Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up (39 page)

Patti and I at the “Imagine” premiere. Two hot-to-trot babes on the town J
ILL
J
ARRETT

Ariana, Jimmy, and me—thinking good thoughts V
ICTOR
H
AYDEN

I got Ozzy Osbourne and Annette Funicello to interview each other. Brilliant idea, huh?
R
ANDEE
S
T
. N
ICHOLAS

Nick and his devoted parental figures
R
ANDEE
S
T
. N
ICHOLAS

Me and Jimmy Thrill. What can I say?
R
ANDEE
S
T
. N
ICHOLAS

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.

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 one 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.

Love-bunny Bob,

I’m laying here on the beach, thinking of you and what we almost
did yesterday. It makes me cry. Even those little things I did with you made me feel bad. Of course, I enjoy doing it . . . I’m only human too! I love it!! But I just can’t do it. Maybe I’m different—no, a lot of girls feel just like I do, they just give in too easy. You know I love you so much,
so much
! and you love me, I’m so glad you understand me. No other boy would do what you’re doing for me—but I promise you’ll be glad later . . . I promise.

Hi Lover-dover,

Is everything OK with you? Pam worries about her li’l one. I hope your dad doesn’t stick you in the service. Jeepers creepers, it’s too bad you can’t get better grades. Please get them for me. My Cher is still very sick, if you really want to know the reason I don’t want sex—it’s because I’m very worried about her. So, please stop asking for it, Bob. You know one day I’ll do it for you.

What would Cher think about someone naming her pussy after her? So very scary.

Bob’s parents dragged him to New York for a few months, and when he returned, much to his dire dismay, I had altered entirely. He so much wanted the old Pam to come back, but I had squirmed out of the cocoon as Pamela, so look out.

Hi, Bob, Honey,

I am changing. I am the weirdest thing in the world. I love all black, bell-bottom capri pants, bare feet, sweatshirts, and straight hair on girls! (me!) I’m starting to go around with some new, weird kids. I love you. I like tight corduroy pants on guys, suede shoes, and
long
hair. I got my Rolling Stones tickets. Seven rows from the front! Honey, please tell me if you have stopped smoking. I’ve stopped ratting my hair. Write soon, you are mine.

Pamela.

Hi Pam, Honey

I started smoking again, but please don’t be mad at me, my dearest darling, I only have about four or five a day. I guess I’ll start by saying I love you, and the reason I am so, so, so, so, so, so, so sad is I know how you feel about Victor Hayden, and it’s driving me right out of my mind and is making me so, so, so, so, so, so sick. Also, I know how you feel about Mick Jagger, and if you had
the chance, you would go out with him, the way you feel about Mick is like you want to fuck with him. I’M NOT SAYING YOU WOULD. That’s just how I feel. I don’t like you going to Holly-wood without me and seeing all those long-haired boys. I don’t want you to see the Stones without me either. It makes me so, so, so, so, so, so sad. I love you.

Your Boy Bob.

It took us hours to go through the yellowing stuff while Bob and I cracked up and cried over the sad fate of Pam and Bobby. I think he would have liked to rekindle the ancient, fractured romance, but it felt better just to be friends. He just had another daughter with some sweet young thing and seems pretty happy. I hope he is.

Little by little—through my book, the reunions with long-lost loves, and the scathing revelations of therapy—I was making peace and love with my past, if not my present. Michael had accepted my loopy apology, and we were getting along pretty well, considering all that had gone before. We never went too deep because of the untapped emotional danger below the sheen, but had reached a common point where we could laugh and have fun because we knew each other so damn well. No grudges, that’s one of my main mottos. We also needed each other because our son was stuck in his own pit of despair, and we could at least commiserate. No one else could have possibly understood. Communication with Nick was hard. He was insecure about what he felt and locked his fearsome thoughts into an airtight double knot. And, unfortunately, Houdini was long dead.

We had many redundant, repetitive, painful meetings with overly educated authority figures whose eyes darted all over the room, hoping to land anywhere but on our beseeching faces. They
wanted
to help. I suppose there are a lot of sensitive children who have an impossible time fitting into this bombastic place. When Victor Hayden was a child, he put aluminum foil over all the windows in his house to keep out unwanted invading energy. What did
his
parents think? What did
they
go through? God love them.

These overworked, overwrought officials finally placed Nick in a new program at a Santa Monica hospital, luckily real local. At least it seemed lucky at the beginning. We needed help with our son
so
badly that we naively assumed these “specialists” knew what they were doing.