John gapes at me. “I, I didn’t know you cared…would cry like this, Dawn,” he says softly, reaching out to touch my arm.
“No, no, no!” I slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”
John’s face is pale; his eyes well with sadness and tears. “It’s okay, Dawn. It’s okay. Come here; please, come here.” He reaches for my arm again, sliding over to my seat on his knees. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
I can’t look at him. I hate what he did. Exhausted and drained, face buried in my hands, I let him hold me and I heave weighty sobs into his chest.
Surprised, Terry and Juan don’t know what to do. “I didn’t see anything,” Terry says timidly.
John cups my face in his hands to calm me. “It’s okay now. See? I’ll be right back. Okay?”
“Okay,” I sniffle, wiping the tears from my eyes.
He jumps out of the van and walks over to the place where the bird has fallen. Rustling around the brush for a few minutes, he returns without a word, face solemn, and he starts the engine. He stares straight ahead.
“Did you bury it?” I ask with a quavering voice.
“Yes.”
Fresh tears spill onto my damp and swollen cheeks. “What kind of bird was it?”
“A sparrow.”
Sadness overwhelms me again, and I let the tears fall freely. John quietly reaches his hand out to hold mine, tightly, for the long drive home.
Right on time the next morning, John taps on the door to make sure I am up. His demeanor is timid, soft-spoken, more than I’d noticed before. He finds it hard to meet my gaze.
“Thanks.” My tone is low, a whisper, and I feel a bit embarrassed. Through the filtered view of the screen door, I watch him turn and walk away. There is a feeling of safety, a new connection with him that I can’t seem to name, but the nearness of him is comfortable for some reason: calming and strong. The night before showed me a side of John that shocked me, as well as something intimate and sweet…and perhaps it is in me too. Is my tough girl gig up? I’m not used to feeling this way. I gently close the door, gather my things, and get ready for class.
The rest of the week in school seems to drag, along with the mundane faces of my classmates. When Friday comes, I am relieved to be away from the pressure of trying to fit in and look forward to the weekend and the beach. John isn’t home until well past dark that evening, keeping Terry, Juan, and me wondering if his plans have changed. With a bang, the door bursts open and John barges in, flushed and smiling big. As always, our eyes meet as he scans the room. Instantly we blush.
Breaking into a soft-shoe ta-da, John slaps his Frye boots on the wooden floor and with arm extended pronounces, half joking, “Ready?”
“Ready? Ready for what? We were ready for bed. We’d been waiting for hours. Where are we going this late?”
John mocks us, pretending to fend off our comments as attacking blows. “Hey, hey, ouch, that hurts.” He playfully falls onto the couch. “I’m sorry; I’m sorry. Tomorrow, be ready early. Have your sleeping bags and clothes packed, and I’ll bring the goodies.” He lifts an eyebrow.
“Tomorrow!” we cry, disappointed. “Fine.”
“Good. I have a couple of errands left to do tonight. Anyone want to go?” He gets up from the couch and heads for the door.
“I’ll go,” Juan shoots back.
“Yeah? What about you girls?”
“I guess so.” Terry sounds weary.
“Sure.”
Driving through Hollywood at night is wild, mesmerizing. Excitement rolls through me like an amusement park ride. Colored lights flashFLOWERS, HAMBURGERS, andHOTELS. Massive billboards advertise the city’s evening wares and busy-looking people move robotically about the streets. I love the warm evening air that blows on my face as I lean out of the van’s window and reach my hand up toward the glowing neon tubes.
“Oh my God!” Terry gasps as she clutches my arm and hastily turns away from the window. My stomach flutters. I see it too. Blinking lights on an enormous marquee surround a seductive woman in a kitten costume, long tail swirling around huge pink letters that read Pussycat Theatre. In larger letters underneath, the words scream, John C. Holmes XXX Double Feature: Mitchell Brothers’ Autobiography of a Flea. All Night Long.
