Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway (18 page)

 

I started to worry about whether I should have doubled up on my Tampax. I remembered being at the beach when I was twelve and seeing some girl lying out in the sun; and her bikini bottom was soaked with blood. The image was permanently imprinted on my mind. Suddenly a nightmare scenario popped into my head. I imagined myself emerging from that makeshift coffin dressing room, dressed in my new corset . . . and I’d notice people pointing and laughing . . . I’d look down to see a blood trail from my crotch to my knees. Jesus, I shuddered at the thought. Ugh, talk about shitty timing!

 

Just then Rodney Bingenheimer walked in, with a stunning girl on each arm. They were covered in glitter and towered over him by at least four or five inches. No wonder they called him the mayor of the Sunset Strip! Shaun immediately headed over to him and gave him a big hug. I guess Rodney really does know everybody!

 

A voice from the doorway yelled, “GIRLS, IT’S TIME!” I looked around to see if there were any other stars milling around. There weren’t, so the celebrity spotting would have to resume after the show. We were led, single file, down a long corridor to a dark stairway. We held on to each other so that we wouldn’t trip over our six-inch platform boots. One by one the girls walked out onto the stage, and from behind the curtain, I could hear the crowd. The noise was so loud, so intense it made my stomach tingle. I waited until the girls were plugged in and ready to go so I didn’t look like an idiot standing around waiting for them to start. I heard Sandy’s drumsticks snapping together as she counted off the first song. . .

 

One. . .

 

Two. . .

 

Three. . .

 

Four!

 

And suddenly I was out onstage, bathed in the blinding lights, striking a pose just like my hero, David Bowie, did when I saw him at Universal City back in what seemed like another lifetime. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The music was thunderous, and I moved with it, spitting out the words over the sound of the club full of screaming kids. I reached my hand out to the audience, just close enough to brush their outstretched fingertips, before pulling away again. They grabbed at me with a curious mix of desperation and ecstasy in their eyes. They held on to my ankles as I stood on the edge of the stage. As the first song ended, I realized that I was already bathed in sweat. Drenched. My eyes were burning with a combination of sweat, makeup, and glitter. I glanced over to Joan and saw that her makeup was also streaking down her face. She never used waterproof mascara because she told me that she liked the way it looked when it started to run down her face. The first seven songs passed in a haze. As Joan kicked off “You Drive Me Wild,” I disappeared into that rickety plywood coffin room for my costume change.

 

Vickie was standing there, and there was no time for small talk: I unpeeled my wet jeans and T-shirt and stood naked in front of her. Vickie toweled me off quickly. I started pulling on my fishnet stockings and attaching them to the garters. I straightened up so Vickie could cinch the corset tightly around my body. “Is that okay?” she asked. “Tighter . . .” I insisted.

 

I ran my fingers through my wet hair, slicking it back. My heart was pounding. Vickie stood back a little to get a better look. She yelled into my ear, “You look AMAZING!” I nodded and smiled at her, facing the curtain. As I heard Joan finish “You Drive Me Wild,” my body was trembling with fear and adrenaline. The roar from the audience seemed to be shaking the dressing room’s foundations. I peeked through the curtain and saw that the crowd was almost uncontrollable as Sandy started “Cherry Bomb.” I closed my eyes for a second, and muttered a prayer to myself, before I tore open the curtain and attacked the stage.

 

Can’t stay at home, can’t stay in school . . .

 

The little room shook as the roar of the crowd became ever more deafening. I stalked around the stage like a tigress, twirling the microphone around me, wrapping the cord around my thighs, bringing it up between my legs. I was singing this song like I had never sung it before. In some strange way I felt that I was one with the audience, and that my body was moving of its own volition as I sang the words, feeling all of the fear drain out of me. The roar was deafening. I moved with a vengeance, releasing all my fears. I felt like a conduit of pure power from a place I didn’t know. I was no longer of this world. I had risen above it, beyond it, close enough to touch the face of God.

