“Come on, Dawn,” John persuades, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I was just kidding around. Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”
“Hey! It’s raining,” Terry protests, her watchdog antennae kicking in again.
I can’t look at anyone, especially Terry. She will think I like him. I am mortified that my private feelings are being made a spectacle. I am cornered and take a deep breath. What the hell, I think. “Arrrrrghh!” Quickly, I grab for the scattered, limp pieces of lettuce and, on impulse, fling them in John’s direction. “You bastard!”
“Hey! Ouch! Sorry,” John says. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
No one is laughing. It’s not as funny as John’s game. “It’s okay,” I reply. I am glad that the shadow of the Coleman lantern hides my red cheeks.
“Okay. That’s enough. Let’s just go to sleep.” Terry is abrupt. She is frustrated at the tense direction the conversation is heading. “John. You sleep over there.” She points to the other side of Juan at the far end of the van. “Dawn. You sleep here…next to me. And don’t even try it, John.” Terry’s finger points directly at him. “Juan! Turn off the lantern.”
“Yes, ma’am!” John mocks a salute.
Scurrying about like bugs caught in the light, we dive into our sleeping bags. Juan turns down the light of the hissing lantern. I lie awake in the dark for a while replaying the lettuce scene and John’s goofy expressions. He looked so funny. A giggle slips out.
“Ha.” It’s John from the other side of Juan.
My heartbeat thunders against my chest, and I’m sure everyone can hear it. Is he thinking about the same thing I am? I stay perfectly still, till my heart stops pounding. The summoning crickets send out their call long into the night, the last thing I hear when I finally fall asleep.
School is dull after only a couple of months. As much as I want to fit in, my world is now pulling me toward the cottages and mostly toward John. All the friends I thought I could make at school suddenly fall short of what I see in John; they seem boring compared to him. They aren’t clever and witty like he is. They aren’t worldly, considerate, kind, or nearly as fun. John, I find, is becoming more and more handsome and charming. I don’t see him as a geek anymore, although I still see him as older. Nobody I know has ever shown me such kind attention. I feel lucky for the first time since I was a little girl and my father called me “princess.” I didn’t think I could ever feel so special again. God only knows how much I need that in my life.
I trudge through classes now, putting forth as little effort as possible to barely pass my tests. I feel invisible there anyway—just a brown-haired, blue-eyed, freckled speck in a sea of similar colors. Here at school, I’m not anything special, not like John treats me. Getting home is the focus of my day. Home—at least to Juan and Terry’s place. Only then does the light shine down on me and I matter. To John, I matter.
On a typical school day at the end of October, I race to the cottage to see when everyone will be gathering that evening. Terry is home alone.
“Hey. Where is everybody?” I pant, wiping the sweat from my brow.
The low hum of static crackles from the television in the corner; lines cascade down the screen. Terry sits on her water bed in the living room. She is fidgety and nervous. Worry lines crease her freckled forehead.
I flop down next to her on the water bed. “What’s the matter, Ter? What’s up?”
“Nothing!” she snaps.
“Okay! Fine.”
“Well, there is something I have been meaning to talk to you about.”
“Yeah? What?”
“John,” she says, averting my eyes.
“John?” My voice rises an octave. “What about him?”
“Well, uh, you know. I was wondering…how do you feel about him?”
Oh my God! I can’t believe she is asking me this! my thoughts rage. I can’t tell Terry I am starting to have feelings for John. She doesn’t even like him! I get control of myself and decide to tread with care on this subject. To make sure it is safe.
“Feel about him? What do you mean, ‘feel about him'?”
“You know. Do you like him?” she asks flatly.
“Terry! Like a boyfriend, like him?” I nearly shriek. I am stunned at her straightforwardness. “He’s too old,” I gasp and act as if it is unthinkable.
“He’s not really, Dawn. He’s only thirty-two.”
Wait a minute. This doesn’t sound like something Terry would say. I begin to doubt this conversation, getting the feeling someone has put her up to this. “Besides, Terry, he’s married!”
“No, he’s not, Dawn. They’re not together.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“He did? What did he say?”
