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

by Des Barres, Pamela

  Family group meetings followed the twelve-step model: Each of us introduced ourselves and announced our problem of choice. “Eddie, alcoholic, twelve days sober.” Applause. “Marie, Eddie’s mother, drug addict, four years and three months.” Applause. “Sandra, family problems.” “I’m Tom, Sandra’s step father.” Smiles, nods, understanding. We sat through the meeting, blankly observing the agony and healing of others, wrapped up in parental pain like no other. Very famous celebrities and their daughters dressed in black became just like the former jailbird junkie and his adopted, tattooed juvenile delinquent son in ASAP for the third time. An old-time rock hero wept for his thirteen-year-old daughter who smuggled in some acid and went AWOL the night before. The outer-world differences between us dissolved, ceased to exist. We could all learn from the festering of another’s open wounds. Take a licking but keep on ticking.

  We left without seeing Nick at all that day, dejected, yet slightly encouraged by the compassion and insight of some of the other parents. “Wonderful things are happening for Shannon here. She hadn’t looked us in the eye for two and a half years until yesterday.” “Peter didn’t speak to a soul in this place for three weeks, and now they tell me he’s talking too much at group. They can’t shut him up!” One counselor told me I would lose the feelings of grief and guilt after about ten days. “And don’t feel guilty because you feel some relief!” she warned me. “I’m sure you deserve it.”

  We, of course, hoped for an easy explanation for Nick’s behavior, a psychological name tag to hang on the problem, a diagnosis at last, but it wasn’t forthcoming. Nick’s uncanny intelligence was hiding some deep-rooted, scary stuff that would take time to discover. We would have to be patient.

  At the next meeting, Wednesday night, Nick trudged past us to a chair as far away as he could get and wouldn’t look at us, and when it came time for him to say his name, he refused. There was my little blond boy, disheveled, unkempt, miserable, betrayed, and lost on the other side of the room. And I couldn’t run to him, shelter him under my mama’s wing, take him away from his pain. He had to face it himself, find something inside himself to love, or maybe he never would. This was his chance, our chance, right here and now. Tony told us that Nick had actually started to speak a few tentative mumblings at group and a possible friendship seemed to be forming with one of his roommates. He also admitted that Nick despised and feared him and wished he were dead. Most of the kids did at first. Tony was quite a fearsome-looking dude—heavy-set, about six feet four inches, white crew cut, red face, many, many earrings in each ear—a zero-bullshit, hard-as-nails, in-your-face kind of guy. Sometimes he even scared me, and he pissed Michael off, but I knew Nick wouldn’t be able to do what he had done so many times before—he wouldn’t be able to wrap Tony around his cute li’l finger. No way.

  We soon settled into a routine—two family meetings a week and a private session between Tony, Michael, Nick, and me. Silence at first, discomfort, fidgeting. Tears, accusations, terror, confessions, realizations, apologies. Words never spoken crowded the small room to the stifling point. Gradually—at a snail’s pace—we were allowed to take Nicky’s calls, talk to him when we felt like it, visit him on Sunday afternoons. He made us fantastic-colored bowls, vases, and cups in ceramics class, and when he made me a lavender heart to hang on the wall, I knew he had forgiven me. I tried not to sob, and it was all I could do to keep from squeezing him in half. From “Please, please, take me out of here” to “When do you think I can come home?” to “Bring me Led Zeppelin IV, my Self-Realization altar, some Chicken McNuggets,” there was a consistent driblet of progress.

  Even though Michael had a hard time admitting certain truths to himself, he was fearless in confronting bullshit during the group family meetings. From being such an active participant in NA and AA, he could point out what other people were avoiding, help them face the hurting facts, and get to the other side. When a session was bogging down, going in circles, Tony called on Michael who could ask, “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Do you love your son? Why don’t you cut the crap and tell him so?” Tony even had Michael play the acting dad with kids whose parents didn’t show up, giving him a chance to use his agile, stinging brain for the greater good. The kids loved him. After all, he had been one of them, on the floor with his nose bleeding from too much coke, singing rock and roll, blind stoned and out of control, and now he was a bad-guy actor on MacGyver and had ten years’ sobriety. Nick started to admire his dad for a whole new reason and see him in a new light. So did I.

