The Importance of Being Ernie: (11 page)
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CHAPTER 19
My First Girlfriend
Tina Harris. What a wildcat. I was totally unprepared for our emotional roller-coaster relationship. Tina was my age, sixteen, and going on thirty-nine. She was a natural-blond Swede and built like one of Hugh Hefner’s curvaceous wives. In contrast to her physical beauty, she was a wiseacre with a salty vocabulary delivered out of the side of her mouth. If we’d met in the 1940s, I would have called her a “broad” or “one swell dame.” Her stunning looks and bawdy language always drew stares, especially from her horny teenage admirers. I was right there at the front of the pack, gawking and drooling.I was no Brad Pitt, and I knew my chances of wowing her with my nerdy looks were pretty slim. It occurred to me that I did have one advantage over my competitors: fame. For the first time I was not shy about playing the celebrity card. Raging hormones were driving me to pull out all the stops. Just for the record, I was still a virgin and getting laid was a high priority. I’d had a few dates but had never ventured beyond kissing and some clumsy breast squeezing. I had to talk to this blond teen goddess.
My plan was to stand behind Tina in the lunch line, act all nonchalant, and hope to start a conversation. On my first attempt, the ploy worked. She glanced back at me, and I croaked “hello.” To my surprise, she said
hiya!
and maintained her eye contact, waiting for me to say something else. Holy crap, I had done it; I achieved the unimaginable, I got her attention. Unfortunately, my tongue seized up. I searched for a few words, any kind of utterance at all that would end my brain freeze. None came.
hiya!
and maintained her eye contact, waiting for me to say something else. Holy crap, I had done it; I achieved the unimaginable, I got her attention. Unfortunately, my tongue seized up. I searched for a few words, any kind of utterance at all that would end my brain freeze. None came.
Suddenly, Tina was tackled from behind by her screaming, giggling best friend, Helen. In a flash, she dragged Tina away, destroying our beautiful, albeit silent, moment. I’d have to switch to Plan B.
Gene knew the location of Tina’s locker, so I thought I might be able to catch her there, give her a friendly wave, and hope for the best. I staked out the locker for days, but Tina was never there. I learned that pretty girls rarely need books to get through school, or life for that matter. I’d have to come up with another plan.
I recently got my driver’s license, so I figured I’d borrow my mom’s silver Lincoln Continental and park it in front of school. Cool rides are always chick magnets, and I hoped that the car’s sexiness might rub off on me. It was nerd desperation at its lowest.
To make the plan work, I parked in front of school two hours before the morning bell so I could snag a prime, highly visible spot. This had to be true love; nothing else would have gotten me to school
that
early.
that
early.
I waited and watched students arrive, but Tina didn’t show. Damnit! That was two hours better off spent in bed. I figured I had another shot at letting her see me behind the wheel of the big Lincoln that afternoon, after school let out.
The final bell rang, and I made a dash to my silver chariot parked out in front of school and waited for Tina to appear.
Just like in a movie, she bounded down the steps of Kennedy Hall, and our eyes met. A faint smile played on her lips as she saw me sitting behind the wheel of that shiny, sexy vehicle. I felt like Mr. Cool as I waved for her to come over, offering her a ride. My heart raced as she started walking toward me.
Just as she neared my car, Helen blasted out of nowhere, bellowing like a moose in heat. Tina looked over at her pal, and the spell I was weaving was broken. Helen leaped on Tina like a giant octopus, wrapping her arms around her, and hauled her away, again. Like many teenage girlfriends, they were attached at the hip. I wondered where I could get a “hit man” to rub Helen out.
As luck would have it, my first moment alone with Tina happened by accident, while I was driving my dad’s shit-brown, banged-up Chevy Caprice.
I came to a stop at a red light and saw Tina standing on the corner, waiting to cross the street. My head throbbed with an instant adrenaline rush. I beeped and offered her a ride.
She hesitated, thinking it over. As I waited for her decision, I half expected Helen’s screaming head to pop out of a street manhole and spoil our chance meeting, once again. That thought may have crossed Tina’s mind, too, because she darted for my car and hopped in.
Once we were able to have ten seconds alone with each other, we clicked immediately. I wound up driving Tina to her home, a triplex bungalow in a seedy section of North Hollywood. Her parents were divorced, and she lived with her seventy-year-old dad, a house painter by day and heavy drinker by night. That explained the contradiction between her world-class beauty and blue-collar personality.
We went from our first meeting to our first kiss quickly. I could tell she had a lot more practice at this than I did. No big surprise there, me being a virgin. We’d hang out at my house or drive to Leo Carrillo beach and smooch like mad, fueled by bottles of cheap red wine. I was eager to graduate from just petting to real sex. Tina, though, always pulled back when my pawing and clawing got a little too hot. That left me frustrated as hell, but I didn’t push things. I was in love and trying to go with the flow, although the “flow” on my part was getting pretty stopped up.
