Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway (24 page)

 

“He probably . . .” I began, but then trailed off. He probably what? He probably stayed at someone else’s house? I dismissed this thought immediately. Not Dad. That wasn’t like him. He probably pulled off the side of the road somewhere to sleep? Yeah, right. Finally I settled on, “He probably has a good reason.”

 

“Yes,” Grandma said. “Well, maybe.”

 

I knew what she was thinking. We were all thinking it, although nobody dared articulate it. Since returning to California, Dad had been working as a bartender again. He worked five nights a week, and then would have to drive home at two in the morning. But as Aunt Evie was fond of pointing out to us, Dad had been at the bar seven nights a week recently, and it wasn’t because he was a workaholic. Grandma was worrying that one day those 2 a.m. drives were going to catch up with my father, just like Aunt Evie warned. One night he was going to fly through one red light too many. He was going to miss a stop sign. Maybe he might not see a road divider. And then . . . Dad wouldn’t be coming home ever again.

 

I looked around the house; the effects of the amphetamine and the growing fear in the pit of my stomach were making me feel ill.

 

“Maybe he got in late and left early,” I offered weakly. But looking beyond the kitchen to Aunt Evie’s quiet, antique living room, I could see no evidence that Dad had been here at all last night. Nothing on the couch, no shoes on the floor. The coffee table had nothing on it—no cups, no glasses, no keys. I looked over to Marie, but all she could do was shrug at me.

 

I left the food behind and went to check out Dad’s bedroom. It was quiet, dark, and cold. The bed had not been slept in. Walking around the house, I tried to think of other things. Tomorrow there was a publicity shoot, a session that would last all day with some big-time photographer. Then, in the afternoon, a reporter from People magazine was going to interview us. In a few weeks we were leaving for our European tour, which was really exciting. I would finally get a chance to visit the land that David Bowie himself had come from. Today I had decided that I was going to go back to school to drop off some magazine articles that featured the Runaways in old Mrs. Whittaker’s office. She was the one who’d told me that I would never amount to anything. Let’s see what old Whittaker would think now! Maybe I could hang out in a classroom, and listen to all of the boring facts I’d been missing out on while I’d been touring with the band. All of the stupid equations I’d never be tested on. If I did that, I wouldn’t have to think about Dad.

 

When I walked back in the kitchen, my breakfast was waiting for me. I sat down and looked at the food. Eating was the last thing on my mind. Grandma noticed me staring at my plate and said softly, “I guess we shouldn’t worry. He’s a grown man. He can look after himself.”

 

I knew that Grandma didn’t really believe that. After all, she was his mother. Dad would always be her one and only loving son as far as she was concerned. I took a few unenthusiastic bites of my food and swallowed it down. I could feel cold sweat on my palms, in the nape of my neck, as the pill and the anxiety started to make my heart pound. I went to the living room and started to pace on the thick, beige carpet. I looked at the pictures on the walls; Aunt Evie had dozens of them. Pictures of Aunt Evie, of Grandma and my late grandpa, pictures of Sandie and Don, Marie and me. There were pictures of Dad when he was younger, his hair dark and thick, the eyes shining out from the past. Even back then, when posing for most of those pictures, he had a cigarette in one hand and a glass in the other. I heard Aunt Evie’s voice in my head again. “One day those 2 a.m. drives are going to catch up with him!”

 

Seized by a sudden inspiration, I walked over to the piano and leaned over it to open the curtains. Looking outside, I felt an enormous wave of relief wash over me. Dad’s car was parked right there, in the street.

 

“Dad’s car is out here!” I yelled. “Grandma! Dad’s car is here!”

 

I saw Grandma snap to attention and come hustling out of the kitchen like a woman half her age. She peered through the window and recognized Dad’s car immediately. “Then where is he?” she wondered aloud.

 

I took a look in the backyard and the laundry room. There was no sign of Dad. Marie helped, and when we came up empty-handed, she suggested, “Maybe he’s taking a walk?”Grandma shook her head. I didn’t think so either.