It’s him! My thoughts screech to a halt; hot and cold shivers snap through my veins. It’s really true! My body stiffens, freezes in place; I continue to stare out the window. His name is up in lights, and it frightens me. Without missing a beat, ever so slowly, I cast an uneasy sideways glance in John’s direction. He grips the steering wheel; bulging tendons in his arms move with the pulse of his veins. I know he sees my reaction. Briefly he shoots me a glance and rigidly leans over to check the passenger side mirror.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Hollywood and Vine,” John announces, sounding like a tour guide.
I push the recent shock of truth out of my mind and focus out my window again. Gold-trimmed marble stars line the sidewalks of the busy street, naming past and present movie stars. Neon on black background contrasts harshly with headlights from the passing cars. Silently I take in the sights of Hollywood, trying to understand what I see. John’s movies are a big deal here? I’m confused about how the marquees seem as large as and so close to other legitimate theaters.
With a jerk, John whips the van into a recently vacated parking space and slides it into park. “Grauman’s Chinese Theatre,” he says, opening his door. “Coming?”
Quickly we scurry out and run to catch up with his distancing shape. Massive, bright red and gold oriental pagodas engulf us in slow motion as we approach the sidewalk.
“Whoa,” Terry exclaims. “Look at the lions. And look, here, at all the footprints of the stars.”
“Far out!” Juan chimes in.
Stone lions sit regally on either side of the theater guarding its entrance; a huge dragon curls toward the front. My world is reeling. I’ve never seen such glamour. Eyes wide from the bombardment of my senses, I look over at John. In his light blue jean jacket and faded jeans, he stands poised over one of the cement slabs, hands in his pockets.
“What are you looking at?” I ask, walking over to stand next to him.
“John Wayne.” He shifts his weight, his tone respectful. “He’s my favorite.”
Curious, I look down at the signature that captures his attention. I can feel his breath while we stare down at the historical movie relic.
“Over here, Dawn,” Terry yells. “It’s Marilyn Monroe! Come see!”
“Really?” I hurry to where she stands. “Oh. And here’s Judy Garland.”
“Elizabeth Taylor over here,” John’s voice calls back.
The game is on. We take turns finding familiar stars and making fun of the size of their hands and feet—and in some cases, a nose (Jimmy Durante’s) and legs (Betty Grable’s). A small, odd-looking group of people has gathered nearby and seems to be stepping toward every slab John has just finished viewing. I look into the eyes of a tall, middle-aged bald man after a few deliberate moves around the concrete autographs, and check John’s reaction. He is upset. He looks at his watch and signals to me that it is time to leave.
“Come on, Terry—Juan,” I yell. “Let’s go.” We hastily fall into step behind John walking toward the van.
“Who were those people?”
“Who? Them?” John sounds flustered.
“Yeah. They seemed kinda weird. Were they following us?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Just people. It’s getting late, and I want to show you guys one more thing.”
“Cool!” Juan’s excited.
Terry and I nod, and I instantly forget about the strange group of people we’ve left behind—people who still huddle and stare at us as we drive away.
We turn the corner in the direction of Glendale. Los Feliz, the sign reads. We come to a quiet, greener part of town where the houses are true-to-life mansions, massive and dreamlike. I gawk at the wealth of the estates that lie blanketed in the cottony light f
og of the summer evening. After a prompt turn onto Fern Dell Road, we enter Griffith Park. Observatory, the word and the arrow on the sign guide us toward the top.
“Wait till you see this,” John says excitedly.
“See what?”
“Just wait.”
We drive in the darkness, climbing steadily toward the top by way of many winding roads and switchbacks. As we rise above the city, countless colored lights span far into the distance. Halfway up, John pulls the van over to the side of the road. A thin cloud of dust is visible through the headlights as we come to a sudden stop near the guardrail.
“Come on.” John’s mood is intensely happy as he leads us to the edge of the cliff.
Juan, Terry, and I stand in awe.
“Welcome to Hollywood!” John grandly extends both arms across the vast city lights. He is in his realm. A thin, pale line of light follows the horizon at a far distance. The bright lights below gently soften into the stars above.
“Wow! It’s beautiful!”