 

Fans crawled over each other to get to the stage, only to be thrown back by security. One guy grabbed at my leg, ripping my stocking. Seeing this, Joan walked over and without missing a beat casually kicked him in the head. I saw Jackie reaching over to touch the hand of someone in the audience, and she is nearly dragged offstage. The whole place was in a state of total fucking pandemonium. On the last beat of the song, I looked up to the heavens, punching my hand to the sky. I froze. There was a heart-stopping moment of silence before the crowd went berserk, and I knew that from this moment on, my performances with the Runaways would never be the same.

 

I ran back to the dressing room to change into my last costume: a T-shirt loaded with blood packs. We had rehearsed this thing where, at the end of “Dead End Justice,” Lita would point her guitar at me and riddle me with imaginary bullets. I would throw myself to the stage, slapping the blood packets, exploding them through my T-shirt. I’d bite blood capsules, squirting it from my mouth. This Starwood show would be one of the last times that we would do it—it had become too messy, and too difficult to pull off. As I changed, some fans rushed onto the stage, and I could feel the tiny room rocking back and forth as they tried to get in. Vickie was panicking, trying to keep the curtain closed as the security guys were dragging the fans away, tossing them back into the audience with a grunt. “Holy shit!” Vickie screamed to me. “This is fucking NUTS!”

 

After the show, we were hustled back to the dressing room, which was already filled to capacity with press, family, friends, and fans. My heart was still pounding in my chest, and everyone was hugging us, telling us what an amazing show it was. I was on a natural high, and I liked it. It was a mob scene, and for a while all I could do was shake hands and say hello to people I didn’t know, pose for pictures, and sign autographs. It seemed that everybody wanted a piece of the Runaways that night. At some point Kim pulled me aside and said, “There’s someone here who would like to meet you . . .”

 

I turned to look, and Kim beckoned to a tall, handsome, dark-haired guy who walked through the crowd toward me. The face was definitely familiar: he had the chiseled good looks of an actor, with long, dark feathered hair that came down to his shoulders.

 

“Cherie . . . I’d like you to meet someone.”

 

Suddenly I recognized this guy: he’d had a big radio hit recently, and his smiling face was all over the TV these days. He was a big hit with the kids, because this guy was a regular in all of those same teen magazines that Shaun Cassidy frequented. Maybe I had one of his teenybopper albums tucked away in my vinyl collection. I smiled and said, “Hi . . . It’s nice to meet you.”

 

He took my hand and kissed it. “You were really great tonight,” he said with his soft sing-song voice, fixing me with those dark brown eyes. “I really enjoyed your performance a lot . . .” Then he flashed me that smile—a teenybopper smile that could make a teenage girl cream in her jeans from across the room. The pop singer continued to stare and I looked away, embarrassed. I realized that everyone else had noticed the way he was looking at me, too—suddenly I felt the eyes of the room turning toward him and me. Some people were even snapping photographs of us standing together.

 

A few moments later, when I regained my composure, Kim tapped me on the shoulder. “A word, Cherie.”

 

I shrugged at the singer and said, “Nice to meet you.” He smiled and drifted into the crowd. Kim took me into a quiet corner and looked around, as if he were about to tell me a secret of great importance.

 

“He likes you,” Kim whispered, putting a hand on my shoulder. “He really likes you a lot. He wants you to go to his house . . . for a drink. To, uh, get to know you better. Only”—he leaned in real close, those horrible wet lips of his edging closer to my ear—“don’t say a word to the other girls. I don’t want any jealousy or other dog shit, you understand?”

 

I shrugged Kim’s paw off of my shoulder. “I don’t know about that, Kim,” I said. “I don’t even know the guy. How would I get home?”

 

“I’ll pick you up, later. It’s all arranged. I want you to go with him.”

 

I gave Kim a look, like he’d lost his goddamn mind. “I don’t care what you want, Kim,” I said coldly. “It’s not about you.” I shook my head and laughed mockingly before walking off to rejoin my friends and family.

