“Oh God!” Terry hides her face in her shirt.
John watches the water, transfixed for several minutes, his expression quiet, subdued. He shakes his blond curls, undresses, then quickly flips over onto his stomach and closes his eyes. Terry and I deliberately avoid looking at either of the guys directly. I decide to buckle down. I pull off my tank top and shorts, revealing my swimsuit, and apply some suntan lotion.
“You’ll get tan lines.” John’s muffled voice rises from the blanket.
Startled, I freeze for a second. Is he daring me? I wonder. My sense of pride is challenged. You can do this, I tell myself. I gather my nerve, reach back to untie the top of my bathing suit. John springs to my side and in a gentle, nonthreatening way, helps me undo the strings. The cool morning air and sun combined feel good against my newly exposed skin. Feeling pretty courageous, I lie down and close my eyes.
“You’ll get tan lines.”
Sitting up, I look over at Terry. She is still clutching herself, wearing her shorts and T-shirt, refusing to “go with the flow,” and throwing out death stares. Juan is facedown, asleep in the sun.
Smiling at John’s second comment about tan lines, I “bite the bullet” and modestly slip off my bathing suit bottoms, fold them next to me, and fall back to enjoy the full warmth of the sun.
We lie statuelike, but soon I surrender to the waves of sleep taking me in and out of sweet puppy dreams. In my warm haze I sense John sit up, and I get uncomfortable. With my eyes closed, I flip over to avoid looking at him.
“Want some lotion?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” I lean up on my elbows, drowsy from the sun, my mood relaxed and casual. John applies the lotion from my back to my legs as if it isn’t a big deal. He has an all-natural, casual attitude, and I try to copy him to fit in. I hold my breath at his touch and think, Well, Dawn, when in Rome…
“Me too,” he says, tossing over the bottle of lotion and quickly rolling over.
“Sure.” I sit up and shrug. I see the brown of John’s back and then his rear end. It is whiter than his back and has a few red pimples. My stomach tightens. I feel repulsed for a second that I’m looking at this old guy’s butt. I try not to show any disgust and methodically rub lotion down the back portion of his body, still wanting to maintain my cool. When I finish, I am relieved that I haven’t seen anything surprising.
After another nap in the sun, I am getting too hot. My skin can feel the beginning of a burn, and I want to find some shade. John turns his face toward mine. His eyes sparkle as blue as the Caribbean Sea. “They’re doing body painting over there. Wanna go?” he whispers.
Cold sweat runs through me on the hot sand. “Sure.” I’m nervous. I don’t really want to get up. I don’t want us to see each other in the nude. John stands right away and reaches his hand down to pull me up off the blanket. I fix my gaze on his face, and he keeps his on mine. His grip still firm in mine, he leads me over to a crowd of people covered with fluorescent body paints.
“Hello,” John says in a syrupy, friendly voice.
“Step right up!” A woman with a wide straw hat and psychedelic swirls painted over her entire small nude frame smiles. “What can I do for you today?” she asks. She looks me straight in the eyes, raises an eyebrow, and grins. Her paintbrush poised in midair, she winks at John. “Flowers? Swirls? Peace signs? What will it be for the lovely couple?”
Fierce blushing burns my cheeks at her comment; I glance down for just a second, gather my courage, turn, and look back at John. From the sand, I slowly follow his long lean figure upward, taking in his full naked image at last. Inwardly I choke. I don’t know what to think. Our eyes meet, and for an instant I think he looks scared. Quickly, my eyes dart away, and I blush even harder.
John nervously shifts his weight. “We’ll take the flowers,” he says decisively to the woman in the hat.
We stand side by side, next to two other brightly painted naked people, as the woman with the paintbrush adorns our breasts and belly buttons with large daisylike flowers. Any tension between us melts away at the silliness of having glow-in-the-dark petals painted on our bodies.
Giggling like children at the way the brushes tickle, we glance over to see Juan waving to us. His brown skin fiery red, he looks as if he has just woken up. “Hey! Let me get the camera!” he calls, dashing off like an excited tourist. When he returns, the artists working on John and me are just finishing, admiring their handiwork. “Okay, you guys,” Juan says, panting for breath, “let’s see a pose.”
