Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up

by Des Barres, Pamela

  Moon was holding the heart earrings I brought her way up in the air, watching them jangle and glint when I felt myself spring a major leak. It was September 30 at about four in the afternoon, and I knew exactly what was going on. Gail gave me some female paraphernalia to soak up the baby water, I got my first contraction and started watching the clock. The anticipation was so intoxicating it reminded me of the Beatle countdown at the Hollywood Bowl in 1964. When the contractions blasted me every five minutes, I called Michael to tell him to get ready, Gail put her sister in charge of the birthday proceedings, hustled the dripping mom-to-be out the door and into her Rolls-Royce. She had been through this three times already and proved to be very adept at taking charge. I reclined on my side in the backseat, remembering to concentrate and attempting to relax when the contractions hit, but I was concerned about leaking onto the leather seat of the Rolls and kept apologizing to Gail for spoiling the fancy interior. She laughed in a tinkly way and assured me it didn’t matter, “You’re having a baby today!” She was ecstatic and made me feel like I was on my way to collect an Academy Award or Pulitzer prize. We grabbed Michael, who had already called Judy and Sparkie, and set out for Hollywood Presbyterian. Considering he was about to become a parent, Michael seemed fairly serene and slightly detached. He was probably in shock. I had my head in his lap and as he stroked my hair each strand seemed electrified. Bzzz-bzzz. Time becomes forsaken when you’re in labor. Minutes turn into weeks. It took a year to get to Vermont and Fountain, and the short ride in the wheelchair, a towel shoved between my legs, took about seventeen months. I waved good-bye to Gail, who promised to return when the baby came, and finally climbed into bed, my eyes crossed with spellbound attention to the matter at hand. I became an animal, alone with my womb; a wordless, focused hunk of primeval wildlife. Since I was about to be filmed and photographed, Sparkie gently asked if I would like some cosmetics applied. I could hardly even remember what lipstick was, let alone have it smeared across my earth-mother mouth. I waved her away, and when Michael tried to caress me, I grunted like a beast, flailing at his fingers like they were pesky flies on my fur. Although composed, Michael must have been a wreck, because when he located Doctor Zeidner at an Italian restaurant, I heard him shout into the phone, “This is Pamela Des Barres’s wife!”

  Dr. Z. said he wouldn’t be there for awhile because it was my first baby and since I was only at three centimeters, I was likely to be in labor for several more hours. I took in this information and discarded it instantly as fiction, knowing I would prove him wrong. Even though the pain was beyond mortal thought, I wanted to feel, feel, feel it all wrapped around me like swaddling clothes. I pushed hard and felt something give. I could hear my darling husband, Sparkie, and Judy having a ball in the background, like a party was going on, and I groaned, “Michael, call a nurse.” I knew I was in transition. The stunned angel of mercy found I was now at nine centimeters and when surprise flattened her features, I felt a divine sense of power wash over the careening agony. For a split second I was ferociously immortal. I felt like baying at the moon.

  Doctor Zeidner was probably polishing off his zabaglione when the Doctor X on duty rushed in to get everything ready for the big moment. Everybody put on sea green gowns and masks, the girls fiddled with their cameras, Michael paced. The room was aflurry with action, but the contractions had become constant, so I was one with the experience; one about to become two. Me and my shadow, strolling down the avenue. I prayed for a perfect baby and shoved like the brute creation I was, sounds coming out of me that had been heard only in the wild or maybe at a very large zoo. In the distance I heard the birth coach Judy exclaim, “It’s crowning! I can see the head!” That was my cue to thrust and heave with supersonic force, propelling the tiny, slippery being out into the big, brand-new world. The final push felt like a wrenching, all-consuming, full-body orgasm, with a choir of angels tossed in for good measure. Cameras captured the first breath, the first cry, my astonishment at seeing the bright pink male apparatus, Doctor X handing me the buttery bunch of baby, pressing the little bugger to my popping breast, the look of wildcat satisfaction on my face. It was over. Four hours and twenty-three minutes from the first contraction at Moon’s birthday party, I was holding my little boy. Surprise! Only three days before, Michael and I figured we had better come up with a boy’s name just in case Dominique didn’t show up, and we chose Nicholas because it was a simple, gallant name, and Dean after the first mainstream media rebel, James. Weak and elated at the same time, smug but thick with gratitude, I handed Michael his heir and watched them bond. He was supposed to have cut the cord, but Doctor X hadn’t been filled in, and Doctor Zeidner arrived just in time to stitch up a very tender, strategic spot. “Your husband will love me for this,” he said, chortling, hoping his tight stitches would make up for his missing the birth entirely. The euphoria was fading and the pain was pointedly profound. Sparkie tried to take my mind off my pussy by plying me with celebration cake and OJ, Judy praised me for a job well done, and soon little Nicky was wrapped tight in a blue blanket and back in my arms. Michael got on the phone, making sure everybody knew there was a new Des Barres on the planet. Mom and Daddy were the first to arrive, followed by Gail, my old pal Michele Myer and Tony and Dee Dee. I felt like a queen. O.C. cradled his grandson, besotted, cooing to him in a voice I’d never heard before, while Mom looked on adoringly, equally smitten by the midget bundle.

