Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up (37 page)

BOOK: Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up

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Still, I told the DJ that I was sure Jimmy didn’t even have such
an antiquated, lamebrained word in his vocabulary. The DJ then proceeded to play an interview he had done with Jimmy a mere few hours earlier, and if I hadn’t heard it with my own be-jangled ears, I wouldn’t have believed it in a million years. When asked what he thought of my book, Jimmy replied in his soft, sweet voice, “Oh, I’ve met a lot of bimbos out there. You know how
girls
like to exaggerate.” Period. Since I was on the air, I professed sadness that Mr. Page would stoop so low as to drag out that worn-out, pathetic antifemale name tag, reminding Mr. DJ that I had all the facts in my diaries, nothing but the truth, so help me God.

After the interview was over the DJ ran the rest of the tape so I could hear what Jimmy had to say
off
the air. “You say Pamela is in town today? I wouldn’t mind if you brought good old Miss P. down to the Firm [his new group] show tonight.” Good old Miss P.—the bimbo. No thanks, doll, former
amore
, back stabber with a violin bow. But even Jimmy’s two-faced hostility couldn’t shake my glorious best-seller mood.

That evening I met Donnie on the set of
Miami Vice
, and he took me to celebrate at his favorite Italian restaurant. Danny Sullivan, the handsome big-shot race-car driver came with us, along with a few other doting tagalongs, and glasses were raised high to the best-selling author. It was fascinating to see how Donnie maneuvered around Miami. He was like Elvis in Memphis. They ushered us into the fancy back room of the restaurant like the Godfather had swept into the building, while hushed onlookers tried not to bore holes through the famous man in mauve. And later that night as we raced back to Star Island in his new Ferrari—like the wind—a hundred miles an hour, sirens wailed behind us, and Don drove even faster, flying. He finally allowed the infuriated cop to pull us over, and when the boy in blue saw Donnie’s grinning mug, Sonny Crockett himself, he laughed like a good-natured, jovial extra on the set of
Miami Vice
and let us continue on our way. My dear friend Donnie was at the peak of his roll. DJ. was still enthralled with Barbra Streisand, even to the point of singing a duet with the grand dame songbird that was to be featured on both of their albums.

When I swung through New York I popped in on him and Barbra in the penthouse sweet suite of some ultra-fashionable, snobby-posh hotel. There was a lot of laughter and caviar. The head of Warner Bros., Mo Ostin, and his nice-as-pie wife dropped by for a small drink, and my mind started to whir. Since I was going to be in Minneapolis at the exact right time, I had been trying—in vain—to
get an invite to Prince’s party at Paisley Park after his show. As we wittily threw nice words around, I tossed my caviar-cool out the penthouse window and casually told Mr. Ostin of my predicament. “No problem, Pamela,” he said, as pretty as you please, “I’ll arrange for you to see the show and attend the party.” He then got all my Minneapolis hotel info, and when I arrived, the entire Prince package was waiting at the front desk. That’s the way to do it.

They were passing out heart-shaped mirror armbands as you entered the Paisley Park tent, and after grabbing one, I wormed my way through the decked-out crowd to the front-front of the stage, and leaned on it, staking out my space. I waited there, pooped out and exhilarated until two-thirty in the morning when I got to gaze up at Prince’s crotch for the next three hours. I could have touched his five-inch stiletto boot, but remained calm. The show was entirely different from the usual Lovesexy stage romp—lots of soul ballads, gospel glory, and duets with Mavis Staples. I was receiving manna, he was heaven-sent. Later on, the crack of dawn, I saw Prince in a corner by himself but left him alone. He’s definitely the Greta Garbo of rock. At least I could woman-handle him in my dreams.

The second to last stop was Seattle, and I was on one of those afternoon TV shows where I had to fill an entire hour. “And then Mick Jagger said . . . Ha ha! Isn’t that amazing!? Keith Moon really did try to squeeze into my spike heels. .. . I was
in love
with these guys. . . . No, Nicky’s too young to care about the subject matter. . . . The book didn’t really have anything to do with my separation from Michael. . . . You know I never knew what controversy those two words—‘huge-----’—would cause. . . . No, Donnie doesn’t seem to mind at all! . . . Har-de-har. …” And so on.

As I signed a few books and posed for a couple photos, a deep, long-ago familiar voice behind me said, “Hello, Pamela.” I knew instantly who it was. Victor Hayden. One of the very few people who drastically altered the course of my life. I spun around and there was my intrepid friend from high school, Captain Beefheart’s cousin, the guy who carried Kant and Freud through the corny corridors of Cleveland High, hiding joints, running from the vice principal because he dared to defy almighty authority by growing his hair a half inch below his ears. I had first seen the Rolling Stones with him in 1965, I listened to jazz at a downtown club, Mother Neptune’s, just
to impress him with my pretend, fumbling hipness. His influence forced me to comb through my flippy bouffant and part my hair down the middle, rub off the blue eye shadow, cast aside the rahrah cheerleader concept. I probably would have married bitchen Bob Martine and still be living in the flat heat of Reseda if not for Victor Hayden. He turned me on to Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Kerouac, Kafka, Coltrane, Captain Beefheart, he made me dare to look within, to question
everything
.

It had been nineteen years since I last saw Victor. The man who smoked black widow spider-webs for pleasure. He had slowly disappeared into the wilderness, too sensitive to deal with the brain-breaking world. The last time I heard from him was way back in ’75 when he wrote one lone letter advising me to check out the Vedanta Society. After residing for a few years with silent monks on a still retreat, he had been living in the hollow of a giant redwood tree with no electricity, no running water. It seemed Victor had finally dropped out entirely. But here he was, looking much like he had the day he decided not to attend the graduation ceremony at Cleveland High. Dressed all in black, his hair was clipped severely, and he seemed fairly normal except for the look in his eye behind the Mr. Middle Class eyeglasses. He was incognito.

“Victor! I’m so thrilled to see you!!” I hugged him hard. “What do you mean, Pamela? We’ve been communicating for sixty minutes.” He had been in the back row of the audience assuming we had been making a connection throughout the entire show. I reminded him how near-sighted I was, and he nodded gravely. Hmm. Sense of humor missing? My Seattle author-caretaker gave me half an hour for lunch, so while she waited outside in her nondistinct car, checking her stopwatch, Vic and I sat in his fave place, the Thirteen Coins, a dimly lit seventies-style coffee shop, trying to fill each other in. He was nervous, and I couldn’t imagine why. He confessed to me that he had been considering suicide the day before, but then my face flashed on the TV screen, so he came down to the studio and sat in the audience instead. A bit extreme, but that was Victor. Every sentence out of him was unique, his carefully chosen words almost poetic with an off-center touch of the absurd. He had been managing thrash-metal bands, had his own underground record label, and was still painting. Why Seattle, I wondered? He was trying to make a slow comeback to humanity, a gradual return to mainstream mania. I invited him to Los Angeles for a visit, grateful that I could finally feel on Victor’s level rather than several rungs below. What he said didn’t elude me anymore; I understood him. Maybe I could return the high school favor by helping him back to earth.