John and I beam proudly at the costumes of floral colors we are now sporting. I love the wild flowers, and the colorful green leaves cupping my small breasts match the hint of emerald in my eyes. John steps in, puts his arm around me, and nestles close as we smile for the camera.
“One more! One more,” Juan shouts. “Come on. One more!” I haven’t noticed that a small crowd has been gathering behind us.
In a whir of movement, John gallantly sweeps my tiny, budding child body up into his arms. My long golden brown hair flows behind me like a mermaid’s as he stands, beaming from ear to ear for the camera. I giggle with delight, wrap my arms around his neck, and cuddle up to his chest.
“Good. Perfect.” Juan snaps the picture.
Gently, John sets me down on the sand, turns immediately without saying a word, and walks into the water.
“Are we leaving?” Juan asks.
“I guess so. Why did he go into the water?”
“I bet I know,” Juan smirks, raising his eyebrows.
“Hey, you’re burnt.” I change the subject, embarrassed. “Ha-ha. That’s going to hurt.” Laughing at his nakedness, I run back to our blankets.
John is out of the water and getting dressed.
Terry is happily packing as fast as she can. “We’re leaving,” Terry says.
“Oh, okay.” I wonder if John has other plans. His mood is serious, and he speaks to no one, shaking out the blankets and packing the cooler. I get dressed, confused again. He is so weird, I grumble, following him back over the rocks to Zuma Beach.
“Well, he managed to get your clothes off, didn’t he, Dawn?” Terry snaps as we approach the van. “I told you I didn’t feel right about this.”
I don’t answer. I like John. In fact, I am getting very scared at how much I like him. His professional life is still very vague to me. I don’t understand it and, anyway, I don’t see him that way. He’s not that way around me. Besides, we’re just friends, I say to myself, pulling my mind back from the temptation of imagining anything more. There is Sharon too. That’s another entirely weird thought.
“After you,” John says, holding the van door open and helping me up. He is smiling, and his mood is light again. Naturally the first thing John does is plug in his favorite Jim Croce eight-track tape. Together we sing “Time in a Bottle” while Juan falls asleep in the back and Terry sits frowning next to him, keeping a cautious, silent watch on the two of us all the way home.
CHAPTER SIX
Early Morning Dawn
Nobody tells Dad the next day that we went to a nude beach. He probably would blow it off anyway. Still busy hanging out with Harriet, he tries to get rid of us whenever we show up. Occasionally, he comes over to see if Mike has any pot, but Mike is rarely home anymore. All we know is that he has some girlfriend a few blocks away. We figure he is selling pot pretty regularly about now and needs to hang out with a different crowd.
John continues to wake me for school every morning and stops in to hang out at Juan and Terry’s cottage two or three times every evening. He sweetly brings us peace offerings of food and treats, easily melting any suspicions Terry might have about him. After all, John is a really nice guy.
Running into each other has become a daily habit. “Nothing’s going to happen, Terry,” I tell her. John loves to dash over several times during the day or evening, carrying a sizzling plate or frosty blender of one of his creations, getting the greatest enjoyment from sharing his meals with us. He’s n
ever without his corncob pipe, a member of his trademark paraphernalia, and he passes shotguns of smoke to everyone while we watch television together for hours and hysterically invent dishes to satisfy our sweet tooth munchies.
John and I gravitate toward each other naturally when we hang out. He is funny and kind to me. When he catches me faking a hit off a joint, he laughs. “Lightweight,” he teases. “I like that.” Then he swiftly reaches down and gives me an up close, killer shotgun. Stoned from the blast, John and I find things so funny that sometimes we hold each other in tear-streaked fits of laughter while Terry and Juan stare and shake their heads.
Gregarious and gaudy, John wears outrageous outfits without blinking an eye. Dinner, late-night talk shows, and the fairly new Saturday Night Live become our common ground. On an evening, well after dark, John races over carrying a steaming cookie sheet in his hand and wearing a full-length bright-yellow-and-black-striped caftan. “Try this!” he cries enthusiastically, handing each of us a gooey cookie.
