall. We’re having a ball. My little boy and me buying sugary canned drinks out of vending machines—Milky Tea and Pocari Sweat—walking down ancient streets, finding real antiques! Quiet times, eyes closed, at glorious temples, and we took a whizzy trip to Kyoto on the bullet train. We wrote the Des Barres name on a stone that will be embedded in the wall of the Todai-Ji Temple for all time. They have James Dean and Mickey Mouse on everything! I got a pair of James Dean boxer shorts, wearing them right now!

  At one of the temples, as we silently peered into a thousand-year-old prayer room, Nick pulled one of the blessed good luck charms from his pocket and gazed at it, rapt. When he looked up at me, his eyes were misty. “Do you really think this will help me feel like a regular person?” It seemed like no matter how hard I tried, Mommy couldn’t make the boo-boo better.

  We were in Japan for two weeks and Nick flourished. I think the clean, severe feeling there gave him a sense of purpose, and he felt important when we stopped over and over again to pose for pictures with the Japanese people—the long-haired blond boy and his flaming redheaded mother. But when we got back to L.A., his customary culture shock set in. We had reserved him a spot at Cottonwood Camp up in the beautiful hills of Santa Monica. The little blue bus would pick him up every morning, but whenever the phone rang, I had to brace myself for another complaint from a squeaky-clean Cottonwood camp counselor, telling me how Nick wasn’t making an effort to fit in, play sports, or jump through any of the hoops provided. Two weeks in and he was out.

  I was left with the task of keeping him amused for the rest of the summer, dropping him off and picking him up at his dad’s (since Michael still wasn’t driving), taking him for little visits to my mom, down to Little Tokyo, to the Self-Realization Lake Shrine, for overnight stays in Santa Barbara, to San Diego, and to Ojai to visit the Begleys. He now saw Laurance, his psychologist, twice a week, but was no happier with himself or anybody else. I prayed a lot and continued the lengthy process with the Office of Counseling and Psychological Services and Santa Monica Unified Schools to find a place where the teachers might understand what my little boy needed. It would take until the end of November for the officials to secure “placement,” and until then, Nick was home—bored, needing distraction, attention. In September an old, tired tutor arrived. Nick roasted her on the spit. She left her post without warning and probably retired soon afterward.

  II

  I was so over-worried about Nick—really tormented, finally coming to the painful conclusion I had zero control over the situation. Right on cosmic cue my new friend Ron Zimmerman raved to me about this psychiatrist, Dr. Frederick Silvers, a Jungian, and recommended I start therapy with him right away. Ron saw that I had a whole lot on my plate—it was dribbling onto the table, messing up the floor, and I hadn’t even noticed—and he thought I could use some professional help sorting it al
l out. Nobody had ever been more correct. After spending a relaxing Fourth of July under a billowing tent with good old Donnie on his massive new chunk of property in Aspen, I went for my first session with Dr. Silvers. Soul excavation with a fearless, probing pickax.

  I climbed Frederick’s stairs, sat across from him while he smoked his pipe, and expected all the answers to drop out of the skylight onto my lap. After my third session I realized it didn’t work that way. It was laborious toiling. Mistakes, errors, blunders, and botchups are hard to see at first, much less admit to, accept, and understand. Therapy is like walking around in a dim, comfortable fog then coming up against a blinding light. At first you shield your eyes, then you take a peek at the light, finally getting the guts to stare at it, allowing yourself to see all the imperfections and cracks in the foundation, some of which you created. Oops. Uh-oh. Excuse me. I’m sorry. Who do you apologize to? Stop the world, I want to get off, please.

  One rainy day I had what is called a “breakthrough,” which is just another of those twelve-letter words until it happens to you. I was telling Frederick how I used to drag Michael to Disneyland and force the mouse down his throat. Make him feel guilty if he didn’t accompany me to Science of Mind spectaculars. Frederick sat across from me, doing his job, puffing his pipe, nodding. I was laughing as I remembered waiting in the longest, winding line for Peter Pan one long-ago day when Michael still had streaks of silver running through his hair—when I suddenly stopped in mid-sentence. A gush of tears—unexpected—burst from a place that had been shut off for eons. Bright, clear anguish and the stunning realization that I owed Michael a sincere apology. I had tried to alter the man I was married to as if he wasn’t good enough in the first place. Mold and squash him into a heart-shaped cookie cutter, so out of the oven would pop my perfect man, complete with an inner-peace happy face. Nothin’ says lovin’ like something from the oven. He rebelled. He slept with other women. Maybe they thought he was A-OK just the way he was.