I came home and called Michael to apologize. “Forgive me, Mikie, forgive me!” I blurted. “I dragged you to Disneyland, you didn’t even want to GO! I forced you to go, over and over!” As I ranted with sorrow and relief, he was gracious, loving, and a bit surprised. “You didn’t mean it, darling,” he said gently. “I actually came to enjoy the little rat bastard. Besides, I’m sure you thought it was all for my own good.” I hung up the phone and felt like flying out the kitchen window, a burden I didn’t even know I possessed two hours earlier had lifted, and my slaphappy, unshackled soul flew on lightas-feather wings.
There were, of course, more mistakes to plow through, peek at, and mourn. By not wanting to flatten Nick’s spirit, hoping he might remain a free, unencumbered human being, I had not provided the all-important boundaries, guidelines, structure—whatever you want to call parental discipline. Since Michael had been raised with only a bohemian smidgen of parental supervision, the task had been left to me, the “yes” woman. Nick slept enough hours, ate enough food, wore cool clothes, had acres of spiritual and psychological input, lots and lots of love, but it wasn’t enough. Who knew? Nick especially needed to know how far he could go within his world, because his giant mind let in too many things. He didn’t know where he stood. The vast, full dark scared him. Too many options.
I cursed myself for being Miss Goody-Blue-Bonnet, the perpetual Snow White. After I had been in therapy for a few months, Patti started calling me “Snow Black.” I actually allowed myself to scowl and bluster once in a while. I started telling people off, and they said, “Why, Pamela, that behavior is so out of character!” At last! Was that a sparkler down there at the end of the tunnel?
III
My Jane Fonda fitness trainer had started making treks down the coast to work out a few lucky people. Just in time too, because I was getting tired of doing listless leg lifts to “Erotic City” at the Sports Connection, next to sweating strutters who were only hearing the thud-beat instead of Prince crooning, “We can fuck until the dawn, making love ’til cherry’s gone,” over and over again. Four times a week for an hour and fifteen, Kathy and I high-impacted, toned, pumped, stretched, and stepped our way to blood-boiling queen-machines. She even gave me a series of exercises using a hotpink rubber band that I could do out on the road and they were about to come in handy-dandy.
Berkley had bought the paperback rights to I’m with the Band and sent me back on the road to sing for my supper. I dished with Sally Jessy Raphaël somewhere in Connecticut, filled a sweetheart half hour with Bob Costas, got through the intensity of Geraldo one more time, and met Joan Rivers—finally—and she talked to me like we were sipping martinis on her patio. One of the girls. I was getting oh-so-comfy on the chat shows, no more butterflies. All kinds of fun.
I was on the Miami stop of the tour when I got a call from Berkley. I had just hit the New York Times Best Sellers list. The call came directly to a radio station where I had an hour to kill on the air. I was one happy former groupie, let me tell you, and that particular interview was a giddy smash. But right at the end of the peppy hour, the DJ said to me, “So what do you think about Jimmy Page calling you a bimbo?”
A few months earlier, Jimmy had attempted to snub me at the Atlantic Records reunion bash, where Zeppelin played together for the first time in many years. With John Bonham’s son Jason playing drums, John Paul Jones in top form, and Robert wailing with memories of a ripe, rip-roaring time, long, long gone, it had been a magical night. Backstage hanging with Robert, I greeted Jimmy warmly, and when he kept walking, I called his name so loud that everyone turned around. “Jimmy Page!!” He stopped in his tracks, slowly turned to face me, and said, “Why, Pamela, dear. How are you?” But his eyes weren’t kind, and it was clear he didn’t care how I was. I had heard it through the grapeslime that Jimmy had been angry about the way he was portrayed in my book. I guess I didn’t kiss his skinny ass quite hard enough.
Still, I told the DJ that I was sure Jimmy didn’t even have such an antiquated, lamebrained word in his vocabulary. The DJ then proceeded to play an interview he had done with Jimmy a mere few hours earlier, and if I hadn’t heard it with my own be-jangled ears, I wouldn’t have believed it in a million years. When asked what he thought of my book, Jimmy replied in his soft, sweet voice, “Oh, I’ve met a lot of bimbos out there. You know how girls like to exaggerate.” Period. Since I was on the air, I professed sadness that Mr. Page would stoop so low as to drag out that worn-out, pathetic antifemale name tag, reminding Mr. DJ that I had all the facts in my diaries, nothing but the truth, so help me God.