After a few months of dating, another problem developed. Tina didn’t have a driver’s license, so I became her chauffeur-on-call whenever she needed a ride. I happily obliged because it was another opportunity to be with her. The fun started to wane when Tina began asking for rides to Gazzarri’s Nightclub on the Sunset Strip ... without inviting me to join her.
At first, it was no big deal for me to drive her to a nightclub every so often and not be asked to join her. Dancing wasn’t my thing, so I was kind of relieved. Nonetheless, a token invitation would have been nice since we were going steady. Soon the occasional night out became an every weekend event; that’s when I became worried and voiced my concerns. Tina laughed off my questions and described her evenings as a “girl’s night out” with Helen. She told me I was just being paranoid. Absolutely. My fear was confirmed when I accidentally discovered her secret life in Hollywood.
After dropping Tina off at Gazzarri’s one night, I went to visit with a photographer friend of mine. He lived right around the corner from the nightclub and shot pictures of famous rock-and-roll bands like the Doors, Steely Dan, and Van Halen. Looking through some of his picture albums, one photo jumped out: Tina, in the arms of a very popular rock star. She was sitting on the rock star’s lap with her blouse wide open, breasts hanging out, and guzzling a beer. My photographer buddy didn’t know that Tina and I were friends, and I certainly didn’t know that she was one of the boldest, most successful groupies on the Sunset Strip ... until my buddy told me.
Apparently, Tina would sleep with just about anybody with a shag haircut, leather pants, and an English accent. What a kick to the gut. Not only had I been lied to, Tina was having sex with everybody in town but me!
I exploded the next time I saw her, and Tina confessed to her secret life. She tried to calm my hurt feelings by claiming that sex with rock stars was meaningless. It was nothing more than “bragging rights” with her friends. Our love, on the other hand, was something special. She hoped that it would remain pure and last forever. This, obviously, is where we differed. I didn’t want some kind of holier-than-thou relationship. I was hoping that things might get completely vile and nasty.
Something pure and special, my ass.
I wasn’t Jesus, and she certainly wasn’t the Virgin Mary.
Something pure and special, my ass.
I wasn’t Jesus, and she certainly wasn’t the Virgin Mary.
After the dust settled, I forgave her. That’s how horny and desperate I was at sixteen. Hope, and
boners,
spring eternal.
boners,
spring eternal.
I continued driving her to the clubs on Sunset Strip. After I dropped her off, I’d kick myself all the way home for being such a hopeless wimp. I was just too young to face the facts: it’s better to be single and all alone than to be in a relationship where you are treated like a chump.
Eventually, Tina saw that her “chauffeur” was disgruntled and about to quit. In a last-ditch effort to salvage things, she decided we should make love and take our “pure” relationship to a new level. What a disaster that was.
Our sex was without feeling and over in about twenty seconds. The “new level” that she spoke of was a trip to the basement for my male ego, which took years to recover. Like I said before, Tina liked to laugh, and I was her willing clown. You gotta start somewhere, I guess.
CHAPTER 20
A Kindred Spirit and Partner in Crime
Now that my Driving Miss Tina days were over, I started making new pals at school. One kid in particular, Chris Craven, was to become my best friend and a huge influence on my life. Unlike most high school kids, Chris seemed worldlier and savvy. He turned me onto Jack Kerouac’s books and knew about people like Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters up in San Francisco. Surprisingly few teens were aware of their influence on our changing world.Chris and I also shared a love of old movies and theater. His dad, Eddie Craven, was a character actor under contract to Paramount Studios, and his uncles Frank and John were both Broadway stars, appearing in the original production of Thornton Wilder’s classic play,
Our Town.
Our Town.
I first noticed Chris when he was performing in a play at a school assembly. His performance really stood out, particularly an improvised moment at the end of the show that brought the teenage audience to its feet.
The play, a Japanese melodrama called
The Lost Princess,
starring my friend Gene and was performed in sign language in the Kabuki tradition. It was a nice idea to present something different, but the drama teacher badly overestimated the patience of her audience. Everybody was bored to tears by the show. Most of the kids at North Hollywood High were either underachievers or potheads, more attuned to Bugs Bunny cartoons than obscure Oriental theater. This absurdity was not lost on Chris who had to mime his part of the mute propman.
The Lost Princess,
starring my friend Gene and was performed in sign language in the Kabuki tradition. It was a nice idea to present something different, but the drama teacher badly overestimated the patience of her audience. Everybody was bored to tears by the show. Most of the kids at North Hollywood High were either underachievers or potheads, more attuned to Bugs Bunny cartoons than obscure Oriental theater. This absurdity was not lost on Chris who had to mime his part of the mute propman.
