Here's the Story LP: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice (8 page)

Finally, Mike and my parents told Craig that they were buying him out of his percentage of the club. They gave him $20,000 and forced him out. Craig, who’d also been receiving income and profits for about two years, agreed, and his interest in the club was dissolved.

Kevin was upset at the way Craig had been treated. Then, about a month later, Craig filed a $100,000 suit against the club, saying he was forced out under duress. (He settled with Mike for $5,000.) A month later, Kevin brought a $1 million lawsuit against my parents—not the club or Mike—claiming they’d cheated him.

My parents were extremely hurt, and my mother was even more worried about what friends and family would say if they found out. Mike and Hella pleaded with Kevin to reconsider, and he eventually dropped the suit. But three months later, Craig started a new, competing nightclub called Star Baby, and Kevin worked for him.

Interestingly, a week before that club opened, the Mine Shaft caught fire and burned to the ground. The sheriff’s and fire departments both determined the blaze was caused by arson. We found out that Craig’s father, who’d moved to Nevada, had been accused of burning down projects to collect insurance. Mike and Hella felt strongly that Craig and Kevin were responsible for the fire.

My father didn’t want to consider that theory. But my mother had her suspicions. One thing has always struck me as bizarrely curious. A paraplegic named Eddie worked at the club. He and his wheelchair were as much of a presence as the beer tap. Everyone knew him. Ordinarily he would have been at the club at the time the blaze swept through the place, and most likely he wouldn’t have been able to get out in time. But my brother Kevin had come by early and taken him home.

No one ever brought that up. The Mine Shaft was rebuilt, though it never recovered. Mike also ran into problems with the landlord, eventually selling for slightly less than the debts he incurred while the club was closed. A few years after the fire, Craig was found dead in a car without any clothes on. Along with my parents and Mike, I suspected that drugs were involved. That was another mystery.

But we knew one thing for sure. The
Brady
era was definitely over.

Not So Happy Days

I
t was a sign of the times when I heard that my friend Julie was going to pose for
Playboy.
She was one of my two closest girlfriends from high school. I actually heard the news from my other friend Debbie. I was stunned. Julie had been brought up in a strict Mormon household. But as Debbie and I talked about it, my attitude was Why not? She was a beautiful girl.

“Would you ever do it?” Debbie asked.

“No,” I said, laughing nervously.

I did other things, though.

Indeed, my life after Marcia Brady was a whirlwind of experimentation and searching that evolved into a grim spiral of avoidance, denial, and self-destruction. The roller coaster began with a visit to Debbie, who was going to college in Santa Barbara. At a dinner she arranged for me to meet a few of her friends, we gorged ourselves on pizza, chips, and desserts. It was more food than I’d eaten in my entire life, and afterward I felt sickeningly full as well as guilty.

But one of Debbie’s new friends explained that she knew a way to get rid of everything we’d eaten. Eyes lit up around the room. Really? How? It was easy, she said. You made yourself throw up.

She explained how to do it, and one by one we went into the bathroom, stuck a finger down our throats, and threw up in the toilet. After some initial fear, I had an easy time of it. I felt better immediately. I had no idea it was dangerous.

I forced myself to throw up a few times later on after bingeing out of nervousness and anxiety. It was like a trick I could do when I needed help regaining control of my emotions. I’d get wound up because of work—or the difficulty getting it. The kind of serious acting jobs I hoped for after
The Brady Bunch
didn’t come easily or quickly. I pictured myself going into movies. I had a reservoir of deep and dark emotions in me, and I was ready to show the world there was more to me than Marcia. I wanted to be known for serious work and winning awards.