  Michael, Nicky, and I stayed that night in the birth room, and I felt like I was on some sort of dippy-dopey hallucinogenic. Michael was looking at me differently, a burgeoning smidgen of respect lighting his eyes. He said he had been watching me right before Nicky was born and saw a new look on my face; one of stern determination and strength. Miss Goody-Two-Shoes finally facing the hard-core music. After we cuddled and discussed the whole perfect experience, staring endlessly at our dozing offspring, I slept the sleep of a dead woman for the very last time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  Once you have a kid, any itty-bitty sound in the night will raise you, startled, straight off your pillow, alert and ready to dart. Nicky is fourteen now, but the slightest nighttime noise still knocks my personal sandman for a complete loop. Sleep had always been a wele pal o’mine but became a manic obsession soon after the motherbug bit me.

  By the time Nicky was two weeks old I was a delirious dunderhead, banging into walls, constantly aching to snooze. I had a pad of paper and a pencil by the bed so I could add up the hours of sleep I was getting each night, and it was never, ever enough. He nursed every ninety minutes, twenty-four hours a day for six months. Michael pretty much continued his life-style undaunted by daddyhood, a fact I rarely questioned or attempted to alter. Like most new mommies, I kept a baby book to remember each waking moment:

  Two weeks—Here Nicky is, on my bed, squirming, pink, and innocent, his mouth always open like a little bird’s—so sweet and soft—with a little weenie! I was so surprised he was a boy! I felt so amazing when he came out—so slippery and enormous. After he was born, they handed him to me and I hardly knew what to do with him! What a little bundle, he’s so beautiful. We asked Danny G. to be Nick’s godfather, and he said he would be honored.

  Nineteen days—still can’t believe I have this baby. Every day he gets more human and wide-eyed. The exquisite specimen is so time-consuming—a twenty-four hour appendage—completely dependent little rag. Michael is great with him, but he’s Mom’s job. I’m a little more mobile now that we have our Wee Kare car seat and Snuggli carrier—it’s a constant thing. I can hardly see, I’m so tired.

  Thirty-one days—Almost healed up. Little Nicky getting much more receptive and part of the human race. He drives me mad because he falls asleep at the tit and wants to nurse every half hour! He’s a fusser but never cries unless he’s hungry (which seems 4-ever). Melanie took Nicky and me to her astrologer as a birth-present, and the lady said that Nick had already achieved cosmic consciousness, was here on a specific mission and would
one day have followers! I don’t want to think about that right now.

  Seven and a half weeks—Little precious human asleep in his cradle—he raised his head and shoulders today on his tummy, and such an expression of wonderment at his giant feat. He’s turned into a real smiler, it lights up his whole face—he even laughs! He loves his grandma and his daddy, and smiles so much for them—love him madly!

  Nine and a half weeks—I’m like a dead dog most of the time. He’s gotten to the frustrated stage where he cries a lot unless he’s being personally amused—bounced and walked around. He’s so good-looking, when we take him out, old ladies tell us how gorgeous he is. He’s gone up a diaper size and is growing out of his Casper outfits—healthy little angel.