  The air was being cleared, making way for truth that had been disguised in a various array of costumes. When it came my turn to identify my problem, I announced myself as a codependent. I wasn’t quite convinced that I really fit into the category, but I wasn’t an alcoholic or a drug addict, and something had brought me and mine into this room. When my darlings were bored, angry, unhappy, I thought it was all my fault—a peculiar kind of reverse egomania. I listened to all types of moms tell their stories of doting and devotion in the name of love, letting their over-loved ones trample down any and all personal boundaries, getting their respect squashed in the process, and I recognized myself in them. Some of the examples were extreme, so it took me awhile to realize that by trying to be a good wife and mom, I had gone over the top and hit bottom. “Hi, I’m Pamela, Nick’s mom, codependent.” Nick, who had recently accepted us fully back into his life, looked over at me with big questioning eyes. Michael smiled. So did Tony. He actually barked out a big laugh. A couple people congratulated me after the meeting like I had just flushed my stash down the toilet.

  Progress! Nick seemed to be letting his guardwall down, smiling for real. But sometimes after a visit with my little boy in the sterile sitting room, munching junk food, babbling about silly things, doing squiggles, I missed him so much—tucking him in at night, cuddling with him, laughing at things only we thought were funny, watching dumb shows on TV, I wanted him back home with me so bad. I wondered how much longer I could stand it.

  V

  With Nick gone, I was on my own for the first time in many years. Time was not of the essence; I didn’t have to wake up to a shrilling alarm or worry about filling Nick’s after-school hours. Except for the meetings at ASAP, I had zero responsibilities, a holiday from the grinding give-give-giving that almost killed me—and everyone else. When the guilt over my newfound freedom finally ebbed, I started feeling like a kid again. The knot between my shoulder blades went away, the pain in my solar plexus disappeared. I didn’t have to sleep with my dental “nightguard” anymore, because I stopped gritting my poor teeth into dust particles. I had been living with the stress for so long that when it let up I felt like I had grown a true set of wings.

  Jimmy Thrill came back from Japan and called me that very day. His band had driven the girls wild, they had made little Jimmy Thrill dolls with lots of yellow yarn and followed him down the street to lick his armpits. Interesting custom, hmm? He asked about Nick, and I told him I was honestly starting to feel a little relief, just as the counselor had promised me. A tentative trickle of guilt-crossed freedom. A little more freedom than guilt, praise Jesus.

  Jimmy and I planned on meeting at the Lingerie, where one of my fave singers, James Intveld, was crooning to his clan of be-bopping bobby-soxers. If James Dean had ever cut a record, it would have sounded like James Intveld. Certain music still created havoc inside me, and I wanted to share that feeling with everybody else—and I always will.

  I slithered into my tightest black ensemble, lacy stockings, highest heels, frothed the red hair as far as it would go, red lips for days. I immersed myself in the music, feeling it through every inch of my body, dancing alone, high on it. When I came to, Jimmy was two feet in front of me, no mistaking the look of lazy longing in his eyes and the secure grin of someone real comfortable in his own sweet skin. One of those involuntary shudders streaked through me. How long had he been watching me dance? He exuded a bright, careless joy of life, of optimism, of excitement. Ho
w old was he, anyway, and how much did it matter?

  He was twenty-four. When I had been painting graphic pictures of Mick Jagger’s balls for my high school art class, bobbing my head up and down at Mother Neptune’s jazz club with Victor Hayden, Jimmy Thrill was busy being born. If I had been walking past a pretty blond lady pushing a stroller back in 1966, and somebody pointed to the cherub baby boy in Pampers and said, “There’s your future lover-doll, circa 1990,” I would have split my lace tablecloth frock laughing—then asked the pretty lady the tot’s name so I could keep an eye out. Ha!