Terry and I blush and hold back a laugh. “Sure.” We take one of his treats. “What is he wearing?” we mouth to each other, rolling our eyes. “He looks like a giant bumblebee.” Then we taste the creamy creation. “Umm, this is delicious! What is it?”
“Chocolate chip, peanut butter, brown sugar cookies with a dab of butter on top baked in the oven just enough to melt the butter,” John says, smiling proudly without taking a breath. Bursting into laughter at the outrageousness of his dessert, we devour the cookies in handfuls.
It seems for a couple of months I have found a safe haven at my sister’s cottage, a place that takes me away from the unwanted coldness of my father and Harriet, if only for a few hours a night. Politely, John leaves Terry’s when I do and, like a gentleman, escorts me to my door at the end of the evening. I have found a safe haven with him also; at least I think I have.
John sees my father’s lack of concern for my whereabouts and takes the initiative to ask me to join him on errands alone more often. With little or no excuse, we go on long drives and windowshop just to enjoy each other’s company. Before heading home, we stop at John’s favorite hamburger joint, Bob’s Big Boy, on Colorado Boulevard and with gusto we eat greasy cheeseburgers and fries dunked in Bob’s very own blue cheese dressing—“the best,” according to John.
John eagerly waits for me to come home from school each day. Giddy and happy to see me, he delegates a never-ending list of odd jobs so we can spend time together. On a rare day, when I came home late from school because I stayed to hang out with new friends, John acts terribly angry and hurt. Without warning, he pulls back from me, stops treating me warmly for a few days, and I feel bad. After that I am sure to be home on time, glad to see John smile and talk to me again.
“Gotta new job for you,” John says invitingly one afternoon.
“Yeah, what?”
“You’ve got nice handwriting. Will you update my address book for me?”
“Sure!” Happy to be trusted with such an important project, I follow John to his cottage.
“Sharon? Dawn is here to work on my address book. Can we get a table set up for her and some pencils and things?” John says with authority as he barges through the door.
Sharon looks up from her handiwork and peers over her dark-rimmed glasses. Sitting on an overstuffed chair with her feet up on a matching floral footstool, she sews a button onto a nursing uniform.
“Okaaaay,” she answers with a slight drawl, her expression stoic. Buttons jumps off her lap and follows her into the back room.
Oh, I wonder. Is she mad? I’m nervous and stand awkwardly waiting for her to come back with my table. John has left me to tinker with something in the kitchen. I shift my weight, extremely uncomfortable, and don’t really know what to do with myself.
Sharon returns, squeaking in her nurse’s shoes, with a handful of different-colored pens and pencils. Under her arm is a TV tray that she sets up next to John’s ornate gold desk. I admire the desk again: grand with brass lion handles and a mirrored top to accent the slender golden wood legs. I take my cue from Sharon and sit down uncertainly. John returns from the kitchen and hands me a glass of iced tea. “Ready?” He acts as if everything is normal and, without blinking, passes me a large stack of messages. “Let’s get started.”
“Good night and…ha…good luck,” Sharon calls out, gathering her needle and thread. She heads for the bedroom with John L, Pokie, and Buttons following close behind.
I look down at the stack of messages and recognize them as the ones from the answering service. About two-thirds are business related, and one-third are very flirtatious and personal. The thought that one of these messages might be from his girlfriend hits me in the gut again, and I feel my face flush and temper rise. The intensity surprises me. Don’t get too close, I warn myself and repeat my silent promise in my head.
John pays attention to my reaction at the writing on his messages and smirks. “See these? These get tossed. I don’t care about those numbers.” He whisks them out of my hands and throws them in the trash.
Good, I think and take it as a compliment. I get the feeling John is trying to make a point for me. My focus stays on the address book, studiously copying old numbers into the new book and adding additional ones from another stack. As I keep working, I begin to notice mysterious codes near certain curiously written names, and I get a little nervous, uncomfortable at the secrecy. Some names have straightforward notes like “asshole” or “bitch” jotted next to them.
