CHAPTER EIGHT:SECRET KIDNAPPING - Nathan’s rejection hurt so much, it felt much deeper than I would have… http://t.co/4qMNITL
CHAPTER EIGHT:SECRET KIDNAPPING
Nathan’s rejection hurt so much, it felt much deeper than I would have expected. And it had nothing to do with me. But I was taking full responsibility again, trying like most addicts do to come back bigger and stronger than before. I wanted to feel that I’d grown and learned from the situation. But what I hadn’t learned was that sometimes somebody just doesn’t want you. And if they don’t, they don’t; hard as that may be to accept.
The good thing about somebody not wanting you is that it’s only a pinpoint in your life, something that comes and goes. But a person has themselves for their whole lives; they can always fall back on themselves. And that’s what I tried to do. The harder I tried, the more I realized that getting sober was a big part of that.
At least I didn’t have to see Nathan anymore. It wasn’t like my troubles with family members. You’re always tied to family one way or another, but I had the luxury of being able to separate myself from Nathan, physically and spiritually (if I could) and move forward with the rest of my life. I was determined not to miss that chance, and all the new experiences that my future would bring. I could finally remind myself, Wait a minute; this isn’t the end of my life, this isn’t the only guy I’m ever going to date! Which was true, even if I did have to remind myself of it more than once. And now I was closer to knowing what I wanted and what I didn’t want.
But that realization wouldn’t come without a setback or two.
Some friends of mine wanted to go to Hotel Café, a bar off Cahuanga. A lot of young bands showcase there. One person in my crew that night was David Healy, whom I had known for a few years. He was good looking, with long, dirty blond hair, blue eyes and an amazing, fit body. He had incredible taste in music; Led Zeppelin, Syd Barrett, T-Rex. David was a musician and he wanted to hear some of his favorite local bands. I’d never heard of them.
We walked into the crowded, dark little bar, filled with mingling customers and their loud conversations. Laughter bounced around, the smell of stale liquor filling my head. Some band was in the little room adjoining the bar, electric guitars clanging, drums pounding. As we approached the bar I walked right into the Followill’s, Matthew and Caleb. And before I could draw my breath I saw Nathan, standing by the bar waiting for a drink. They were obviously waiting to get back into the little room to hear the band. I could barely get my mind around bumping into them like this, much less what their agenda for the night was.
I tried to be casual. “Nathan, how are you?”
“Hey, what’s going on?”
Nathan was trying as hard as I was (I hoped he was!) A wave of anxiety hit me, a sudden nervous discomfort as I looked around the room; I was out of place, out of time and out of luck. The guys knew that wasn’t a bar I would hang out at, it wasn’t my scene. I felt like they were thinking, What is she doing here?
And I didn’t want it to look like I was there single either. I turned to David and said, “This is my boyfriend, Dave.”
Nathan and the guys were very cordial, but very rushed. “Nice to meet you.”
I asked Nathan, “What are you all doing here?”
“My girlfriend is playing tonight.”
“Oh, cool,” I said, swallowing my vomit. “What band?”
Nathan said, “Jessie Baylin.” At least that’s what I thought he said; there may have been more to the band name, I couldn’t follow it. “I’ll see you guys inside,” Nathan added, walking the rest of the guys into the little room. We followed them in.
I was thinking, Here I am, getting ready to see Nathan’s girlfriend. If she’s cuter than me, I’m gonna die!
I was so relieved. I was expecting to see someone really soft and cute, pretty and almost angelic. Instead this New Jersey housewife walks out onto the stage. Her dull blonde hair was streaked with highlights; her bangs were scraggily, jagged and pointy and thick with mousse. She wore a shiny top with black leggings, going barefoot. Short and stocky, she hopped around the stage and swung her arms like a gorilla.
I was blown away by the whole scene, the intensity of seeing Nathan from out of nowhere; I could barely hear the music. Looking back, I can’t even remember it. Nathan was to my right, and as I casually glanced over at him he was looking right at me. Shivers went down my spine, nervous and confused. I wasn’t thrilled to see that he had a girlfriend, even if I was happy that she was so unattractive. And I certainly wasn’t ready to deal with the fact that Nathan was now staring at me and not her.