After the interview was over the DJ ran the rest of the tape so I could hear what Jimmy had to say off the air. “You say Pamela is in town today? I wouldn’t mind if you brought good old Miss P. down to the Firm [his new group] show tonight.” Good old Miss P.—the bimbo. No thanks, doll, former amore, back stabber with a violin bow. But even Jimmy’s two-faced hostility couldn’t shake my glorious best-seller mood.
That evening I met Donnie on the set of Miami Vice, and he took me to celebrate at his favorite Italian restaurant. Danny Sullivan, the handsome big-shot race-car driver came with us, along with a few other doting tagalongs, and glasses were raised high to the best-selling author. It was fascinating to see how Donnie maneuvered around Miami. He was like Elvis in Memphis. They ushered us into the fancy back room of the restaurant like the Godfather had swept into the building, while hushed onlookers tried not to bore holes through the famous man in mauve. And later that night as we raced back to Star Island in his new Ferrari—like the wind—a hundred miles an hour, sirens wailed behind us, and Don drove even faster, flying. He finally allowed the infuriated cop to pull us over, and when the boy in blue saw Donnie’s grinning mug, Sonny Crockett himself, he laughed like a good-natured, jovial extra on the set of Miami Vice and let us continue on our way. My dear friend Donnie was at the peak of his roll. DJ. was still enthralled with Barbra Streisand, even to the point of singing a duet with the grand dame songbird that was to be featured on both of their albums.
When I swung through New York I popped in on him and Barbra in the penthouse sweet suite of some ultra-fashionable, snobby-posh hotel. There was a lot of laughter and caviar. The head of Warner Bros., Mo Ostin, and his nice-as-pie wife dropped by for a small drink, and my mind started to whir. Since I was going to be in Minneapolis at the exact right time, I had been trying—in vain—to get an invite to Prince’s party at Paisley Park after his show. As we wittily threw nice words around, I tossed my caviar-cool out the penthouse window and casually told Mr. Ostin of my predicament. “No problem, Pamela,” he said, as pretty as you please, “I’ll arrange for you to see the show and attend the party.” He then got all my Minneapolis hotel info, and when I arrived, the entire Prince package was waiting at the front desk. That’s the way to do it.
They were passing out heart-shaped mirror armbands as you entered the Paisley Park tent, and after grabbing one, I wormed my way through the decked-out crowd to the front-front of the stage, and leaned on it, staking out my space. I waited there, pooped out and exhilarated until two-thirty in the morning when I got to gaze up at Prince’s crotch for the next three hours. I could have touched his five-inch stiletto boot, but remained calm. The show was entirely different from the usual Lovesexy stage romp—lots of soul ballads, gospel glory, and duets with Mavis Staples. I was receiving manna, he was heaven-sent. Later on, the crack of dawn, I saw Prince in a corner by himself but left him alone. He’s definitely the Greta Garbo of rock. At least I could woman-handle him in my dreams.
IV
The second to last stop was Seattle, and I was on one of those afternoon TV shows where I had to fill an entire hour. “And then Mick Jagger said . . . Ha ha! Isn’t that amazing!? Keith Moon really did try to squeeze into my spike heels. .. . I was in love with these guys. . . . No, Nicky’s too young to care about the subject matter. . . . The book didn’t really have anything to do with my separation from Michael. . . . You know I n
ever knew what controversy those two words—‘huge-----’—would cause. . . . No, Donnie doesn’t seem to mind at all! . . . Har-de-har. …” And so on.
