Everything was working out fine until one day when I was at work at the presses. George Laws appeared next to me. “Chris, step into my office, please,” he said flatly. I followed him down the hallway, wondering why he was so stern. He sat down at his desk and motioned for me to take a seat across from him. He was silent for what seemed like an eternity. “Chris,” he finally spoke, “we had some gentlemen from the FBI stop by here yesterday. They were very concerned about a possible false identification card that they believe was manufactured at this printing plant. Do you know anything about that?”
George locked eyes with me. I could feel my palms get clammy. My first thought was, Who ratted us out? I knew I was busted, so I ‘fessed up. I told George everything. He didn’t break his gaze or even blink. “Do you think your dad needs this right now?” he asked. I felt my heart sink.
“No,” I mumbled, as I hung my head in shame.
“I don’t think so, either,” he replied. “I’ll take care of it, but don’t you ever do anything that stupid again, do you understand?” I nodded.
“Yessir,” I said. “It won’t happen again.” By the grace of God, George Laws convinced the FBI agents that we were just dumb kids and that we were already doing heavy penance. The two agents let it slide. I doubt if anyone else could have handled this other than George—a newspaper reporter, professional gambler, savvy “street guy,” and a gentlemanly survivor who was another of my important mentors.
My days of making counterfeit driver’s licenses were behind me, but I can’t say I became an angel. By the start of 1961, I was a music-obsessed mediocre student with no interest in school and no real life goals other than some vague notion of one day becoming a rambling folksinger. Every year, in the early spring months, San Dieguito High held its annual Sadie Hawkins dance where the girls asked the boys to the dance, and we all dressed up like something out of Al Capp’s Li’l Abner comic strip. The night of the dance, some of my criminal surfing pals and I met up at the vacant lot on the bluffs overlooking Solana Beach. Someone in our group made a big score, a full unopened bottle of Vodka and a can of tomato juice. Bloody Marys for all! At some point during our predance party ritual, I spilled a glass of tomato juice on my light-colored pants. There was really nothing I could do about it but continue to get loose with my pals, knocking back our jury-rigged Bloody Marys. We all finally got in our cars and, by the grace of God, made it safely to the dance. But then things got real interesting.
The school was too small to hire a live band, so the music for the dance was provided by a small turntable. My friend Tim—who stood six feet, four inches and played varsity football, basketball, and surfed—decided he wanted to play a Muddy Waters album. Only problem was, there was already a Frankie Avalon record on the turntable. Tim, feeling no pain after a few Bloody Marys, strolled over and pulled the needle off, scratching the Frankie Avalon record in the process. He plunked down the Muddy Waters LP and dropped the needle. As soon as the strains of “Tell Me Baby” roared from the speakers, one of the teacher-chaperones came running over and ripped Tim’s record off the player. Tim shoved the teacher, and the fireworks began. “Don’t even think about it, son!” the teacher screamed. Suddenly, another teacher appeared by his side, took one look at my tomato juice-stained pants and demanded, “You boys have been drinking, haven’t you?”
Tim and I were both immediately sent to the office along with another guy. The vice principal, who was a real hard ass, told us that we were all going to juvenile hall for our underage drinking and disorderly conduct. He called each of our parents, and my mother arrived shortly thereafter. My mom was the disciplinarian of the family and was known to deal with behavioral issues in a harsh and decisive manner. I dreaded seeing her come through the door.
“Your son is going to juvenile hall in San Diego,” the vice principal informed her as soon as she walked in.
My mother squared up and looked him in the eye. “Over my dead body,” she shot back. She looked over at me. “Get in the car,” she yelled. “You’re in big trouble.”
I stood up and started walking out slowly. I longed to turn back to the vice principal and ask, “Is that juvenile hall offer still good?” I knew every step toward my mother’s car was one step closer to the hell that awaited me.