 

Marie said, “Man—did you clock the vibes that guy was giving you? Heavy!”

 

I wrinkled my nose. “He’s a cheese ball,” I said.

 

I looked back, and Kim was staring at me. I looked over at the pop singer, and he was staring at me, too. I noticed that he was wearing white pleated linen pants and a black silk collared shirt, open enough to expose some chest hair. It made him look kind of disco, which was a big turnoff. The only thing that made up for it was his long hair. And that teen-idol smile helped, for sure. I turned away. “Anyway,” I said, smiling, “I want to hang out with my friends . . .”

 

Later that night, after security had ushered everyone out of the club, I was standing alone on the empty stage, waiting for Stinky to finish up so we could get out. Out of the shadows came Kim, with the pop singer still in tow. He waited while Kim hustled over to me and started up with his best salesman routine again.

 

“He really wants to get to know you,” he said. “This could be good for your career! Think about it!”

 

I started to feel angry at the pressure Kim was putting on me. My voice went up a couple of octaves as I said, “But I don’t WANT to, Kim!”

 

“Shhh! Listen to me.” Kim put his face real close to mine. “The two of you together would be great press. You do realize that, don’t you? What’s good for you is good for the band. You have to be a team player here. Do you know how many other girls would KILL to be in your position? He’s fucking big time, you DOG!”

 

Shocked by the sudden venom in Kim’s voice, I looked over to the singer again. He was standing there, real casual, shooting me his superstar smile. A shudder ran through my body. I looked back at Kim and said in a pleading tone, “But how will I get home?”

 

Suddenly Kim switched again. His voice took on an almost paternal tone. He put his hands on my shoulders and said, “I’ll pick you up in a couple of hours, okay?”

 

As this was going on, the singer had walked over to us. I still felt uneasy. I looked up at him, and he shot me that teenybopper smile again. “Won’t you come, Cherie? I won’t bite . . .”

 

I looked back at Kim, and gave him a dirty look. There was a look on Kim’s face that scared me. I had seen that look before—I called it the look of death. I knew that if I didn’t choose my words very carefully, Kim Fowley was going to lose his shit in a major way.

 

I mumbled “okay” and started to gather my things. . .

 

On the drive over to the pop singer’s house, we didn’t say much. I lied and told him that I thought his last single was cool. I didn’t know if he realized that I was just saying it to be nice. He nodded and said “thank you.”

 

Mostly he did the talking . . . about the music business, about unscrupulous managers and money-grabbing record labels. How hard the industry is. I was distracted, looking out of the window, watching the city fly by and hoping that he didn’t live too far away.

 

Before long we turned north onto Doheny and pulled up at his apartment in West Hollywood. Inside, it was nice, although it seemed pretty small for a big star like him. It looked like a showroom apartment; it was pretty bare and there was not much in the way of furniture: just a pristine-looking couch, a coffee table, and a few posters on the wall. There were several guitars sitting around on stands, others were just lying on the floor. “This is it . . .” he said, waving a hand around the place. “Home sweet home. You want a drink?”

 

“Sure. You got rum and Coke?”

 

“Of course . . .”

 

He went into the kitchen to get the drinks, and I sat on the couch. I felt nervous. I was in a complete stranger’s house, and I had no way of leaving. Ugh, how in the hell did I get myself into this situation?

 

He brought the drinks over and sat next to me. He was close—too close. It felt totally surreal to be sitting in this apartment next to this guy whose face had been staring out at me from the cover of teen magazines for the past year. Maybe if I were twelve years old, I would have thought that this was the coolest thing ever, but tonight it just felt weird.

 

“I, uh, I just got out of a long relationship,” he told me. “It was pretty rough. I haven’t been with anyone for a while.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I . . . I like you, Cherie. I like you a whole lot.”

 

He waited for a response. I took a big gulp of my drink and said, “Oh, well . . . thanks. That’s nice of you to say . . .”

 

“Come on.” He suddenly jumped to his feet. “Let me show you the rest of the apartment!”