But nothing came from the auditions I went on. People wanted to meet me, it seemed. Some asked me out. Others just wanted to look at me. There always seemed to be so much promise. Then it failed to materialize. Little by little, like waves and wind reshaping a rocky shoreline, that process, the cruelest part of Hollywood, chipped away at my confidence, sense of self, determination, and hope. “Almost breaking through,” I wrote in my diary. “But it doesn’t want to shine…”

I know there’s life all around

Though in places hard to find

My phone—it’s still not busy

But I’m waiting—I’ll be here for a while

Breaking through is not easy

That blossom has yet to bloom

Maybe tomorrow

Or the day after next

Things don’t always come that soon

Kevin and I, neighbors in our condo complex, hung out, playing guitar, writing songs, and dreaming of a recording career. Well, he dreamed, and my father encouraged it. But I found myself more aware of Kevin’s inability to find a satisfying direction in his life. The two of us went to Hawaii, where we killed time under the guise of getting healthy and in shape. In reality, we drank lots of fruit juices and ran on the beach. I wasn’t much of a pot smoker yet, not like Kevin anyway, but we also sampled some of the local pot, the Maui Wowie.

Today—I find my own

With shades of yellow, others gray

I’ve strummed my words—they’re dry now

My drawings—gradually find their way

Gradually, I seemed to find my way too. I landed a part as a heroin addict on an episode of
Harry-O,
the smart detective series starring David Janssen as former-LAPD-officer-turned-private-eye Harry Orwell.

I patterned my character after my brother Kevin’s friend Ron, a longtime heroin addict who’d battled a serious drug problem when both of them were in high school. It was my first serious, adult role, a great showcase for me, and felt like I took a step up the acting ladder when my effort earned praise from the
Harry-O
director, as well as from David Janssen.

I carried that confidence into my next job, a guest spot on
Happy Days.
I played one of three girls that Richie, Potsie, and Ralph pick up after they go cruising for chicks.

The atmosphere on the set was relaxed and warm, and I had fun meeting Henry Winkler and Ron Howard. Both of them were among the nicest, warmest, and most genuine people I’d met. I was impressed by the way they were handling stardom with effortless grace.

I was embraced by the show’s director, Jerry Paris, who wanted to set me up with one of his sons. I didn’t want to say no because he also intimated that he might have ideas that could help my career. I met his son, and we went out on a few dates. But when they didn’t work out, I never heard from Jerry again.

Around the same time I also met a well-known producer whose office was on the Paramount lot. One day he introduced himself, and I was surprised that this man whom I’II call J.M. knew who I was. He was at least twenty years older than me, very successful, and in a different league. A short time later, though, his secretary called and said J.M. would like to meet with me.

I was even more shocked when I went to his office and all he did was gush about my talent and charisma. He made me feel like a million dollars. He also arranged for me to audition for a new series. I didn’t get the part, but I heard from him immediately afterward. He said not to worry, he wanted to create a series for me.

My own series?

Coming from J.M., that was a big deal. He had the clout to make such a thing happen. He promised we’d get together soon to discuss it. I’d never felt as good about being rejected.

Soon after, we met for lunch at the Paramount commissary, which turned out to be a regular spot for us. That lunch led to another and another. We always sat at his corner table. Sometimes I felt odd being there with him. I wasn’t always clear on the purpose, as those lunches, despite discussions about my series, gradually came to feel more personal than professional. But J.M. said he needed to get to know me as part of his research.

I didn’t know much about J.M. personally other than that he was in his forties, married, and a father. He also had a thick accent that he was able to thicken for comedic effect. But I liked spending time with him. He was smart and entertaining, personable and warm. He made me feel good about myself. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was seduced, but I was thoroughly charmed by the attention he gave me.

I didn’t analyze it, either. To be honest, I couldn’t think beyond the show he promised. My show. Our show. The show I inspired him to create. Whatever. It made me like putty in his hands. And I started to feel his hands. During our lunches, I noticed he began to touch my arm when he wanted to emphasize a point. It was easy to confuse that sort of gesture with simple, innocent warmth. His leg also occasionally rested against mine under the table. Once he put his arm around me as we walked back to his office. Another time he held my hand as we walked back to his office. Even though it didn’t feel right to me, I didn’t pull away.

I told myself that we were friends; we were making the connection he needed to write a show for me. People in show business were more overtly affectionate than in a normal office workplace. I conveniently avoided thinking there might be something else going on.

Like many young actresses, I was, despite my years in the business, gullible and way too eager and open for someone with influence to help usher me to my next dream. Thus I was easy prey.