After one or two songs I got my gang together and we slipped out. On the way home I ordered some coke and called Gladys to buy some booze and have it ready. Dave dropped me off at my apartment, but he didn’t stay. I needed my girls around me.
We spent a few hours partying, gossiping about Nathan’s girlfriend and rehashing all the old stuff about Nathan. I was depressed. I had a history with Nathan, after all; an unfinished history. And he was on my turf with another woman; again. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was kissing her at that moment, making love to her the way he used to make love to me. No matter how over it you think you are, it’s hard to be reminded of the things and people you left behind; not to mention all the possible things that could have happened in a future you’ll never see.
My phone rang at about midnight. It was an unknown number. When I answered, there was a familiar response; none. I could hear music in the background, but no person answering my repeated, “Hello?”
But it wasn’t like the phone was in somebody’s pocket, that I’d been accidentally butt-dialed. It was more like somebody was playing a song for me, holding the phone up to a speaker. It was a fast rocker, but I couldn’t recognize it. I figured it was a wrong number, so I hung up and went back to the blow.
The next evening the phone rang; a different song in the background but again there was nobody on the line. I could hear that it was a band, but I couldn’t make out any lyrics or even melodies; just the clamor of a crowd and a band and the other chaotic sounds of a late-night club gig. My cell phone read blocked ID; so it was not just some drunk dialer or wrong number. And Nathan was infamous for calling and saying nothing, so this removed any doubt. I knew it was Nathan; it had to be. But I didn’t want to shock or embarrass him, so I didn’t call him out on it.
The calls kept coming. I started listening to the songs, trying to figure out the messages. But it was loud music blaring over a cell phone and I couldn’t make out what it was, much less what it meant. Not that I didn’t have plenty of time to try to decipher the musical riddles, because the calls kept coming for months; always just songs playing over the cell phone.
Don’t get me wrong. Under Nathan’s cowardice there was a sweet and wonderful man. But, much like these phone calls, I didn’t get to experience that person as much as I would have liked. Most of what I got was music and a cell phone; and even true love needs more than that to survive. And I needed more than that to love.
* * *
Leni and a few other friends were coming into town from London. Gladys and I were out doing errands and we stopped at the California Federal on Hillhurst. I stood at the ATM, waiting for the customer ahead of me to finish, when two guys walked up behind me. I glanced back (it was a busy street and I was there in a short dress; no point in not being careful!) I took care of my transaction at the ATM and I noticed the two guys again, one of them smiling at me. And I smiled back (he was tall and thin, with the long ash-brown hair I love.)
Earlier that day, I’d mentioned to Gladys that I wished I could find a guy from Tennessee, (I was still getting over Nathan.) I walked back to the car, where Gladys was waiting. As I got in, I said, “I just saw this really good-looking guy.” I closed the door and turned to see him standing on the other side of the car window. He had beautiful, big green eyes, almost translucent, with thick lashes that I’d never seen on a man. He had an inviting smile; his eyes, his cheeks, his whole face smiled, lighting up all at once.
“Hi, I’m Brian.”
“I’m Jeanell.”
“Jeanell, I couldn’t let you leave without saying something. I have to see you again.”
He was very handsome. I was very nervous. “I’m going to be out with some friends tonight. You’re more than welcome to meet up with us.”
“I’d love to. Where are you going?”
“La Cita, downtown. We’ll be there around ten.”
That night, he was there waiting for us to arrive. Brian was polite and well-spoken, gentle and a good listener.
“So,” I asked, “where are you from?”
“Tennessee.”
He had me.
We spent the night checking each other out, giggling and innocent like schoolchildren. We were seeing if each was what the other wanted. I asked about his habits, where he went and with whom; I thought we must surely have mutual friends. He mentioned that his ex-girlfriend was a big fan of Hartwell’s parties, but that she’d usually leave him outside while she went in and partied.
I said, “That’s crazy.”
“She was a total bitch, a real nut!”
“Well, if you ever want to go out, let me know. Hartwell is one of my best friends, we’ll arrange for her to be shut out.”