  He came back home with me, where we lounged on the couch, listening to soul music, and spent several hours in each other’s wide open mouths. Otis Redding begged for some tenderness way off in the distance, and I was being held like something precious. Aah . . . swept up in the beats of his heart. It was so hot in there the fire department should have been called. After rolling around in hormonal haze, reeking of wicked perfume, Jimmy stood up in front of me and pulled his shirt over his head, and I caught a glimpse of a tattoo dragon peeking over his pale shoulder. I touched so-soft skintight skin, my fingers melting, as the candles burned down to liquid, the first early bird twittered. “You’d better go,” I whispered. “What?” Sincere surprise in his voice. But I stuck with the idea, even as my girl-spot quivered, until he was out the door. I wanted to wait just a tiny bit longer, not rush into it, but glide slowly, anticipate the lovely inevitable.

  After seeing Jimmy a few more times, I thought the time was ripe. We went to a Japanese karaoke bar to watch a few people make asses out of themselves. We were just pushing back the threat of sizzling temptation, our hands touching—an electric shock—thigh pressing thigh, sultry eyes. Some aging flubber-pot full of sake got up to sing “Like a Virgin,” and we both knew what was going to happen. I was so high on the expectation, I was reeling, bombed on the certainty of fully requited lust. We took off in separate cars—I was planning to get there first so I could deck the place out with low lights and dangerous music. Stuck in a horny reverie, I turned onto La Brea—red lights flashed behind me. Oops, at that last stop sign I hadn’t come to a complete stop. What do you expect? I was about to commit a delicious carnal act. To my outrage, the sturdy wax-figure cop shone his flashlight in my bespectacled eyes and announced they were bloodshot. He asked me to get out of the car and walk a straight line in front of a neon used-Jeep joint. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I yawped, “I’m not drunk!!” Trying to stay calm, I unstrapped my high heels and walked toe to toe down La Brea, saying the alphabet, perfectly, I thought. “You forgot a few letters,” he said officiously, “I’m sorry,” and he yanked my hands behind my back, handcuffing me roughly, doing his duty. I pleaded with the wax dummy, telling him all about the candles I had to light, the sweet music I had to put on the CD player, how tonight was the Big Night, couldn’t he show some mercy to a fellow human being??

  “If you blow below the limit, I’ll bring you right back to your car,” he promised. At the station I blew big breaths into this scary-looking contraption, praying hard, and when I came in under the limit, Mr. Wax Man seemed dejected. “Book her anyway!” his big, graying copper-boss boomed, “Teach her a lesson,” and I broke down. “How can you do this to me?? I’m not drunk!! He’s waiting in my driveway!!” On and on, shrieking, sobbing into deaf cop ears. I was put into a smelly gray cell with two hookers who talked all night about the policeman who set them up. “Who would think that a dick could have a dick that bii-iiiig?” one of them marveled repeatedly, while I agonized. What did Jimmy think of me? How long had he waited? They let me out at six-thirty gray dawn, and as I filled out papers, my arresting officer said to me, “You’re the one who wrote that book, aren’t you? My second cousin used to play with the Eagles.” Isn’t that terribly interesting, you big jackass? When the court date came up, the case was thrown out because I had no previous DUI and had blown under the limit. Who can I sue?

  Jimmy had waited so long in my driveway that he had fallen asleep. He told me this when he called at nine to see if I was all right. Even though I was a double wretch, I invited him over to dinner that night, buying something ultra-fancy at the French take-out and fobbing it off as my own. Could that be considered lying? I couldn’t eat. My heart had invaded my stomach, stretching it to capacity. I put on the Ink Spots, doo be doo be doo be doo be doo be doo be do, and we went at each other like starving beasts. As pieces of my naughty Victoria’s Secret love-garments were yanked off, an X-rated halo appeared over his head. He tied my garter-belt over my eyes and went to the kitchen looking for some ripe, juicy fruit. We were definitely compatible in that area, which was no surprise to me. His scent ate me up, his skin felt like my own, and he had, uh-oh, kisses sweeter than wine. Sweeter than the wine Jesus created with the flick of His holy wrist.