As I signed a few books and posed for a couple photos, a deep, long-ago familiar voice behind me said, “Hello, Pamela.” I knew instantly who it was. Victor Hayden. One of the very few people who drastically altered the course of my life. I spun around and there was my intrepid friend from high school, Captain Beefheart’s cousin, the guy who carried Kant and Freud through the corny corridors of Cleveland High, hiding joints, running from the vice principal because he dared to defy almighty authority by growing his hair a half inch below his ears. I had first seen the Rolling Stones with him in 1965, I listened to jazz at a downtown club, Mother Neptune’s, just to impress him with my pretend, fumbling hipness. His influence forced me to comb through my flippy bouffant and part my hair down the middle, rub off the blue eye shadow, cast aside the rahrah cheerleader concept. I probably would have married bitchen Bob Martine and still be living in the flat heat of Reseda if not for Victor Hayden. He turned me on to Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Kerouac, Kafka, Coltrane, Captain Beefheart, he made me dare to look within, to question everything.
It had been nineteen years since I last saw Victor. The man who smoked black widow spider-webs for pleasure. He had slowly disappeared into the wilderness, too sensitive to deal with the brain-breaking world. The last time I heard from him was way back in ’75 when he wrote one lone letter advising me to check out the Vedanta Society. After residing for a few years with silent monks on a still retreat, he had been living in the hollow of a giant redwood tree with no electricity, no running water. It seemed Victor had finally dropped out entirely. But here he was, looking much like he had the day he decided not to attend the graduation ceremony at Cleveland High. Dressed all in black, his hair was clipped severely, and he seemed fairly normal except for the look in his eye behind the Mr. Middle Class eyeglasses. He was incognito.
“Victor! I’m so thrilled to see you!!” I hugged him hard. “What do you mean, Pamela? We’ve been communicating for sixty minutes.” He had been in the back row of the audience assuming we had been making a connection throughout the entire show. I reminded him how near-sighted I was, and he nodded gravely. Hmm. Sense of humor missing? My Seattle author-caretaker gave me half an hour for lunch, so while she waited outside in her nondistinct car, checking her stopwatch, Vic and I sat in his fave place, the Thirteen Coins, a dimly lit seventies-style coffee shop, trying to fill each other in. He was nervous, and I couldn’t imagine why. He confessed to me that he had been considering suicide the day before, but then my face flashed on the TV screen, so he came down to the studio and sat in the audience instead. A bit extreme, but that was Victor. Every sentence out of him was unique, his carefully chosen words almost poetic with an off-center touch of the absurd. He had been managing thrash-metal bands, had his own underground record label, and was still painting. Why Seattle, I wondered? He was trying to make a slow comeback to humanity, a gradual return to mainstream mania. I invited him to Los Angeles for a visit, grateful that I could finally feel on Victor’s level rather than several rungs below. What he said didn’t elude me anymore; I understood him. Maybe I could return the high school favor by helping him back to earth.
In bed with Stallone—emoting for the cameras
The Face Pack—Donnie, Melanie, Michael, and me DIANE SILLAN
Me and my precious, serious son in front of Victor’s artwork
RICHARD CREAMER
Nicholas Dean Des Barres—such an intense gaze for such a little guy
RANDEE ST. NICHOLAS
Seven years later—my little boy wears a size nine and a half shoe. It was Nick’s clever idea to repeat the same pose. RANDEE ST. NICHOLAS
Patti, Melanie, and me. Patti sees too much, Melanie talks too much, and I don’t hear a thing. RANDEE ST. NICHOLAS
Cozying up with Warren on a warm Hollywood night—Patti’s birthday at a trendy dive PATTI D’ARBANVILLE
And then Bob Dylan said to me, “Pam, I missed you on Oprah.” It was almost too much. PATTI D’ARBANVILLE
The twenty-seven years were up—and I finally met Dion.
MICHAEL FRIEDMAN
The man who altered my brain cells —Victor Hayden ALLEE WILLIS
“Sweetheart.” Hmmmm, does Sandra Bernhard call everybody that?
RICHARD CREAMER
The good new days—Nick and his dad
STEVE SCHAPIRO
Patti and I at the “Imagine” premiere. Two hot-to-trot babes on the town JILL JARRETT
Ariana, Jimmy, and me—thinking good thoughts VICTOR HAYDEN
I got Ozzy Osbourne and Annette Funicello to interview each other. Brilliant idea, huh?
RANDEE ST. NICHOLAS
Nick and his devoted parental figures
RANDEE ST. NICHOLAS
Me and Jimmy Thrill. What can I say?