My friends didn’t like him. He barely knew me, but he was already touching me, putting his hands on my back. He was very stiff, straight in his chair. He was awkward, ignoring his friend (and everyone else besides me.) He didn’t drink, and he didn’t buy me a drink either. He didn’t seem comfortable in the nightclub scene, probably because he wasn’t drinking. But I wasn’t comfortable either (definitely because I wasn’t drinking!)
As usual, I brought my friends back to my apartment to party, and Brian came along. Brian didn’t do any drugs, and I think he might have had maybe one drink the whole night. Secretive person that I am, I also abstained. Brain hung out and met a few more of my friends, and nothing much happened until he called the next day and asked me out on a date.
We had dinner at Puran’s, an organic restaurant on Hillhurst Avenue. I had the Cesar salad and their homemade tomato soup, so hot and delicious. We shared our favorite music and artwork. He seemed very interested in what kind of music I liked, and I didn’t think too much about it because I didn’t have any idea who Brian was.
Of one of my favorite low-brow painters, I said, “I love Mark Ryden.”
Brain said, “Oh, I just went to the show, and I bought some paintings. I love to collect artwork.”
“I went to the show too! But I was there to visit Samantha, one of the curators. I went through the gallery, but all the pieces were sold. There wasn’t a single one left. I was thinking, Who are these people who can afford all these paintings and why can’t I be one of them?”
Brian chuckled. A few days later one of the original Ryden paintings arrived at my apartment. It pictured a brunette woman with the classic Ryden features; big eyes, a tiny mouth. The figure in the painting had gray/green eyes and black bangs; and I had both. Later, Brian told me he gave me the painting because, as he put it, “This is what our daughter will look like.”
Brian did a lot of odd things. He’d come over to take me out, and as I was getting ready he would go through my record collection. I kept asking if there was something he wanted to hear, but he always backed away from the subject.
Finally I got a call from Arya, a mutual friend from my old days hanging out with the Strokes. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Hanging out with Brian.”
“So, it’s serious.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I really like him.”
“Me too. I love his music.”
“What music?”
Arya said, “You don’t know? He’s the guitarist in Weezer.”
“No shit!”
I tried to figure this out. On the one hand, it seemed like he was making sure I liked him just for him, not for his celebrity status. That was fine; I didn’t even like Weezer. But on the other hand it meant that he was keeping things from me. Here’s this new guy, giving me paintings, wanting to have children with me and for us to spend the rest of our lives together, and he was keeping such a huge part of his life secret from me.
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from CHAPTER SEVEN: Hopeless Romantic
Finally we got up to the room. I was going up on the coke while he was going down on the pot. Then I started talking.
Stupid.
I blabbed about my emotions; how jealous I was, how much I loved him, that I was upset about the on-and-off nature of our relationship. Everything I shouldn’t have said, I said. Playing it cool wasn’t working anymore, so I exploded with everything I’d been keeping in for so long.
“It drives me crazy that I don’t get to see you more often, and I don’t know what you’re doing. And the last time you were here, with that girl, that made me totally jealous and I’m not a jealous person. I don’t know what you’re thinking most of the time, I don’t even know what I’m thinking! I love you, but I feel like we’re not loving each other, we’re just trying not to hurt each other.” I paced around in my panties and T-shirt; my mouth dry and my body overheating, heart beating like it was going to burst out of my chest. My lungs ached, my eyes burned; I wanted to cry, I needed to cry. But I couldn’t; I was too high to cry. Usually, coke and booze were my courage, and this night took extra courage. It left me a babbling mess.
I might have sealed my fate that night.
Nathan sat stoned on the couch, nodding like he was trying to understand. But I was talking in circles, repeating myself and making no sense at all. Often times he wouldn’t seem to get what I was saying, but later he’d seem to have understood; and these were things I needed him to understand.
We crawled into bed and started to make love. I was so high and so nervous I could barely feel anything. I couldn’t get into it, be as sensual as I normally am. I felt robotic, like I was going through the motions. But I think he was feeling the exact opposite; because just as I thought it wasn’t going that great, he got intense.
He put me on top of him and stared up at me with this real passion and purpose. He had his hands on my hips, guiding my motions. He pulled me forward and we kissed, mouths pressing, tongues flicking. Then he lifted me off him and reached down to pull his condom off, throwing it to the side. He put me back into position and started thrusting with more passion, more energy. He was getting ready to cum inside me.