  Three months—He’s lying in his cradle now, batting rattles, beside himself with concentration. He’s really figuring out his hands, twining them around and staring so intently! He’s taken a shine to the stuffed Cookie Monster and talks to it twenty minutes in a row like he does to Michael. He’s losing his hair, and the fuzz underneath is white! Little platinum-haired boy.

  Fourteen weeks—He’s developing a personality and always smiles at strangers, so adorable. Mom got him a jack-in-the-box, and he squeals with delight over it. He’s taken up my whole life and he doesn’t care! What a commitment! A lifetime commitment for Mommy. I just found out Gail is pregnant, and Nick will have a little girlfriend in July!

  Fifteen weeks—We had our birth-class baby reunion last night—it was so much fun! Of course, Nicky was the prettiest and brightest; even Judy said so. We lined up all the babies for a photo and they were squirming and flailing, except for Nicky who looked calmly right into the lens. Ha, I wonder if he will ever read this and love his mom for writing it, or will he not be close to me. It’s so incredible to be a mom. He comes before everything—not a thing can be considered without first thinking of him.

  Five months, three weeks—To think I’d be in bed every night before midnight and always have a little baby in my arms. God, I’m too tired to write.

  The pedantic, gushing, age-old ramblings went on and on like Nicky was the first baby ever to splash in the bath or say “ga-ga.” My entire existence was caught up in Pampers, powder, and nursing pads. It was all Mom’s job, a lifetime commitment for Mommy. Nicky Dean came before everything. But where was Daddy?

  I started a pattern in those new-mom days, by getting my bossy, brassy but softy-hearted friend Michele Myer, who had recently become Auntie Shelly, to come over and baby-sit if I had to go out, leaving Michael in the back bedroom to his own devil-may-care devices, every second his own. Why didn’t I say, “Michael, I have to go to the gym, here’s Nicky, take care of him.” Why didn’t he say, “Oh, let me spend some time with my kid while you’re gone.” It’s always a fifty-fifty deal, remember, and I could have insisted he take care of his own son when I had important stuff to do, but I didn’t. My mom had been my caretaker 100 percent, even though O.C. was around most of the time. She doled out the punishment and the praise, taking on the entire burden of parenthood. It’s as if she didn’t want to bother him with all the constant, mundane, unglamorous facts of sticky kid life. From very early on I didn’t bother Michael either, and then it became too late.

  II

  Nicky helped to bring us closer, although our sex life suffered because I was always desperately scribbling on the sleep paper, adding up the precious hours of shut-eye I managed to get each night. Even when Michael and I tried to grab a few moments of long, hot sin, it often turned out to be brief and lukewarm but still all-important because I needed to feel beloved, cherished, and desirable to him—above all, desirable. My tummy, which had been hereditarily round to start with, had become seriously round, and I scraped together the priceless time three mornings a week to strap myself to a bunch of newfangled machines in order to tighten up the flubby waistline and dingle-dangle thighs.

  I had put on thirty-nine pounds altogether and still had ten to lose. Kim Lee, an Oriental browbeating, death-to-blubber exercise master whipped eleven inches off me in three months, and I vowed to speed up the tightening process after I finished nursing and could give up the glory of dairy products. I had sorrowful mixed feelings about ending those serene, rocking-chair moments of connected closeness with Nicky latched onto me like he was still attached to my body, but he had already taken to the bottle, and it was time for me to get back into shape and back into acting class. I knew my titties would need strapping down tight so the milk would dry up and go away. Right after the last supper I wrapped them round and round with Ace bandages and waited for the pissed-off milk ducts to accept that it was all over. I expected a little pain, but the poor things got so hot and bothered they swelled to a pornographic size and got as hot as a Las Vegas sidewalk on the Fourth of July. It felt like I had sacks of boiling, bubbling lava inside me, and nothing made the steaming bulges feel any better. I had to take care of my fidgety newcomer and go on with life like I didn’t have single bleeping care. I finally took some male hormone pills, hoping for relief, but all I got were several mongrel hairs growing out of my chin like stray whiskers. Then, after ten days, my misshapen mammaries got cute again, just like nothing had ever happened.