 

“I think I know where he is,” I said. I hoped I was wrong. “Come on, Marie.”

 

A part of me didn’t want to deal with this at all. I knew I could just slap on some makeup and head off for Joan’s house so we could spend the day talking about anything but our families. But I realized that there was nowhere for me to run, not really. I’d have to deal with this eventually, especially as it became more and more of a regular occurrence.

 

Marie and I approached the car in the blazing midmorning sunlight. As we got closer, we couldn’t see much: just the seats, the dashboard, and the steering wheel. The car looked deserted. It was an old white Chevy. The same car Dad would take us out to dinner in. To the movies. “You’re going to be movie stars!” Dad would say to us at the drive-in. “Two beautiful girls like you? They’ll be knocking down the doors for you. You’ll see!” He would smile then, and I would look up to my dad and believe him. I would believe every word he said to me as we sat in that car.

 

We were standing by the car now, peering in at Dad through the glass. He was lying across the front seat, head against the door handle, eyes closed. His body was curled into a ball. His hair was sticking up, and it made him look like a little boy. I hated that. Every so often my dad would look like a little boy, and I couldn’t stand it. Without a single word, Marie opened the door. We stood there, looking down at Daddy, and he didn’t move. All of the pent-up heat inside of the car floated up to us, along with the pungent smell of stale vodka or bourbon. I wondered for a frozen moment if he was still alive.

 

Shut up, Cherie! Of course he’s alive! He’s just sleeping, is all!

 

I found myself watching the buttons on his shirt, making sure that they were moving rhythmically with the rise and fall of his breathing. I relaxed a little when I saw that they were.

 

“Should we wake him up?” Marie asked. “I mean, we can’t just leave him here.”

 

We stood there for a few minutes, too embarrassed to do anything. Then Grandma appeared at the front door in her robe and slippers and yelled, “Is he there?”

 

“Yeah,” I answered, looking back to her. Grandma shook her head sadly and went back inside without saying a word. “Come on.”

 

Marie and I tried to wake him up. It took quite a bit of shaking. When he came to, he blinked up at us, uncomprehending. I saw the misunderstanding flash across his face as his brain struggled to make sense of what was going on. He shook his head, sat up, then produced a comb, seemingly from thin air, and with two swipes across his head looked like my dad once more. His eyes were a little bleary, but the hair was perfect. Only the rough stubble on his cheeks and the smell of alcohol gave him away. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

 

“Well, hello,” he said. He smiled at us. “I . . . I, uh, guess I was a little tired last night, that’s all. Thought I’d stay out here. Guess I must have slept through the night . . .”

 

As embarrassed as my father felt, I knew that it could be nowhere as intense as the sadness Marie and I felt right then. I was embarrassed for him, I was embarrassed for me . . . all I knew was that this moment had to end as quickly as possible, or I felt like I would explode.

 

“Were you worried about me?” he asked.

 

I shook my head quickly. “Why should I be worried?” I said. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

 

“Of course I am.”

 

“Why don’t you come in,” Marie suggested. “Grandma has bacon and eggs for you.”

 

Dad sighed, and looked a little pale. He gripped the wheel and looked straight ahead. Without making eye contact with us, he said, “I’ll be in in a minute, kittens.”

 

With something approaching relief, Marie and I went back inside without another word.

 

At the kitchen table I watched Marie eat her cold bacon and eggs. I heard footsteps, and there was Daddy walking in. Marie and I smiled at him. Grandma looked at him briefly but then turned away, busying herself with the dishes. She had been washing the same dish for five minutes now. With perfect timing, Aunt Evie walked into the kitchen unaware that anything untoward had been going on.

 

“Morning, everyone!” she sang as my dad shuffled out of the kitchen.

 

Twenty minutes later Dad reappeared. He was ready for breakfast. He was clean-shaven and dressed in fresh clothes. His eyes were bright, and he looked dashing and handsome once more. When he smiled at us, everything that had gone on that morning was suddenly washed away. Grandma didn’t bring up what happened, and Marie and I didn’t either. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend that something is not happening rather than deal with it in the cold light of day. I was learning to be very good at that. Sometimes I felt that there were too many painful things in this world, and if I thought about them all, my heart might break in two.