  July 4—All over Jimmy, him all over me—everybody thinks we’re a farout match. The age difference is thrilling to me, titillating, and he makes me feel totally youthful and glowing. He’s caring and intuitive, acts directly on his intuition. We have a beautiful spiritual link—and he’s horny for me! The feeling that seems to erupt so softly out of the ethers is so life-affirming. The Gods placed him in my life right now, and he’s really helping me in this difficult time. Is it not growth to still feel like a girl? What the fuck is maturity, anyhow? Live each moment as it comes.

  August 1—Jimmy and I are gradually interlocking. Almost every night we talk, talk, talk, make love endlessly, listen to mutually loved music, laugh, and grow. He is full of light, and I connect with him there. It feels magical. He’s so wise for his years, has his own original way of putting things, so clean-spirited and un-fucked up. He thinks Science of Mind without ever having been there. Two nights ago he told me I was god-given, “the ultimate woman.” One of his lyrics is, “I’m not just the boy next door, I’m the man you can’t ignore.” He’s a man-child, so sweet I ache. He says he’s going to take me higher than love.

  September 1—Days go by with Jimmy in their own time. It’s been so revelatory—I’m opening up to him, and he to me—petals wide. I crave him when he’s away, or just across the room. He says the greatest things onstage: “We’re all one big soul, but I’m an older soul than the rest of you motherfuckers.” Ha ha. It’s like God has said, “Okay, doll. One more time—the perfect rockboy/man on a silver platter, only this time he comes complete with a soul connection, spiritually evolved, unaddicted, self-confident, and totally tuned in.” He’s so fucking gorgeous it drives me wild. He ripped my pantyhose to shreds the other night and pulled my earrings out with his teeth. He doesn’t even realize what a trigger and catalyst he is for me and mine. He’s truly a being of light; we’re linked in a higher realm. I have to remember that when I’m feeling like doing too much for him—the way I did with Michael and Nick, and all the other men in my life. I have wind chimes in my heart, Disneyland fireworks going off nonstop.”

  I’ll never let go of Walt and his mouse. And why should I?

  Jimmy wrote songs about me and left love notes all over the house, and every day was like finding buried treasure: “You’re a sweet scent that I wear internally . . . I feel your skin under mine—and your smile is the sign—to go even further—for you are the angel—and I am the wing—you are the song I began to sing. . . . I feel your soul flow inside my veins, a vision of pure love that purifies my mind. . . . you are a divine religion that I believe in and that shrine of purity you release in my heart will never go away. . . . I am a junkie, strung out, waiting for a fix of you. . . . You are the source of my power, the smell of my flower, you’re my cigarette, I’m addicted. . . .”

  I don’t know why they call it “falling” in love, it’s more like “swooping” in love, and it was happening to me.

  Chunks of life crept into my romance dance and the miracles going on at ASAP. I started working on a concept for a magazine called Twist with a guy called Quay Hays—a go-getter entrepreneur type who thought I had panache. I actually got Annette Funicello and
Ozzy Osbourne together to interview each other, and the stuff Ozzy confessed to apple-pie, peanut-butter, mouse-ears Annette was mind-boggling. She dared to ask him uncool questions about his addictions that hip journalists avoided. He asked if Walt had really been frozen, and tears sprang to her eyes. It was starting to look like a thrilling printed-page enterprise, but right about that time the world fell out from underneath the magazine industry, but Quay and I are still open to assistance from ballsy investors.

  I was asked to appear on the game show To Tell The Truth and couldn’t resist seeing two other girls say, “Hi, I’m Pamela Des Barres …” I had to coach them, and it was so bizarre to hear them answer questions about my life and come out with all kinds of cock-eyed answers. The two girls I did the show with were at least ten years younger than me, so that made me feel good. You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you.

  When Jimmy and I weren’t wrapped tight in our amorous cocoon, we went out to see the Indigo Girls, Was Not Was, and the divine Al Green, where we spun into loveland, tight together, tied together by the music. I went to all of his Rattlesnake Shake shows, finding myself back at the Whisky a Go Go over two decades later, surging around with people two decades younger than myself, watching Jimmy enter another world onstage, his eyes rolling back, sweat streaming down his half-naked body, girls reaching for him, wanting to enter that unreachable place only he could see, feel, hear, touch. He doesn’t hold back; he doesn’t know how.