  After a rare exquisite afternoon nap a few days later, I wandered out of the bedroom and heard the whir of Tony’s film projector. Wow! Was Michael watching the birth film? I hadn’t felt quite ready to repeat the torrid experience yet, but maybe now I could relive the sweet memory and cherish it. I peeked in the door just in time to see Nick shooting back into my womb. Out again. Over and over. In and out. Tony, with his droll, brittle sense of humor, was running the film backwards—then forwards—backwards. I gasped for air and had to go lie down again. I haven’t watched the film since.

  Eventually working out became a large hunk of my life-style. Way before the fitness craze, I flopped around with saggy ladies at the Beverly Hills Health Club before it was called the Sports Connection, doing old-fashioned lifts and sit-ups, which came to be those “feel the burn” killer ass pinchers and gut-grinding crunches. I also became slightly obsessed with the fine lines appearing all over my face, remembering long, hot, baking days at the beach, my bras stuffed to the brim with created cleavage, coated in ray-grabbing grease, broasting my skin to a ravishing burnt sienna to impress those gangly, zit-ridden junior high school boys. After noticing the faint, solar-created etchings around my eyes, I went to Bullocks with my plastic to purchase every product that promised to “improve the appearance of aging skin”; smearing on blobs every morning and night, making sure they sunk way into my beached-out epidermis. Through the years I must have spent a hundred thousand bucks on creams, gels, and fancy emollients for my crabby complexion. It doesn’t seem fair that I went directly from pimples to wrinkles without any kind of break. Now I coat my entire being in SPF 25 before opening a window.

  When Auntie Shelly wasn’t available, I dragged Nicky to the gym with me, where he ventilated indignation from within his expandable play cage. And, of course, we regularly visited my lethally damaged daddy, whose time on the planet seemed to be running out.

  February 16—My daddy is suffering so, and I pray to the Gods that when his time is up he is taken swiftly and easily. Poor Mama, she’s so strong. She had to go look at coffins today. How I stay so damn sane and happy most of the time is hard to figure out. To think that we all come here and live our silly lives and have to die—usually with agony. How can we be spared it? Is it all preordained? It’s such a complicated life. Signed, the Questioning Queen of Housewifery.

  The king of our menage was suffering his own bum trips. Detective finally hung up their badges, and Michael got involved with KISS’s bass player, Gene Simmons, who had high and mighty hopes of becoming a mogul. Despite Gene’s grand intentions, it was one of many liaisons that didn’t work out. Record executives were imperious, meetings got canceled or went nowhere real slow. Always angry because he felt like he was constantly compromising himself for some fathead’s dirty dollar
, Michael either seethed or went out and got bombed. He would come home from watching a new band like the Clash and mope around for days, feeling his life slide by without being able to harness his brilliance. He signed another management contract with a bright but coked-up bozo who put on rock concerts, and even though this guy gave us money to live on, Michael called himself “a kept prop star,” emanating sorrow like rays of radiation and had dark, loathsome thoughts about his battered integrity.

  Finally, in frustration he decided to get back into acting, the craft of his youth. At eight years old he had been on posters all over England as the Nux Bar Kid, hyping the crunchy chocolate bar on telly and radio. In fact, he had done a bunch of kids’ TV shows before landing the part, at sixteen, as the hip guy wearing sunglasses in the sixties movie classic To Sir with Love. The first time he heard Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May,” he said “Now, that sounds like fun,” and was inspired to sing, dropping his acting career in favor of nasty, filthy rock and roll. Now that he lived in the show-biz capital of the universe, why not do both? The problem was, How many parts were there for a pole-thin, British, would-be pop star with very long strawberry blond ringlets? On one of his wild rampages, Michael ran into an old English music mate, Jimmy Henderson, formerly the bass player in the fabulous’ Tucky Buzzard, and found that his wife, Kathy, was casting a new sitcom, WKRP in Cincinnati. She had already given Jimmy the part of a guy in a rock band and was looking for the rest of the group. Michael snatched the coveted role of Dog Boy, and as a last favor to his former band mates, brought the rest of Detective in to play Scum of the Earth, a raving British punk band that wreaks havoc on the radio station. Kathy adored Michael’s wacky portrayal of a barking singer and also cast him as a rock star in The Rockford Files, which caught the attention of an agent, and so began his second career in America. He was stuck playing rock guys for way too long, but soon made enough dough for the family to take a trip abroad so his eccentric (to put it gently) parents could meet the royal offspring.