Storms (39 page)

On other nights Dennis regaled Sara and me with stories of his seemingly endless history of sexual exploits. It seemed to me that he'd bedded about half of the attractive women in Los Angeles.

We also got to listen to stories about Dennis and his time spent with the Manson family. This wasn't so funny; it was both fascinating and frightening. It all began when Dennis picked up a couple of girls on Sunset Boulevard and took them to his mansion on that street. He left them there while he went to a recording session and got a huge surprise when he returned. Climbing out of his car, he was shocked to see a small man literally stumbling out of his house. It was Charles Manson. Falling to the ground, he kissed Dennis's feet. While thinking this was bizarre, Dennis said, he just thought Manson was another harmless acidhead.

He told us that he actually didn't mind having Manson and his family of women and hangers-on living in his home—at first. They cooked, cleaned, and kept Dennis entertained sexually. But as the weeks passed, his house became a commune, with over a dozen people coming and going at will. Manson's charisma was so strong that Dennis fell under his spell for
a short period of time. And before he knew what hit him, he was deep in a bizarre and frightening situation.

As Sara and I listened in rapt attention Dennis talked in a hushed tone. “I probably spent over $100,000 on them—food, drugs, alcohol, clothes, doctor bills for their STDs. You name it, I paid for it. One of the Manson family guys totaled my Mercedes, which wasn't insured. In the beginning, there was music and singing and it was like living in hippie paradise—in a twisted way. Charles Manson considered himself an artist and I even recorded some songs of his. He was a horrible singer! But that music, Carol, was not of this earth. It was scary. I hated it and I destroyed the tapes. And I just knew that I had to get away from those people. It wasn't fun any more—it was fuckin' weird. With the help of my manager, I got them evicted from my house on Sunset.”

A shadow crossed Dennis's handsome face whenever he spoke of Manson. Much to his everlasting relief, he made his escape from the Manson family before the horrific world-famous Sharon Tate and La Bianca murders. I could tell as he spoke that he was still deeply disturbed that he'd ever crossed paths with Charles Manson. And I knew that if he'd still had any kind of a relationship with him at the time of the gruesome murders, then he more than likely would never have gotten over it. It was terrifying to comprehend what self-imposed guilt by association would have done to Dennis Wilson's psyche. Because Dennis Wilson was the type of person who loved life, music, and people—the innate evil of a personality such as Manson's almost scarred him for life.

On nights when it was just Sara and me, we spent our time making cassette tapes of our conversations, in which we talked about our lives, adventures, and opinions on anything and everything that was happening in the realm of Fleetwood Mac. One of these tapes would, in a year's time, be the catalyst for one of the most horrific fights I'd ever experience with Lindsey. But, at the time, we felt that they were harmless and greatly enjoyed recording and listening to ourselves. After all, with all of the recording equipment at our disposal, it was only natural that we should make use of it.

Christine, Lindsey, and Mick were so preoccupied with the album that it was hard to tell what, if any, opinion they had of Sara, Dennis, and me hanging out together constantly. It seemed to Sara and me that they were probably relieved that we were not lonely or bored—or worse, running
around to L.A. nightclubs while they toiled in the studio. Anyway, they never told us
not
to hang out together.

On some nights Dennis would bring Ed Roach along and the four of us would have a blast. Ed was one of Dennis's childhood friends. He was handsome, perennially tanned, and had the same cavalier, dashing presence as his buddy Dennis. Already a renowned photographer, he would become an L.A. club owner and entrepreneur in the years to come.

Jackson Browne also paid us a visit, espousing his latest political cause: nuclear energy. On that night, Stevie and Jim Recor also joined us and the sound of cocaine being sniffed could be heard in almost every room of Mick's house, as could the sound of Jackson's earnest voice trying to convince all of us that nuclear energy was not a good thing. It wasn't exactly the kind of light topic that any of us wanted to discuss while wired on blow at 1
A.M.
, but nevertheless, it seemed that that was the only thing on his mind.