RANDEE ST. NICHOLAS
A few weeks later he not only came to visit but bought an antique teardrop trailer from a tightrope-walking circus troupe, set it up in my backyard, and painted it forest green. He took out the trash, ate my home-cooked meals, and we had side-winding, searing conversations until late at night. He called himself “the purgemaster,” and attempted to keep the house spot-free. “The only way to really clean a house,” Vic announced, “is with a microscope.” He gave it the old Cleveland High try, he really did, but after a few weeks he realized that I live a messy (but mostly clean) life, and had to drop the subject. Victor became sort of a guardian angel for Nick, just as I suspected he would. They were from the same planet, so Nick no longer felt quite so isolated. He became a constant, cosmic, mind-bending companion.
V
I started hearing from all kinds of people out of my past. Trip Webster, the ’66 class president at Cleveland High, wrote and praised my book, telling me how I had recalled all sorts of tidbits from his glory days. He had never spoken to me in the halls; his letter-sweater heyday had zero to do with the freaky chick with the Beefheart sticker on her notebook, but he said he rememberd me fondly. I recall his flattop without much fondness, to tell you the truth. He’s some judicial bigwig downtown now, and he told me to call on him anytime for assistance. What kind, I wonder?
My favorite letter came from Polly Parsons, Gram’s only daughter, the precious tot I used to babysit in 1969 while swoony-mooning over Chris Hillman. Her note said that reading about her dad in my book made her feel who he really was for the first time. I was ecstatic, called her up, and we met for lunch at Farmer’s Market. She was so sweet; her beautiful smile was all Gram. She wanted to know every little thing about her untamed pioneer daddy, and I lovingly recounted my long-lost moments with GP.
Chris was playing with the Desert Rose Band at a club on the beach, so I took Polly to re-meet her dad’s best friend and closest musical partner. He dedicated a song to her as we swayed in the front row, and she cried, big old tears rolling down her cheeks. The music sent me straight out of my body and onto the wide, open plains, driftin’ along with the tumblin’ tumbleweeds. Chris also played a song for me that night called “The One That Got Away.” He said he had written it for me after our last sweet lunch— “… Her dancing eyes are laughing so bright… if she gets away from me again, I’ll miss her ‘til the end .. . if I’m right, I should go home tonight. . .” And he did, but not before I had a timeless moment with him—his eyes into mine, over and over, over and over like a camera shutter, I could see our many different lifetimes together way down inside his bright blue eyes. The instant seemed to go on for eternity, but sounds started to come back—Polly’s laughter, clinking glasses, jukebox howling, and I realized I had been lost in another realm of possibility. I knew without an inkling of a doubt that Chris and I were connected, bonded tight by the big picture, the never-ending round and round of soul life. It’s not over yet. It’s never over. And I finally had a song written about me. That sent me for a triple loop.
I had o
ne reeling reunion after another, but the one person I was surprised I hadn’t heard from was Bobby Martine, my first teen squeeze, especially since there were photos of him in the book looking all sulky and hot-stuff. I had last seen him on the big screen, playing a greaser bartender in Saturday Night Fever, but in person it had been twenty-three years. I had scoured New York directories, wondering if he had gone back to his roots, checked all the Martines in the San Fernando Valley to no avail. And one afternoon Mom called to tell me that Bob had somehow gotten ahold of her number and she had just spoken to him! I called Bob immediately. After having an old-times chatathon, we made a dinner date for the following evening, and I was sure curious to see how the years had treated him. When I opened the door, there was the same old Bobby—less grease in his hair, minus the sharkskin suit, same grin, same great big brown eyes. He took me to a quasi-fancy Italian place in the North Valley, where we got over our jitters by getting slightly tipsy, then came back to my house and rooted through paper sacks full of old love letters we wrote to each other when I was still a virgin. Some of the fading mush-novellas still had a faint scent of Jade East, Bob’s sexy teen scent that drove the young me into preorgasmic spasms. In those aching high school days, when we finally got into spicy foreplay, Bob always wanted more. His penis was called “Mick,” and my vagina’s name was “Cher.” So scary.
Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up Page 27