After I headed to the car, our beloved vice principal explained to my mother that Tim and I would both be suspended for three weeks. This wouldn’t affect Tim too much because he was a sports star who was graduating in a matter of months anyway. For me, however, it was a far worse fate. Missing that much school when I already wasn’t a great student meant I would miss preparing for the final exams of my junior year.
My mom gave me a piece of her mind in the car that night, but I dreaded going home to tell my father what had happened. I knew my dad wasn’t in a good place. He was coasting along, but it was clear he was hiding from something. There was something chasing him; his own self-doubt and paranoia were taking a toll. I knew he was struggling, but it wasn’t until later that I knew the extent of what he was going through. He had been trying to tread water with the newspaper, but a lot of bad debt had been piling up for a couple of years. He had taken on an additional job editing and publishing a city weekly in San Diego while keeping his own weekly going in Rancho Santa Fe. That would have been enough to severely test a man’s spirit, but I later found out that the partner in my dad’s new venture in San Diego had talked him into backing the project. Then the guy skipped town and disappeared to Europe. He left my father with even more debt. My dad had already borrowed against everything he owned up to that point, and it was clear he was getting desperate.
My father, though suffering, didn’t get as mad as I thought he would about my drunken school dance escapade. “You made a really bad choice,” he said, “and I think you know that. We’ll get through this, but let’s not create any more problems for your mother and me right now.” That was all he said. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just blow up and let fly with all manner of yelling, but there wasn’t much drama. I was grounded for a month, which meant that, other than driving to work, I could not use my car or go anywhere.
Once my home detention period had ended and I was back to normal life, I went out surfing one afternoon with my buddies. It was daylight savings time, so we had plenty of light and were still out on the water around 5:30 p.m. It was one of those picturesque California afternoons with perfect conditions on the water. All of a sudden, my mellow bliss was interrupted when a friend shouted over to me, “Hey, Hillman, your dad’s on the beach, and he doesn’t look very happy.” I looked back toward the shore and there he was, frantically waving for me to come in. I thought something horrible must have happened at home, so I quickly paddled in and jogged up the beach toward my dad.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” my father hissed. I hadn’t heard him say that since I was a young beagle hunter. “You don’t have a brain in your head, do you? You couldn’t even think beyond yourself to call your mother and tell her you weren’t going to be home for dinner? Unacceptable!” With that, he turned and stormed off. I had never heard him express that much frustration toward me in my life. He handled it pretty well when I was suspended from school, but now he was losing it over missing one dinner? I didn’t get it. After a few days, it dawned on me why he was so angry. It was all about responsibility, manners, and being considerate of others. Those values were in short supply for a selfish sixteen-year-old. My dad was trying to help me grow up and be a responsible man.
By that summer of 1961, I was increasingly spending more and more time bent over my guitar or mandolin than I was spending on the surfboard. With Susan and her husband Hugh enjoying their lives in Del Mar, and my brother Dick finishing off his flight training in Colorado, my little sister Cathy and I were the only ones at home. We were each doing our own thing as my dad struggled with what we now know was stress and depression. We didn’t see much of him that summer. My mother, meanwhile, had been diagnosed with diabetes—just li
ke both her parents before her—and was caught up in making some serious changes to her life. The various members of the Hillman family were just doing our own thing and plodding through daily life.
July 2 was a beautiful day. It was a Sunday and I was standing in the living room in the midmorning when my father walked in. He stood in front of me, and I was struck by the sadness in his eyes. There was such a weary countenance on his face that it caught me off guard. “I’m leaving for a while,” he finally said. “I love you very much.” It was unsettling. I just stood there looking into his eyes. Finally, his gaze left mine as he slowly turned, walked out the front door, and drove away. In that moment, I knew in my heart that I would never see my father again.
The next day I was supposed to drive down to Solana Beach to meet up with some friends. I was rushing out the door when the phone rang. Typically, I would have ignored it, but something made me stop and pick up the receiver. It was my sister, Susan.