As Sara and I listened, trying vainly to stifle our giggles, he was in a frenzy trying to convince Stevie and Dennis that they needed to contribute thousands of dollars to his anti-nuclear organization instead of to the “establishment” causes of heart and cancer research that Fleetwood Mac generously supported with their dollars. What had us so hysterical was that every time he tried to say nuclear, he would pronounce it “nu-cu-lar” or “necleer” instead of “noo-kle-er.” And he was completely oblivious to our snickers as Stevie rolled her eyes and Dennis sneered every time the word came out of Jackson's mushy mouth. Finally, after realizing that no one was going to whip out their checkbooks and give money to his “anti-necleer” cause, he wandered off to his car and left us alone.

I didn't spend every night with Sara and Dennis. I continued my modeling shoots with Bjorn, putting the finishing touches to my portfolio, and at least three times a week I accompanied Lindsey to the studio. Sara joined me there, and as I'd predicted, she was made welcome by almost all of the band—except, of course, Stevie. While Stevie wasn't outright hostile, it was obvious that she wasn't thrilled to see Sara walk through the doors of the inner sanctum.

But Sara had an excellent excuse for being there, one that overrode any objections of Stevie's. Mick had been diagnosed with hypoglycemia and a mild form of diabetes. After weeks of being struck by uncontrolled bouts of
shaking and weakness, he reached out for medical help and got the bad news. He was under strict orders to completely change his diet. Every night Sara made special health-food dinners at home and delivered them to the studio for Mick.

She dressed up in gorgeous outfits each and every time she came down, and it drove Stevie wild. One night, as Sara and I sat on the couch, Stevie walked over and told her that she would appreciate it if Sara didn't dress up so much for her visits. The whole band found it “distracting”, she claimed. Since Stevie herself dressed head to toe in velvet, chiffon, and silk, it was all we could do not to burst out in hysterical laughter. With a sweet smile Sara nodded her head and got a curt nod in response. The next night Sara arrived looking as if she'd stepped out of the pages of
Vogue.
And Stevie was not amused.

One night, as on so many others, the partying had gotten completely out of control. We were all having a blast. Cocaine was being snorted like there was no tomorrow, the cognac was flowing, and by dawn no one was ready to call it a night. “Transcend, everyone! Transcend!” Mick cackled as everyone did their best to follow his instructions. Christine suggested that we all go to her house to continue our wild party. This invitation was met with almost unanimous cries of glee. Lindsey, however, said he wanted to call it a night. Telling me that I should go if I wanted to, he waved goodbye in the parking lot as I climbed into Christine's car to follow the convoy that was already on its way to Coldwater Canyon.

Dennis was at Christine's, waiting with relish, as the entire studio clan climbed out of their cars and spilled into the house. The insanity continued until the early afternoon—until Christine blurted out that she had a children's birthday party scheduled in two hours. Reacting in horror, the inner circle quickly dispersed and went running for the hills. The mere thought of being around children after an entire night and day of hardcore partying was more than any of us could bear. But I didn't have my car. I was stuck.

Before Christine headed up to shower for the party, she asked Dennis and me to run to the store for ice and sodas. Grateful for a reason to be gone when the guests started to arrive, Dennis and I hightailed it out of there in two minutes flat. Instead of driving straight to the store as we were supposed to, Dennis told me that he needed to stop by his permanently rented
hotel room at the Hilton on Sunset to pick up a few supplies. Once there, we snorted some lines of blow and started talking. Before we knew it, over two hours had flashed by and we were in big trouble with Christine.

We sheepishly pulled up her driveway and found out within seconds that she was livid. She wouldn't talk to either of us, and I can't say that I blamed her. But, damn, if anyone should understand how time flies after so many hours of nonstop partying, you'd think she would. But no, she was pissed off and Dennis and I were
persona non grata
at the birthday bash.

Not to worry, Dennis told me. He was playing a show with the Beach Boys that night at the Universal Amphitheatre and he got down on one knee and asked me to be his official “date.” As we both started to giggle I accepted and told him I'd go if he made sure that Christine didn't mind. She came upstairs and told me that while she was not amused by our two-hour absence, she didn't care if I went with Dennis. She couldn't go anyway, she said; the all-nighter and birthday party had been enough for her. “I'll tell Lindsey when he calls where you've gone. I hope he doesn't mind that you're going alone with Dennis.”