I
n the meantime, I shot an episode of
The Turning Point of Jim Malloy,
a series based on John O’Hara stories starring John Savage. I also went out on a handful of auditions. I tried not to think about the day when my own show would launch. Finally, J.M. called with an update. He was getting close on the series, and since he was writing about my apartment, he wanted to come to my place to see what it was like and make sure it was true to my character.

Fine, I said. Whatever he needed.

We set a date for him to come over to my place after work. He brought a magnum of chilled champagne. I wasn’t displeased when he showed me, but I wasn’t expecting it either. He said it was to toast our show.

J.M. popped the cork and poured us glasses. We sat next to each other on the sofa and clinked glasses. When they were empty, he refilled them. He glanced around my apartment, commenting on a few things. He also talked enthusiastically about the show and me. I didn’t know which was more intoxicating, the champagne or his compliments.

At some point, he asked to see my bedroom. I admit that I was tipsy and turned on as I got up and led him down the hall. Once inside, it felt like the temperature in the room went up about a hundred degrees. Suddenly he turned toward me and said that he wanted me. I didn’t know what I wanted. But before I could figure it out, he pushed me down on the bed, not hard, but firmly, and began to kiss me. I started to kiss him back. But it felt wrong, and when I felt his hands under my shirt it felt really wrong. I said stop and pushed him off me.

An extremely awkward moment ensued during which we exchanged confused and at least on my end partly apologetic stares, then several words, and finally without saying anything more J.M. went into the other room, put on his jacket, and left. I don’t know why I felt compelled to apologize; my naiveté may have made me slightly complicit. But I felt taken advantage of and used.

In any event, I was relieved and grateful when he went away. Later that night I cried myself to sleep, wishing I could wake up and have the world the way it was before J.M. knocked on my door.

I
guess I wasn’t as special as J.M. said. After that night, he quit calling. Our lunches stopped. And my show, our show, if it ever existed, faded into an unpleasant memory. It took a while to get over my disappointment and the pain of feeling used, but I was glad I didn’t sleep my way into a show. That wasn’t a role I desired. I didn’t ever want to be one of those actresses.

Still, I worried about what would happen when J.M. and I crossed paths at the studio, which I knew was inevitable. I was on guard every time I was on that lot, poised to duck around the corner and avoid what I knew would be an uncomfortable confrontation. The funny thing was the one time I wasn’t looking out for him was the time when I heard his voice.

“Hello, Maureen.”

When that happened, it was like a switch flipped inside me. One minute I was walking along a sidewalk amid soundstages and the bustle of studio workers, and the next minute I was transported back into my bedroom.

Talk about great acting. I hid the fact that I was freaked out just hearing his voice. Instead, I offered a warm but wary hello, the same as his, and kept going.

At home that night, though, I had an anxiety attack, something I hadn’t experience before. I went into the kitchen and stuffed every morsel of food I could find into my mouth. Afterward, I walked into the bathroom and vomited.

E
ach time I saw J.M. after that was a little easier. He was always friendly and our hellos turned into a few short, polite sentences.

How are you? Good.

You look good. You, too.

As time passed, I pushed those not-so-happy days to the back of my mind and only recalled them (always with a private shudder) when actress friends talked about powerful men hitting on them. A couple years went by before we saw each other again, and when we did, he invited me to lunch. I didn’t know what to say. My hesitation was the result of seriously mixed feelings.

He repeated his invitation. I assumed he finally wanted to talk to me about what had happened. I didn’t know if there was much to say or if it was necessary. For the sake of closure, though, and because I’d once really liked and admired J.M., I made myself go.

The first few minutes were uncomfortable. Our conversation was forced and polite as we caught up. Then J.M. apologized. He still believed in me, he said, and wanted to make amends by helping my career. He gave me his company’s phone number and made me promise to call. I thought about it a few times, but I never picked up the phone. I didn’t trust him. Years later I ran into his secretary and she also apologized.

The worst part about the whole encounter was that I didn’t trust myself anymore—and looking back, that was the most damaging part of the whole thing.