In 1974 Patty Hearst was kidnapped by the SLA, the 55 mph speed limit was enacted, Isabel Peron took over in Argentina, Ford became President, �streaking� was a fad, Hank Aaron broke Babe Ruth�s home run record, the Heimlich Maneuver was developed, the Steelers won the Superbowl, the Oakland A�s won the World Series, and I became an L.A. County Jail slut.
You see, I had fallen in love with a handsome and talented musician. The second love of my life.
Alan and I moved to California when his uncle offered to finance his singing career and my father jumped at the chance to keep Morgan for the rest of the school year while we got settled. Alan�s uncle, Bill, welcomed us into his large house in Topanga Canyon. And cousin Cindy gave me a hug hello, sat me in a chair, and pierced my ears. What can I say � there is a gypsy saying of old about earrings of gold and Alan wanted me wearing them.
I was very young, very trusting, and very, very much in love, but it wasn�t long before I figured out Alan wasn�t making all that extra money singing in clubs.
While I refused to participate in that part of his life, I made nice arm candy and he wanted me with him. Sometimes I didn�t know what was going on. And sometimes I did. And sometimes I wished I didn�t because the people I met, the locations I went to, and the conversations I overheard were dangerous knowledge.
One night Uncle Bill got wound up, cracked my head, bloodied my nose and was barely stopped from doing worse. The next day I moved to an apartment in North Hollywood. Alan said �For your safety� as he signed the lease with a false name.
The school year ended and Morgan came West to join me. That was the summer we hitch-hiked to Venice Beach twice a week � when you could still hitch-hike and when Venice Beach was still all nude. We played in the pool, learned how to read and do simple math. Sometimes, late at night, Alan would visit me � but he was already a lost man and there was little I could do but hold him.
And my heart? Broken and shattered for the second time in my young life.
One Wednesday afternoon, Morgan was in the pool when three men burst into the apartment with drawn guns pointed at my head. I almost laughed with relief when they barked �Police, hands up.� (Well, actually they said �Drop your weapon� and waited while I had unhanded a very large and deadly looking butcher knife.) They quickly searched the apartment, and as they led me to a squad car, my arms handcuffed behind me, I received a signal from the woman I had entrusted with a backup plan that Morgan was safe. It was then I saw Alan being placed in one of the other cars. He caught my eye and pressed his lips together, miming silence. He could offer no help - it was up to me.
At the local station I was left alone in a small office after being told to sit in a hard wooden chair in front of a desk with a leather armchair behind it. I slipped the cuffs under my butt, pulled my legs through (I always wonder why people don�t do that in the movies) and was sitting back in the leather armchair enjoying a cigarette when a man entered the room a few moments later to question me. The look on his face was priceless, but his tone was polite when he asked me to "move your butt out of my chair."
After several hours, and with no other charges against me, I was booked on possession of tear gas � a felony in the state of California � which meant they could hold me for an arraignment hearing. Not for the little baggie in the cookie jar (oh, get off it, everyone had some stashed away back then), but for the tiny little Mace spray attached to my keychain � legal when it was purchased in Missouri. I used my first call to arrange Morgan�s flight out of state.
The charges were dismissed on Monday morning, after five miserable days in a one-man cell in an L.A. jail. On the drive home I was told that interested parties were concerned. Very concerned. Despite Alan�s assurances, I was considered a liability. One that hadn�t eaten in five days (just try eating jail food � go ahead, I dare you) and weighed 90 pounds.
In six hours I was on a plane. Despite living and working under an assumed name, the FBI found me three years later (how DID they do that back before Google Search) to question me about an event that occurred after I left. I was able to answer their questions honestly, to clear the name of at least one person, and point the finger at two others. And they were able to tell me I was safe.
Alan found me a few years after that. He had left California, and tried again to make it in the music business he loved, but his life was spent taking all the wrong turns. I gave what help I could, and never heard from him again. It�s been twenty five years, and I suspect he is dead.
But he left me a wonderful legacy.
I�ve got a great story to tell (it�s much funnier in person when you can see me rolling my eyes, hitting myself up side of the head, and demonstrating the handcuff technique.). I still know the words to one of his most beautiful songs and have used them here in DLand. I learned at a very young age I could summon great strength under enormous pressure. And, most importantly, I learned that showing compassion, even to someone who broke your heart, makes you feel good in the morning.
And Uncle Bill? I found his obituary just a few weeks ago which is what got me to thinking about all of this.
And that � dear friends � is the story of the week I almost became an LA County Jail slut. Ha � you thought you�d hear about deep cavity searches, butch guards, and some girl-on-girl action didn�t you? Maybe next time.
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