And he did.
I trembled, exhilarated and nervous, my stomach pushed up into my ribcage. I fell forward, leaning on his chest and kissing him. He held me in place as our bodies relaxed, muscles letting go of the tautness and tension of our lovemaking. Nathan looked up at me, gently pushing my hair back behind my ear so he could gaze deep into my eyes. I looked down at him, trying to read this intense gaze. What does he want from me? What is our future? Does this person love me the way I need to be loved?
Me and Pamela Des Barres (author, I’m With the Band) — an amazing woman with so many fascinating stories!
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From CHAPTER THREE: Champagne and Cocaine
Another one of these sad stories includes the actor Edward Furlong, who played young John Connor in Terminator 2: Judgment Day. I met Edward at Guys, which was owned by someone in the Arquette family of actors, although I was never sure who. Every Tuesday Hartwell would throw a party there for the Hollywood elite. It was super small, super private and super exclusive. Even big celebrities had to wait outside. The bigger you were, the longer you had to wait, and this brought out the paparazzi. (An interesting side note is that Guys’ doorman was Andrew Brin, who later became my therapist!)
Inside it was dark, small and very crowded, celebrities everywhere: Rolling StoneMick Jagger, members of the rock bands No Doubt andthe Like, actors Stephen Dorff and Benicio Del Toro, celebrity sisters Paris and Nikki Hilton, SNL’s Chris Kattan, Spiderman’s Kirsten Dunst and Toby McGuire, my own ex Lucas Haas. The dj that night was Samantha Ronson, who later became Lindsay Lohan’s girlfriend.
Despite the casual lounge atmosphere, the dense crowd and loud music gave the place an intense feel. Orlando Bloom danced with me once at that place, grinding and spinning me around in a little corner of the room; my breasts touching his chest, one of my legs straddling his. Benicio Del Toro and I would meet up there and spend many crazy nights, introducing him around. (We’d met at the Hotel du Cap at the Cannes Film Festival. He was and remains a very gentle, very decent guy.)
At clubs like that, people were so crazy and the place was so crowded, nobody paid attention to which gender a bathroom may be intended for. Everybody took so long, doing lines and chattering; formalities went completely out the window. I was in one of these bathrooms and I set out some lines. I was snorting them when Edward sauntered up behind me. I was wearing an off-the-shoulder, light-purple chiffon top that tied on the side with some tight Earl jeans and high Gucci black leather boots.
Edward looked me up and down. “You’re gorgeous.” Every coke addict wants to hear that. I offered him a few lines and we started making out, right there and then. I didn’t even know his name, although through the haze of my memory I’m sure he introduced himself and I did the same (not that it mattered.)
He pulled me to him, purposeful and direct. Like Alfonso, Edward was a man who knew what he wanted and was ready to take it. He was a great kisser. They were warm and soft, his whole presence was very gentle, but he was giving off a lot of heat.
Edward invited me back to his place, where he was going to throw a little party and we’d all hang out and completely indulge ourselves (and I do mean completely.) I accepted and we finished off the coke before pushing our way out of the crowded bathroom.
I went back to his house in the Hollywood Hills. There was already a bunch of people there, including some groupie chicks. We drank Heinekens and did blow, Edward played a couple tunes on the piano.