Juan and Terry take the moment to snuggle into each other’s arms and giggle. I step away and stand to the side. My arms fold across my chest—a barrier against the evening chill and an attempt to give them space for their romantic moment. John sees my distance, walks over, and stands next to me. Silently we look out at the shimmering view. Everything feels peaceful, those puzzle pieces falling into place again. A gust of wind breaks my trance, and I shiver, pulling my arms in even tighter. John instantly takes off his jacket.
“Here,” he offers, softly stepping closer and wrapping his jean jacket around my shoulders.
“Thanks.” I feel the closeness of his scent. Oh God, my thoughts quickly warn. The marquees. Who is this guy? My heart and mind race with mixed emotions. I stand perfectly still.
Unexpectedly John’s aura changes back to the warmth of a moment ago. I relax again. Reaching down, he puts his arm around me—a strong, friendly, fatherly arm—and gently guides my body to the left. “See that?” He points out into the open, sparkling sky.
“Yeah.” Paralyzed by his touch, overwhelmed at his strong but gentle hold on me, I can barely respond.
“That’s the famous Hollywood Bowl,” he tells me in an even, now teacherly voice.
“Oh.” I have never heard of the place, but I’m interested and absorb this new information readily.
“Hey! It’s getting cold,” Terry unexpectedly calls from the van.
With difficulty, John and I pull away from one another.
“Hurry up,” Terry snaps. She seems aware of something between us.
“We are,” I call back. Jeez. Nothing’s going on, I say to myself, irritated at her summons. Then I remember she saw the marquees too.
John and I say nothing more to each other the remainder of our trip home while Juan churns out a dozen or more tiring questions, arms flailing in all directions to make his point. John’s lackluster answers tell me his mind is wandering on other things. A chill runs through me, and I hug my knees to my chest for warmth, partly expecting to see John’s name again as I stare out my window at the passing lights.
John parks in his usual space beneath the giant magnolia tree next to the garages and the big main house. During the stroll up the courtyard, John is quiet again; his jawline pulsates as it always does when he’s deep in thought. We move slowly, in step with each other, up the concrete walk toward the bungalows. I don’t want to say good night, so I walk even slower. John does the same.
As the red painted brick of our steps approaches, John looks over at me and smiles. “Bright and early!” he reminds everyone.
“Bright and early,” Juan echoes back.
Saturday morning sunlight shines through every window of the cottage. It is already beautiful and warm outside.
“This is California’s Indian summer,” Harriet tells me as she wanders through the living room to fetch coffee from the kitchen, her dog, Wolf, following close behind.
Knock, knock, knock. It’s Juan at the door, checking to see if I’m awake.
“It’s only 6:30.” I yawn.
“John’s already been by, wants to leave in a half an hour.” Juan looks a little disheveled.
“I’ll be over in a minute. I’m already packed.”
I tap on Terry’s door a few minutes later, and John answers, handing me a steaming cup from a Thermos lid.
“What’s this?”
“Coffee. Drink. It’ll wake you up.” Graciously he takes my backpack and pours another cup for Terry, who is sitting on the edge of the water bed rubbing her eyes. Terry is grumpy in the mornings.
“Ugh,” Terry groans, sending John into a gut-busting laugh.
“Well, uh, I’d give you a Snickers bar, Terry, but I’m all out.” He tantalizes her in a low, sensual voice, knowing how the candy makes her mouth water. John is clean-shaven this morning, except for his thin, light moustache. His hair is damp, and he smells of musk and green apples.
“Quit it! I’m up. Just give me a minute,” Terry snaps back. I can tell she feels embarrassed.
“We’ll meet you at the van then,” John says.
Loaded up and in a much happier mood, we take off down Los Feliz Boulevard again heading back into Hollywood.
“Slight detour, kids. I have to stop at my answering service, check my messages. It’ll just be a minute,” John informs us. Nothing looks familiar on Western Avenue so early in the morning. The streets are freshly hosed off and empty in front of the closed shopwindows; only a giant hot dog-shaped stand on the left has a line of haggard souls waiting for coffee. A casual glance to my right stings my senses again: JOHN C. HOLMES IN XXX. I quickly turn away, sink down in my seat. I don’t want to think too much.