“Daddy’s dead,” she sobbed.
This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. I couldn’t move. “What do you mean?” I stammered. “Dad is fine. I just saw him yesterday!”
Silence. “Chris,” she finally replied. “He’s gone. Daddy is dead.” I gently set the phone down and stood there motionless. I was numb—no tears, no feelings. Just numb.
I finally came-to enough to jump in my car and drive to Susan’s house. I later found out that Hugh was the first to get the news from the police. He had gone searching for my mother, who was enjoying a day at the beach with friends. When he finally located her on the shore, he calmly told her that he needed to speak with her in private. It must have been the most difficult conversation of either of their lives. By the time I pulled up in their driveway, they were all standing outside the house—Hugh, Susan, and Mom. It was surreal. I didn’t know what to say. I don’t think I even hugged my mother that day. I just didn’t know how to react.
I slipped out of Susan and Hugh’s house that night, disappearing on the empty streets of Del Mar. After three hours of stumbling around aimlessly, my tears finally came. I tried to grasp the meaning of it all, still secretly hoping that my sister was somehow mistaken and it wasn’t really true. Hugh was waiting up for me when I finally made it back to their house in the early morning. Again, no words. None of us knew how we were supposed to behave in that kind of situation. A crippling sadness permeated the house.
The following day we learned that my dad had driven up to San Clemente and checked into a motel. We all thought he had probably had a heart attack in his sleep. He was stressed out with work, and perhaps it was just too much for his body. Dick was summoned home from Colorado and, while awaiting his arrival, Hugh and I drove up to San Clemente to retrieve the death certificate from the coroner’s office. The man who waited on us went out of his way to avoid saying anything about the cause of death, simply referring to it as a pulmonary problem. I think he was probably evasive for my benefit. It wasn’t a heart attack or emphysema. My father had committed suicide. After checking into the motel, he took his own life with a handful of sleeping pills.
In the early 1960s, psychiatric therapy was still fairly uncommon. Having abandoned his upbringing in the Jewish faith, and without the resources of a good mental health professional, my father simply lost hope. I can only imagine the pain he must have been in. We held a very brief and very sad memorial for my father at the mortuary in Encinitas. My mother’s cousin, Presbyterian minister Joe Broadley, presided over the ceremony. I can hardly remember any of the details.
Suicide—that dark abyss where the inner demons take hold of the mind and all rational thought and logic disappear; the destroyer of the family. How could this loving, affectionate, talented, sweet man who brought us up to believe in ourselves—to make a life marked by morals and values, to be responsible and caring toward others—have taken his own life and, in doing so, left us alone and destitute? Somehow, my mother began gathering up the scattered remnants of her sanity. The following days, weeks, and months are a bit of a blur, but my mom demonstrated great resiliency in the wake of my father’s death. She found the will to carry on, determined to keep the family together. Dick Blackledge, the agent who had sold my dad his life insurance policy, fought like hell to try to get a settlement for my mother. Unfortunately, my father hadn’t been paying his premiums, and the insurance company wouldn’t pay out on a suicide anyway. We were on our own. But my mom singlehandedly and heroically managed to deal with the aftermath of financial ruin and all the collateral damage that was left behind.
The long-term ramifications of a suicide in a close-knit family can never be erased. My father’s death affected each of us in different ways. While my mother rolled up her sleeves and fought for her family, I grew angry and self-destructive—patterns that would linger well into my adult life. In fact, it would take me almost forty years to finally forgive my father, realizing that he was sick and that he grew overwhelmed with the voice of failure ringing constantly in his head. In his pride, he surrendered. Yes, we each carried scars with us, but we also carried the memories of a man—an incredible man—my father, David Sidney Hillman.