Looking at her in surprise, I answered, “Of course he won't mind, Chris. He
loves
the Beach Boys. I'd think he'd be more upset if I
didn't
go!”

After borrowing a skirt from Christine, I hastily reapplied my makeup and within half an hour I was seated next to Dennis in his black convertible Rolls-Royce Corniche. It was late afternoon and eighty degrees, and with the Stones blasting out from the cassette player we drove down the twisted canyon road of Coldwater. Handing me a mirror and a plastic packet of cocaine, Dennis told me to dump the coke on to the mirror's surface.

“But we're going fifty miles an hour, Dennis! It's all going to blow away!” I yelled over the ear-splitting volume of “Midnight Rambler.”

“That's what makes it fun!” Dennis shouted back with a huge grin on his face. “Live for the moment, Carol Ann. And this is a perfect moment in time. Dump the fucker, snort what you can, and pass it over here!” Laughing, I did as he said and felt the warm wind blowing through my hair as I held the mirror for Dennis. Driving with one hand, he leaned over and snorted directly off the mirror without the aid of straw or dollar bill—and we both laughed hysterically as the white powder softly blew away in puffs like tiny clouds around us. Laying the mirror on the floor, Dennis and I held hands and sang along with the Stones as our long hair flew behind us.

He's right
, I said to myself,
this is a perfect moment and as long as I live I will never, ever forget it. I'm driving with a Beach Boy on a beautiful day in a Rolls-Royce on the way to his concert. It's a moment that millions of people would give anything to experience.
And I felt sublimely happy as we pulled up to the Universal Amphitheatre.

Backstage, Dennis got changed and I wandered around the dressing room as late afternoon changed to twilight. Carl and Brian Wilson entered from the outside stage area and Dennis ran out to greet his brothers. They were like giant teddy bears. Carl was so gracious and sweet that I found it hard to believe that he'd been in the music industry as long as he had. When Dennis introduced me to Brian, I stood tongue-tied in front of him. An aura of greatness radiated from the man. I shyly whispered, “Hello”, and got a gentle smile in return.

Ten minutes later I was walking with Dennis to the stage area, excited over the show I was about to see. As we reached the platform, Mike Love, a Beach Boy cousin and off-and-on lead singer, walked up to Dennis and snarled, “You missed the fucking sound check—again!”

Without a blink of an eye, Dennis balled up his fist, raised his arm, and knocked Mike out cold. Lying crumpled in a little skinny heap, Love was administered to by the band's roadies as Dennis watched with a blank look on his face.

Shit! I can't believe he just did that! Lindsey told me that the two of them didn't get along, but damn! I can't believe that Dennis just friggin' knocked him on his ass! Oh my God!
I thought. I didn't know if I should laugh or scold Dennis. After five minutes Mike Love struggled to his feet, glared at Dennis, and jumped onto the stage. Dennis winked at me and took his place behind the drums.

The show was fabulous and halfway through it Christine joined me. She told me that she felt obligated to Lindsey to act as a “chaperone” since she placed me in Dennis's care.
Whatever
, I thought to myself. Although I didn't take Lindsey's territorial issues about me lightly, I had the feeling that it was more a case of Christine wanting to chaperone us for her sake. But I was glad to have her company and when I got home later that night Lindsey listened to every detail and laughed himself sick over the Mike Love incident.

Two weeks later Christine called and asked me if I'd like to have a “sleepover” with her. The band was in the studio and she wasn't, she said.
With Lindsey's blessing, I arrived at her house and we stayed up all night laughing, gossiping, and partying Fleetwood Mac style. Lindsey called a few times and I had no indication that he was anything other than happy that I was with his bandmate. That would change.

The next morning I was upstairs in Christine's bedroom picking up my things and preparing to leave when I heard the screech of brakes in the driveway. Looking out the window, I was startled to see Lindsey's car. Dropping my purse, I hurried to the stairs and had almost reached the bottom when Lindsey stepped through the doorway.

“Lindsey! What's—” My words were cut off as Lindsey raised his arm and hit me hard enough to knock me off the staircase into the wall. I landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. Without uttering a word, he then turned on his heel and strode back out the door.