“I wouldn’t even keep those if I didn’t have to work with them.” His voice is thick with contempt. “The sons of bitches. It’s just a job, you know,” John snarls and then stops and lets out a sharp, cynical laugh. He shuffles through another stack of papers. “Except for Candy Samples. She’s a sweetheart. Older woman, but the nicest person you’d ever want to meet.”
I make no comment. Gosh. He really doesn’t like them. Is he being forced to work for them or something? I return my focus on the transferring of numbers and contemplate the idea of what John is saying: that world as a cold business separate from pleasure and home. He must not have a girlfriend if he doesn’t even like those people. Well, they must not be very nice then. I brush it off, confused.
With John’s guidance Terry, Juan, and I become acquainted with many more of the sights of California. Everyone wants to take advantage of as much warm weather as possible, so camping trips soon became overnighters with the four of us. Farther north from Zuma Beach, John introduces us to another of his favorite hideaways—Leo Carrillo State Park. Leo Carrillo has everything: beautiful beaches lined with prehistoric rocks jutting from the shoreline on the east and campsites secluded by giant sycamores backed by mountainous hiking trails on the west. Campsite number twenty-two is designated as our special spot. It has the most direct path to the beach and the largest trees to separate us from our neighbors. Lots of cool evenings under the starry sky, we warm ourselves by crackling bonfires built out of scavenged, dried wood. When the weather is bad, the van makes a perfect tent.
On a chilly night in early fall, Juan, Terry, John, and I pull into our campsite at Leo Carrillo. It is already dark outside when we arrive; the wind howls in deep bellows. We gather as many dry branches as we can, trying to start a fire, when the rain suddenly begins to come down hard.
In a matter of seconds, large drops of water fall from the sky, and we run to the van for shelter. In a good mood and laughing, we tumble over each other trying not to get wet, but we are soaked. I am shivering, my chattering teeth clicking loudly and out of control. John steps forward and wraps a blanket around me and, in his regular fatherly way, rubs my arms and shoulders to warm me up. Terry looks at Juan to do the same for her but is disappointed and finds her own blanket. “Awww. Here, Terry.” John reaches over and warms her arms along with mine.
“Well, this trip is a disaster,” Terry says, unhappy about the rain.
“What? No it isn’t,” John insists. His wet hair hangs in ringlets aro
und his ever-smiling face. “We have food!” John grabs the French bread loaf, sausage, lettuce, and mustard and begins tearing off hunks of the crusty bread, passing them around. Crumbs fly everywhere! He is in a comical frenzy. We huddle in a circle in the center of the van, amused at John’s performance. Sausage held high, he pulls out his Buck Knife and gives it a precision flick, then slices off thick hunks of meat and tosses them at each of us in a challenge to catch them. We generously load our sandwiches, piling them as high as towers, when John snatches up the lettuce and holds the entire head between his hands, tearing off pieces, flipping each of us a share. Lettuce falls down on us like the rain shower outside. Tears run down my face, my sides ache, and I can’t stop laughing. I reach over and pick up pieces of lettuce and one that has fallen on John’s lap, my hand lightly grazing his leg.
John freezes and pierces me with his eyes, jaw drops open in shock.
“What?” I ask, trying to follow his joke.
“What? What?” John lunges for the remaining head of lettuce and feverishly shreds the pale green leaves all over his lap.
“What are you doing?” I ask, still giggling. I’m puzzled at the joke.
“If I had known that was all it took to get you to touch me, I would have done this a long time ago.” He beams ecstatically. Proudly covered in lettuce, John sports one of the biggest grins I’ve ever seen on him, hoping for me to pick up another soggy piece. Even Terry’s cynical demeanor cracks, and everyone bursts into peals of laughter.
Oh God! Now I get it! Horribly embarrassed, I hide my face in my hands and bury my head in my lap. I want to disappear. I crawl into myself and refuse to move even after the snickers and giggles fade. After a while, John takes pity on me and changes the subject, finally coaxing me out of my fetal position.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 13