CHAPTER FIVE
RESTLESS
As if the summer of 1961 wasn’t tumultuous enough, when September rolled around, I still had the consequences of my bad behavior from the previous year lingering over me. As it turned out, I had failed most of my final exams as a result of having missed so much school during my suspension after the Bloody Mary incident. I had to repeat most of eleventh grade, which was not fun. I made the decision to make a fresh start by enrolling in La Jolla High School. Nobody would know me, and I could quietly slip in under the radar without having to answer a bunch of questions about my dad or about flunking so many classes. Fortunately, I didn’t have to forego all social support. Two of my friends from San Dieguito decided to change schools, too.
We lasted a total of three months before returning to San Dieguito in defeat. It was beyond humiliating to have to go back again. I dreaded having to face my friends after all that had happened—not to mention suffering the indignity of attending classes with kids that were younger than me.
Meanwhile, my mother stayed with The Rancho Santa Fe Times for a while longer. Then, we moved to a small house in Del Mar, near where Susan and Hugh lived. Not really knowing how to cope, Cathy and I continued to struggle with our friends and with school. I didn’t qualify with enough credits to graduate in the following spring so, that summer, I enrolled in Oceanside Junior College, hoping to get enough credits to earn my diploma. I signed up for the first class that held any interest, political science, and received a D minus on my first test. I was walking around in a fog, wondering if I would ever get beyond age seventeen, much less actually earn a high school diploma.
One day, Edward Covey showed up at our door. Edward was the son of my parents’ best friends and would go on to become Dick’s brother-in-law. He was a nonconformist in the truest sense of the word, having broken most of his family’s rules and boundaries as a young man. He was in his late twenties and had such a positive effect on all of us with his contagious smile and amazing energy. He stayed with the three of us for a week or two, cheering up my mom and Cathy, and, most importantly, sitting down with me as an all-caring surrogate big brother. I told him about my first test score from junior college, and he just smiled. “Let’s see if we can work this out together,” he replied. Every day, Edward worked with me, showing me how to study, how to read more effectively, and how to retain information. I took my next test and got a B plus!
Edward led a very reclusive and mysterious life. Nobody really seemed to know much about him, and his family was always vague on his activities after he graduated from college. I always suspected that he spoke three or four languages and probably did clandestine work for the government—ours or some other country’s. Even though my brother married Edward’s sister, Midge, I didn’t see him many times after that summer. But he certainly came into my life at a critical juncture and
helped get my academic pursuits back on track.
The summer of 1962 was abruptly interrupted when my mother announced that she was moving us to Los Angeles. It seemed like the best option for her to move away from the sadness and despair that haunted her in San Diego County. At first, we stayed at Grandma Charlton’s home on Doheny Drive in Beverly Hills until we could find a suitable apartment nearby.
Once we arrived in Los Angeles, things started happening at a rapid pace. Cathy enrolled in Beverly Hills High School, and Mom got a job downtown working at a fashion magazine that was published and edited by an old friend of my father’s. Meanwhile, I went looking for a job of my own. I applied at the May Company on Wilshire and Fairfax in midtown. You had to be eighteen to qualify for a job there, and I was still two months shy of my birthday. God was surely with me the day the nice young lady who interviewed me pointed out the age problem, but then proceeded to change the numbers and hire me on the spot. A truly kind and understanding person had again entered my life.
My job required me to be at work every day at 8:00 a.m. working as a “stock boy” in the men’s clothing department, where I kept the shelves and arranged displays. It was a real “punch the clock” kind of gig from 8:00 to 5:00 on weekdays, with Saturdays and Sundays off. Still lacking enough credits for my diploma, I enrolled in night school at Beverly Hills High. I took typing and reported for class three times a week, which would give me the credits needed to finally finish.
In addition to the three of us finding new work and school situations, we quickly moved into a nice little two-bedroom apartment on Robbins Drive across from the high school. It was small but comfortable. In just two months we’d gone from Rancho Santa Fe to Del Mar to an unfamiliar metropolitan city. Life was changing so rapidly that we didn’t even have time to process the extreme culture shock.
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