Back in my 20s I terrorized this town… I used my short skirts, long legs, and quick wit to get me out of all kinds of jams. It worked for a few years. I thought I was having fun, but I would find myself in bad situations, including being shoved in the hatchback of my own sports car and driven at high speed through the streets of Hollywood by my boyfriend-of-the-moment who believed he was in better shape to drive than I was. I would come to in other towns, with people I did not recognize. I would come to on the floor of my bathroom, where I would curl up on the cold tile, waiting for the spinning to stop… or not. I would come to understand that things were not going to get better with age and maturity. I needed to fucking stop the downward spiral… but I couldn’t. I crashed parties, I crashed film premieres, I crashed cars… I crashed into the neighbors’ garbage cans when leaving my cousin’s house in a drunken stupor in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, knocking them into a ravine where they could not be retrieved… not that I was in any shape to even TRY to retrieve them. I could not retrieve myself. After all the many dangerous, humiliating things I had done, it was the fucking garbage cans that did me in. I had had enough.
I crashed. I didn’t actually REMEMBER what I had done at my cousin's. I was in a blackout. The acquaintances (I had no real friends left) who had been only too happy to help themselves to the booze in my vacationing cousin’s guest house filled me in on my antics when my head cleared a bit later that evening back at my apartment. I was furious at them for telling me and made them leave.
Crumpled on the floor of my shower, I shivered under a cold drizzle, the hot water having run out as I tried to wash away the shame and self-loathing… again. I had caused much worse incidents than this thing with the garbage cans dozens of times. But somehow on that day I realized that my wild child drunken behavior was going to lead me to a pathetic, ugly end. What kind of end? I didn’t know, but I felt disaster looming at my shoulder like some sort of horrible demon whenever I was sober… which wasn’t nearly often enough. Something had to give.
This was in the Spring of 1986. I was working for a hotshot agent at William Morris. My boss was, unsurprisingly, annoyed when I would show up at my desk outside his office wearing the same clothes as the day before, make-up smeared, disheveled, reeking. Many a morning he would walk by me, shaking his head as he briskly entered his office and began barking orders for me to start lining up calls to writers, directors, studio heads. As long as I did my job well — and remarkably, I did — he seemed content to stay out of my personal affairs.
On the morning after the garbage can debacle, when I was looking particularly rough, he glanced at me longer than usual on his way to his desk. I could hear him put down his briefcase and rummage through a drawer. He exited his office without a word. He came back a few minutes later bearing a styrofoam coffee cup. Odd, he NEVER got his own coffee, and he never drank from lowly styrofoam. As he neared my desk, he stopped and turned the cup to face me. On it in blue ballpoint pen he had drawn the face of a woman with a wild mass of curly hair. He had taken a highlighter and tinted her skin yellow, and with a red pen had rendered her eyes bloodshot. Faking hand tremors, intentionally spilling some of the water he’d put in the cup, he extended it to me and said, “why don’t you try to choke down a few sips of water, little missie?” I accepted the cup in horror, as the other assistants looked on. He stalked into his office, calling out, “Get me Julien Temple right now.” I put the cup down and started dialing. Some assistants snickered, but not too loudly. Many of them behaved as badly as I did.
I didn’t stop drinking that day, and I didn’t stop to wonder WHY I was so self-destructive, so unconcerned with my own future. But I did stop by the mail slot and throw in a letter to my cousin so it would be waiting for her when she returned to town. I told her about the garbage cans. I told her I needed help. I told her I was in trouble. I TOLD. I was a mess. I had been a mess for years. Long before the drinking started. Maybe even before my best friend’s father began touching me in ways he shouldn't when I was still a child. Maybe since birth. My cousin got me help. I finally faced myself and asked WHY. And everything changed. That was April 16, 1986. I am sober to this day.
On the morning after the garbage can debacle, when I was looking particularly rough, he glanced at me longer than usual on his way to his desk. I could hear him put down his briefcase and rummage through a drawer. He exited his office without a word. He came back a few minutes later bearing a styrofoam coffee cup. Odd, he NEVER got his own coffee, and he never drank from lowly styrofoam. As he neared my desk, he stopped and turned the cup to face me. On it in blue ballpoint pen he had drawn the face of a woman with a wild mass of curly hair. He had taken a highlighter and tinted her skin yellow, and with a red pen had rendered her eyes bloodshot. Faking hand tremors, intentionally spilling some of the water he’d put in the cup, he extended it to me and said, “why don’t you try to choke down a few sips of water, little missie?” I accepted the cup in horror, as the other assistants looked on. He stalked into his office, calling out, “Get me Julien Temple right now.” I put the cup down and started dialing. Some assistants snickered, but not too loudly. Many of them behaved as badly as I did.
I didn’t stop drinking that day, and I didn’t stop to wonder WHY I was so self-destructive, so unconcerned with my own future. But I did stop by the mail slot and throw in a letter to my cousin so it would be waiting for her when she returned to town. I told her about the garbage cans. I told her I needed help. I told her I was in trouble. I TOLD. I was a mess. I had been a mess for years. Long before the drinking started. Maybe even before my best friend’s father began touching me in ways he shouldn't when I was still a child. Maybe since birth. My cousin got me help. I finally faced myself and asked WHY. And everything changed. That was April 16, 1986. I am sober to this day.
EPILOGUE
I moved on to another job after I realized that, sober, I had NO desire to train to be an agent. About 18 months after I left William Morris, that hotshot agent stuck his head into the office at the movie studio where I was then working, saying he’d had a meeting down the hall and seen my name of the door, so he had to stop in. He gave me a big grin. He hardly ever smiled at me when I worked for him. No wonder! I invited him in. The actor I read scripts for was out of town shooting a film, so we were able to sit in the inner office and talk. After awkward pleasantries, I told him that I needed to make an amends to him, that I was now over a year sober, and that I was sorry for not being the best employee I could have been. What an understatement! He was so kind I was taken aback. He told me his own family had been affected by alcoholism, and that he was proud of me for turning my life around when I was still so young. My eyes teared up. I told him that I had taken that styrofoam cup home with me the day he gave it to me and put it in my kitchen cupboard so that every time I opened it, I was faced with myself. The cup was still there. I thanked him for giving me that wake-up call. We chatted for a few more minutes and then he left. I have not seen him since.
Even after our talk, I kept that styrofoam cup. In January of 1994 it was crushed when a massive earthquake hit L.A. and the contents of my kitchen cupboards came crashing to the floor. I wish I’d taken a photo of it before it got destroyed, but it served its purpose.
Even after our talk, I kept that styrofoam cup. In January of 1994 it was crushed when a massive earthquake hit L.A. and the contents of my kitchen cupboards came crashing to the floor. I wish I’d taken a photo of it before it got destroyed, but it served its purpose.
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