I Hear Addiction Calling

I was finally going to meet the great Eddie. We were going to his apartment. He had an apartment on Highland Avenue behind the Holiday Inn. It was an old, crumbly two-story building dwarfed by the gaudy hotel. Naturally, I was hyped up to meet this good-looking man that Connie insisted was going to leave his girlfriend to be with her. Which I never believed. Connie was a year behind me, making her 13ish years old, and Eddie was pushing thirty.

When we got there, his old lady answered the door. Back in the 70s, that’s what these types called their girlfriends. Old Ladies. I found it demeaning. But they all seemed to use the phrase proudly and often. My old lady this, my old lady that. Ick. Margie, his old lady, was cool. She trusted both of us and treated us like her little sisters. We could hang out there, flop down on the couch, and watch TV. The apartment wasn’t bad for a couple of working-class loadies. One big room sectioned off divided the living room from the sleeping area, which was only a bed. It was always clean, too.

Straightaway, Connie asked if Eddie was there. Making it obvious she was only there to see him, I thought. Margie smiled and said he was at work. Margie, of course, knew that Connie was infatuated with him. It didn’t seem to bother her. Maybe she thought it was cute. As for what she thought of me, I was more of a mystery. She didn’t know how to break the ice with me. Probably because I wasn’t really interested in Eddie, or her, or smoking pot, I guess she could see that.

Even though it was a cool place to hang out, and at times it could be a nice retreat from the streets and, in Connie’s case, the truant officers, nonetheless, I was bored most of the time. Margie did make it clear that we couldn’t spend the night, and we couldn’t be there if we were runaways, which wasn’t much of a rule since we weren’t going to admit it anyway.

The next time we were going over to Eddie's again. Connie bragged that he has a T-bird. “I love T-birds.” She gushed. I bet you do, I thought, and wondered what the hell was so great about an old T-bird. When we got there, once again, no Eddie. I’m never going to meet this guy. Margie was there. She was putting on her makeup and was going to walk around on the boulevard. She asked if we wanted to go. I definitely did. Connie didn’t. She was disappointed that Eddie wasn’t there. Margie said I had pretty eyes and wanted to know if I ever wore mascara. I had no experience with it or any makeup, for that matter. “Do you want me to show you?” I really did. Margie was in her mid to late thirties and gorgeous. She had long, layered, thick blonde hair and huge brown eyes like one of those German dolls. Still, you could see she had been through some rough times. She was cleaned up now after years of heroin use. She had been a prostitute until Eddie came along and took care of her. Now, she was just Eddie’s old lady. He worked and brought in the money, and she stayed home all day.

She sat me down in front of a mirror at a small built-in vanity, which is not uncommon in these old Hollywood buildings—even the less glamorous ones. She took the mascara brush and began to brush it on my lashes as I watched them become longer and thicker. Then she took a safety pin and showed me how to separate any lashes that clumped together from the black goop. Connie was annoyed. She wasn’t getting the attention, and again, no Eddie. Plus, Connie wore makeup, this hideous blue or green eye shadow. I was pleased with the results. “You’re a natural beauty,” she affirmed. Now, more than before, I wanted to go walking down the boulevard.

We all headed out down Highland to Hollywood Boulevard. We went checking out the different shops that were selling jewelry, hash pipes, bongs, sandals, summer dresses, and straw hats. Then, for some reason, Connie started harassing this young prostitute, yelling, Whore! Whore! Whore! Margie was mortified. We looked at each other in shock and disbelief. Margie ran up to Connie, pulling her away from the girl and telling her to shut up. Connie broke away and moved in even closer to the girl. She was about three feet from her and continued to yell whore repeatedly right in the girl’s face. Margie yelled out, “I’m not walking with you!” and fled in horror, taking long, rapid strides up the boulevard towards Highland, back to the apartment. “I’m leaving too,” I yelled. Connie just ignored us and continued calling out whore, whore, whore, making the poor girl turn left and right, back and forth, left to right, hiding her face and covering her ears, but each time she turned, Connie turned with her, yelling whore, whore, whore. The girl was desperately looking for a place to hide the shame of this revelation witnessed by the tourists and locals on the street, who were now looking with intense judgment at the young girl and backing away from her like it were contagious. I yelled one more time that Margie was leaving, and so was I. No reply. She didn’t even look over at me.

That’s how I found out that Margie had worked as a prostitute. When we got back, Margie told me. She was so shaken up that she was trembling. She told me that what just happened was horrible and one of the worst nightmares that can ever happen to you on the street, and she didn’t want to be associated with it. I didn’t know what to say. I felt terribly bad for her. After that, she didn’t want us coming around. Actually, it was Connie she didn’t want around, but since I was Connie’s friend, it applied to me as I am sure she knew I wouldn’t turn up there by myself.

After about five more attempts to meet the great Eddie. (To which Margie did not let us in the apartment anymore since he wasn’t there and she didn’t want to see Connie.) I finally did! We popped over one afternoon. Eddie was home early from work. Margie didn’t want to let us in, but when Eddie saw us, he flung the door wide open and said to come on in. It was more than a letdown after the whole big build-up. I didn’t see what she or anyone could see in this guy. (Margie definitely could have done better.) He was about 5’5”, Italian, with curly black hair verging on frizzy and a decent build from working construction; I’ll give him that, but a schnoz like Jimmy Durante, which made his already beady eyes look like two black dots on his sun-weathered face. The only thing I ever said to him was hello, since Connie was on him like white on rice. Even Margie had lost her good-natured tolerance and was giving Connie the evil eye. I didn’t blame her. Connie was rubbing up against him with her tight little corduroy ass and mouth parted like Jagger.

The last time I was at Eddie's was at a party one night. Someone was passing out Quaaludes like they were candy. “Come on, try one, try one,” Connie urged. Everyone was already high except for me. The place smelled like Humboldt County hemp field had burned to the ground. I finally relented and swallowed the red. A euphoric warmth spread over me. The room was filled with laughing angels. All cares were liberated from every part of my young beingness. I was separating in all ways like a sun from the clouds, then plunging into immense peace where I remained wordless for hours. When the effect was just about to wear off, the me inside of me proclaimed, I. Will. Never. Take. This. Again. No. Way. This is too damn good. Understand? said I. Yes, I understand, I replied. “It’s too good,” they both said in unison. I hear addiction calling.