 

I excused myself and went to my room. My head was swimming. It’s the pill, I told myself. The pill. It was too much. You need something to calm you down . . . I rummaged around in my purse and found a loose quaalude. I figured that taking it would calm me down; it would smooth out the rough edges of the upper, and help me to forget everything that went on with Daddy. My father is not an alcoholic, I thought as I washed the pill down with a glass of water. He just likes his liquor, is all.

 

The thought gave me some comfort. People were too quick to pathologize other people. My father was going through a tough time. He had to leave his life in Texas and come back to California so he could look after us. All because Mom decided to leave. He was back to working as a bartender. Of course my dad needed to drink. He needed to unwind. Just like me.

 

Just like me.

 

After taking the second pill, I lay down and stared at the ceiling. I took deep, slow breaths until I could feel my heart slowing down. My stomach was nearly empty, so I felt the quaalude start to take effect quickly. There, that’s better. I smiled. Things were fine. Things had always been fine. They would always be fine. I closed my eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 15

 

Snapshots of Europe

 

 

 

 

In Europe, I saw the future of rock music and I didn’t like it. Punk rock was everywhere in the UK, and suddenly our shows were packed with scrawny kids wearing dog collars and leather, with safety pins shoved through their noses, ears, even their cheeks. They had ugly, violently colored, chopped-up hair. They wore spikes, torn T-shirts, and they liked to spit on each other for fun. When we did our show at CBGB, we played with bands that the press was calling “punks”—Television, Talking Heads; we saw the Ramones, who were all dressed in leather jackets and torn-up Keds sneakers, playing loud, catchy songs at a lightning pace in divey underground bars. I didn’t really get the music: it seemed too loud and aggressive for me. I was always a sucker for melody. Joan really dug it, though, and the Ramones themselves seemed like nice guys. Even the crowd at CBGB was better than what I saw in Britain; the New York take on punk was more cerebral, and almost charming compared with its vicious, violent transatlantic incarnation. Over here, the punks had adopted the Runaways as one of their own, which I found puzzling. At first I thought they hated us! When we were onstage, they pelted us with cans and coins. You could feel their sweat drizzle across your face and body as they screamed and shook violently, bashing into one another. This wasn’t an audience, it was a frenzied mob. Sometimes they would even spit at us. After the first show, I was convinced that they hated us.

 

“Don’t worry,” the promoter assured us in his thick Cockney accent when we dashed from the stage. “It means they like you. It’s a sign of affection!”

 

After a few more violent, antagonistic shows like that, I started to wonder if the ultimate show of appreciation for these kids wouldn’t be to actually storm the stage and kill the band. The shows became nerve-racking; each night was becoming less about the music and more like some kind of ritualized blood sport.

 

I was taking Placidyls every day now. Meanwhile, Scott Anderson had brought some cocaine along with him, and was rationing it out “for emergencies.”

 

On top of everything else, Scott Anderson was being an asshole to me. Toward the end of the first tour, we stopped flirting and actually got together. I’m not really sure how it happened. There was a lot of simmering sexual tension between us and one night he finally asked me out to dinner. After dinner, he drove me to the Holiday Inn in Woodland Hills and got us a room. I was nervous, but excited, too. After we’d checked into a room, I remember he disappeared into the bathroom for a while. When I finally knocked and was told to come in, I found him lying naked in the tub. He was very well endowed. I remember I saw it just . . . floating there, and it scared me a little. I was young and inexperienced, and after we’d had sex, I started getting attached, thinking that I was in love with him.

 

I just needed someone to hold me, someone who would show me affection, and Scott was there. He knew how vulnerable I was, and played into it totally. I was spending so many nights at his place prior to the European tour that I had practically moved in. My father didn’t like Scott, and would say, “Cherie, you’re sixteen years old. He’s almost thirty. Can you honestly tell me you don’t see what’s wrong with this picture?”