“Here we are,” John says, making a turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard and into a small parking lot. “Be right back.” He grins and jumps out. A tiny, square, concrete building with a large, old-fashioned, black rotary phone dial painted on one side and a giant cord and receiver on another is painted with the words Answering Service. Back in an instant, John flips through a stack of messages, then passes them over to me. “Put these into my briefcase for me, would ya?” he asks sweetly.
“Sure,” I reply and suddenly feel special. Carefully I set the fat stack of messages on top of the scattered mess of his briefcase. “Call me, sweetie. Love, Gloria,” reads the top one. I shut the briefcase. Does he have a girlfriend? I wonder, feeling my stomach twist. What are you thinking, Dawn? Of course he would have a girlfriend…probably lots of them. He’s not interested in you. He thinks you’re just a kid. I snap out of it, toughening up my spirit, and promise myself not to get too close…again.
Back onto Western we soon catch the 101 Freeway heading west toward the Pacific Ocean. The eight-track tapes are blasting; John sings loud and off-key to Neil Diamond, Jim Croce, and Gordon Lightfoot, leaving us in stitches and helpless to do anything but join in. The mood is fun; we are kids, sipping coffee, singing, and giggling at our own silliness. Exiting off Kanan Dume Road we head through the mountains until we reach the Pacific Coast Highway and drive north for about another mile. Zuma Beach, the sign reads. We scream, and John pulls to a stop.
“This is it!” John gets out of the van to stretch his legs as the rest of us spill out into the parking lot. It is still early, and the beach is fairly empty. Pale, shiny sand goes on and on for miles with white lifeguard huts dotting the length of the coastline. Pulling down my blue cutoff shorts, I straighten the brown bikini underneath my top for the walk to the beach. My red tank top and flip-flops match the bandana I wear tied around my head as a scarf.
Terry gets out and quickly pulls me off to the side. “I don’t feel right about this,” she whispers.
“Why?”
“Didn’t you see the signs on those movie theaters last night and today? That’s John! I couldn’t say anything last night or this morning because everyone was around, but I don’t like this,” she says in a hurried hush. “I have a feeling about him.”
“I kno
w, Ter. I saw it too. Harriet tried to show me the other day, but I didn’t want to see that stuff. It’s okay though. I don’t think he is going to do anything.”
“He’s trying to get close to you, Dawn. I don’t like it.”
“I can handle myself, Terry. Relax. Now come on. Here they come.”
Terry doesn’t own a bathing suit, doesn’t like the way she looks in them. Cutoff shorts and a baggy T-shirt drape her frame, leaving her real shape a mystery.
“This way,” John calls, lifting the blankets and ice-laden cooler. We follow him single file toward the giant rocks at the south end of the beach.
“Where’re we going?” I ask.
John keeps walking, trudging through the deep sandy beach, still heading for the rocks. At the base, he connects to a well-worn path, leading us up and over to the other side. We pass a few stragglers on the same trail, all of them fighting to keep their balance like us. I jump off the final rock onto the soft, cool sand. It takes me a minute to comprehend where we are.
“Pirate’s Cove! Clothing optional.” John is grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh my God!” Terry shrieks. “I’m leaving!”
“No, wait. Come on, Terry,” Juan begs. “Let’s stay. Please!”
Terry clutches her beach bag to her chest and reluctantly presses on. She keeps her hair in front of her face, eyes glued to the sand. I try to stay nonchalant, say nothing, and not stare at the darkly tanned sun worshippers. People seem to be middle-aged or older, I note from the glances I steal. I notice also the few fully dressed young men who cling to the rocks at the back of the cove gawking at the beach’s free entertainment.
“Those are the young Catholic boys saying their rosary—getting ready to go to confession.” John frowns with disgust at their hypocrisy.
John leads us to a sunny spot near the water and spreads out two large blankets for everyone to lie on. I walk over and sit near the edge trying to act casual and slip off my flip-flops. Terry and Juan find a spot on the other side of the blanket. She flashes me a worried look as John plops down next to me. Suddenly, as if to say, “Oh, well,” Juan shrugs his shoulders, makes a wide, greasy grin, and proudly strips his clothes off first.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 12