After two
long
hours of quasi-Kabuki acting, Gene chased Chris up the aisle of the auditorium, jabbing him with a sword. Taking a sharp poke in the rear end, the mute propman finally spoke up and screamed one improvised word: “Fuccckkk!!!!”
long
hours of quasi-Kabuki acting, Gene chased Chris up the aisle of the auditorium, jabbing him with a sword. Taking a sharp poke in the rear end, the mute propman finally spoke up and screamed one improvised word: “Fuccckkk!!!!”
The dozing audience of teenagers woke up, leaped to their feet, and roared their approval. The auditorium went completely nuts. It was like a prison riot triggered by a renegade convict who dares to thumb his nose at the authorities.
Unfortunately, the school’s principal, Dr. Pack, also saw the inspired performance. He was not as thrilled as the kids, and Chris got suspended for a week. When he returned to school, my pal was welcomed back like Cool Hand Luke returning to the chain gang after another amazing escape attempt. His fame on campus certainly trumped mine.
Chris, Gene, and I soon became the “three amigos.” We sought out all kinds of dangerous adventures around town: sneaking onto the 20th Century-Fox studio lot to prowl around the sets of
Hello Dolly
and
Planet of the Apes
, exploring the creepy Bronson Caves up in the Hollywood Hills, camping at the beach, and nighttime hikes through Vasquez Rocks, a rugged location used in many TV Westerns and outer space movies. These were some wild times, usually fueled by cheap wine.
Hello Dolly
and
Planet of the Apes
, exploring the creepy Bronson Caves up in the Hollywood Hills, camping at the beach, and nighttime hikes through Vasquez Rocks, a rugged location used in many TV Westerns and outer space movies. These were some wild times, usually fueled by cheap wine.
The three amigos also discovered a shared love for the American actor John Barrymore, perhaps the greatest thespian of all time. On the surface, he was a dashing and romantic movie star. Deep down, Barrymore had the imagination and versatility of a character actor. He was also the premier “rock star” of his day, a hard partying rebel, something that we admired. On the actor’s birthday, I’d throw a raucous drunken party at the Barrymore Suite in the Alexandria Hotel, a decaying old palace in downtown Los Angeles. Those soirees gave me the worst hangovers ever.
Barrymore was also known for pulling outrageous stunts, which Chris and I tried to emulate. On one occasion, we dressed as priests as a ruse to get in to see
The Exorcist.
The movie had just come out, and lines formed around the block for every performance. To bypass the crowds at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, Chris and I went up to the box office and explained that we worked for the New York
Catholic Monitor
and wanted to review the movie; it had become very controversial with the church. We also pointed out “Father Craven’s” foot was broken and how difficult it was for him to stand in line. The manager took a look at Chris’s “injured” foot, which was actually fine, encased in dozens of white socks to simulate a cast, and ushered us inside, free of charge. He even provided complimentary popcorn and sodas. We couldn’t tell if the manager was truly sympathetic or hoping to engender a more favorable review.
The Exorcist.
The movie had just come out, and lines formed around the block for every performance. To bypass the crowds at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, Chris and I went up to the box office and explained that we worked for the New York
Catholic Monitor
and wanted to review the movie; it had become very controversial with the church. We also pointed out “Father Craven’s” foot was broken and how difficult it was for him to stand in line. The manager took a look at Chris’s “injured” foot, which was actually fine, encased in dozens of white socks to simulate a cast, and ushered us inside, free of charge. He even provided complimentary popcorn and sodas. We couldn’t tell if the manager was truly sympathetic or hoping to engender a more favorable review.
As Chris and I watched the movie, we could feel audience members spying on our reactions, especially when the Holy Cross was being desecrated or Linda Blair was screaming blasphemous curses. It took all our strength not to giggle, which garnered even more curious stares. Our biggest fear during that scary movie was that someone in the audience might have a heart attack and we’d be asked to perform the Last Rites. Luckily, nothing that dramatic occurred.
When the show ended, we filed out with the audience who nodded and smiled politely at the “priests.” The “holy man” with the broken foot, though, had one more miracle to perform. As we filed past the manager outside the theater, Chris ditched his bogus limp and we broke into a sprint down the street, laughing hysterically at the stunt we had successfully pulled. If there’s a special place in hell for priest impersonators, our names are surely on the list.
Even though I was being reckless, there was one big positive: I was finally acting like a normal teenager, experiencing the risky escapades that are a youthful rite of passage. If you survive them, terrific, you’ve got something to warn your kids about. If you screw up, at least you’ve got a good excuse, young and dumb. Nobody cuts you much slack when you are older. Maybe that is why so many child actors stumble so frequently as adults; they are forever trying to experience their wild, youthful days that are long gone.
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