Edward grabbed me by the hand and took me to his bedroom, where we started making out. The room was dark, lit only by moonlight streaming in through the window. We undressed ourselves in front of each other, then approached from opposite corners of the room, our eyes locked. Edward’s friends kept knocking on the door; we giggled, trying to ignore them. We kissed, Edward pressing his forehead against mine. With his striking confidence, he laid me down on the bed.from CHAPTER TWO: Jet Set
I met Alfonso Cuaron at a birthday party at Geoffrey’s in Malibu for my friend Eugenio Lopez, one of the youngest and wealthiest art collectors in the United States. The only son of a wealthy Hispanic family, Eugenio stood about five-foot-nine, with light brown hair and a tanned complexion; more Spanish than Mexican. The cliff-side view overlooked the Pacific, churning in the dark beyond the million-dollar beach houses below the restaurant. Well-dressed partiers sat at tables and stood in clusters, waiters carrying trays of cocktails and calamari across the busy room. Alfonso arrived with Selma Hayek. They were (and remain) very good friends. I was wrapped up in talking to my friends and drinking. A friend of mine who was there, Troy Christiansen, had just produced Et Tu Mama Tambien which Alfonso had directed. I’d been at the party a while, and on the way back from the bathroom some guy I didn’t know was waving at me from across the room. He seemed very average. Average height, average weight, average black shirt and jeans; just average. Troy came up to me a few minutes later. “Jeanell, there’s someone here who wants to meet you.” “Troy, I — ” “No, he’s dying to meet you.” He could tell I was in no mood. Sometimes I wanted to hang out with my friends, without all that romantic bullshit. “It’s important to me. You have to meet him. Do this for me, please please please?” What could I do? I nodded and Troy waved his friend over from across the room. It was the same guy who’d been waving at me, but I didn’t care enough to be disappointed. I just wanted to get it over with. Alfonso introduced himself. His smile was very inviting, he leaned into me when he spoke. “Can I talk to you alone, over here?” He gestured toward the end of the long banquet table. The first thing he asked me was, “What is your favorite color?” “If I had to chose at this very moment, I’d say red.” He smiled, sitting close to me. “Me too. Why?” “It’s warm, passionate.” “You’re beautiful.” The compliments didn’t let up, not to mention the questions; where I was born, what I liked to eat, music and movies I enjoyed. It was almost overwhelming, but the hours drifted by while we enjoyed each other’s company. He was witty, his thick accent erupting into a self-knowing chuckle, as if he was encouraging himself to go on with the conversation. We leaned closer to one another, as much to share a growing chemistry as to hear each other over the din of the conversation around us. He asked, “Can I take you home?”
from CHAPTER NINE: New Hope
But things started to come out about him [Weezer guitarist Brian Bell] that weren’t pleasant. He had a jealous side; very jealous. He would accuse me of cheating on him when I was being one-hundred percent faithful. That not only puts a damper on a relationship, but it says a lot about the person making those claims. I can’t make any concrete accusations, but more often than not when a person falsely accuses someone of cheating, it means that they are the ones cheating.
I’d been doing coke all through the relationship, but not too much. I tried to keep it out of the way. And I thought I was doing a good job. Until one night it was my friend Tim White’s birthday. I threw him a private bash by the pool at the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood. The Roosevelt had (and still has) a real Old Hollywood feel, ornate fixtures and stone ledges. The crowd packed around the pool and at the bar, called the Tropicana; cigarette smoke rose above the din of giddy conversation. Gladys and I got almost a dozen bottles of Vodka. Brian was too tired to go to the party, so I went on my own. I tried to be good and not get too wasted. But there was coke at the party. I started to do a few lines with my friends, still keeping it under control. Then there was all that vodka, which somebody had to drink!
Brian and a friend showed up at the party to surprise me (did they ever!) My friends passed a bag of coke around under the table and Brian’s friend noticed it. Maybe I was a little twitchy and nervous, from the coke and the pressure of Brian’s sudden arrival. Brian’s friend had been a coke addict, and he picked up right away on what I was doing. Then the friend told Brian that his new girlfriend was a coke addict and, shortly thereafter, Brian told me he was tired and they left.
I never denied that I did coke, and I even tried to mention it to Brian a few times. He never said he strongly objected, or that he’d never have anything to do with a coke user or anything like that. I didn’t have any reason to think it would be such a huge deal.
It was.
I drove fast on Sunset after the party to get to the Von’s Supermarket on Virgil for more booze to share with my friends back at the apartment. Gladys and a few others were already doing lines in the back seat (a mobile party-between-parties) while my friend Gabriella sat up front, helping me navigate. I was passing the Burger King when an SUV pulled out of the parking lot and onto Sunset right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and honked, then swerved to drive around it.
Gladys said, “Jeanell, be careful!”
Then I noticed the police squad car pulling out of the Burger King parking lot, where it had been behind the SUV. As I passed the parking lot, the cop pulled right behind me and hit the lights and siren. I felt like a hot stone was sinking in my stomach, arms and legs trembling.
I muttered, “Shit, the cops!”
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