“He said they only live together. She lives her way, and he lives his. She cooks and does his laundry, but other than that they are mostly friends.”
“Well, that’s kinda weird. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I asked him, and that’s what he told me.” She sounds positive. “So, I know you like him, Dawn. Don’t you? Really, what do you think about him?”
I heard him say that about Sharon too. So I guess he wasn’t lying. Wow! With the big question of Sharon answered, I suddenly realize I can allow myself to imagine a possible relationship with John. I get excited and I feel tingly thinking I can share my silly fantasies with my sister. I feel shy and lower my voice. “Well, he is cute!”
“I knew it. I knew it! What else? Would you go out with him?”
“He’s really nice too,” I add childishly. “I guess if he wasn’t so old, I’d go out with him. I like being with him. He is really fun.”
Terry’s face pales suddenly; her cat-green eyes grow round as saucers. A rustle from the room behind me tells me we are not alone. Boisterous laughter rings out like children’s on Christmas morning. In three loud steps, John comes charging out of the kitchen. The blood runs from my face, my skin prickles, and my throat tightens with embarrassment.
Swiftly John comes toward me, and for a moment I’m scared. He reaches down and holds my face in his hands, then plants a long, intense kiss on my lips. His eyes sparkle wildly as he loosens his grip, turns on his heel, and without another word, stomps out the door.
Stunned, I am frozen to my spot on the water bed. John’s delighted laughter trails behind him across the courtyard all the way to his door.
“Terrrryyyy! Oh my God! I’m gonna kill you. I can’t believe you did that to me. Arrrggggh! You set me up!” I yell and leap on top of her, wrestling and pretending to throw a few punches.
“He made me, Dawn. He made me,” she shouts, fending off my lame blows.
“What do you mean, he ‘made you'? How? What did he do to make you?”
“It was Terry food. He brought me Snickers and other food. Dawn, he likes you and you like him, and I’m tired of being in the middle of it.”
“Middle of it?” I ask, quieting down. I want to know the truth about what she thinks.
“He likes you so much, Dawn, and you don’t even see it. He’s been crouched down in the kitchen like a high school kid, just to hear what you had to say about him.”
“Wow! He really likes me?”
She imitates John’s voice, “'Does she like me? Would she go out with me? Where is she?’ He’s jealous too.”
“Jealous. Of what? I come here every day, right after school.”
“Why do you think he’s waiting for you every time you come home? He thinks there’re all kinds of guys checking you out.”
“I thought he might like me, but he can get any girl he wants, so I figured I was wrong. What about that porno stuff? I’ve seen the messages he gets.”
“I know.” Terry’s voice hushes. “He says it’s just work to him. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah, he said that to me too. But, Terry, don’t you think he’s kinda weird?”
“It don’t matter. Do you like him, Dawn? You do,
don’t you?”
“Well…yeah…I do,” I finally admit. “But do you think he really likes me, Ter? I mean, sometimes he acts so strange, and lots of times he just walks away for no reason.”
“Dawn, don’t you know why he does that?”
“No.”
“He gets excited by ya, so he has to walk away. Why do you think he went into the water that day at the nude beach?”
“Oh my God! How do you know that?”
“He told me that too,” she says without blinking.
I am silent. My head is spinning. Wow! How long has John been talking to Terry about me? And about everything! The thought makes me stressed. “But now what?” I ask, feeling my heart skip a beat.
“Just act normal and come over for dinner like always. He’ll say something to you…I guess.” She shrugs her shoulders. Terry’s eyes meet mine, and her brow is furrowed again. She is biting her nails now—something she does when she gets nervous. I see the normally warm color in her eyes turn dark with worry. Silently, we agree to drop the subject.
Now that the “cat’s out of the bag,” John and I spend the rest of the week flirting heavily. He is extra charming and sweet, and I am more attentive and close. Things are much different since that day at Terry’s. On every visit he makes to the house, he brings a gift for me now. A store-bought rose with baby’s breath, a giant stuffed animal, or a blouse he thinks I might look good in. I am overwhelmed by his admiration for me, and the feeling of being adored makes me light-headed and happier than I have ever felt before. I truly have never known anyone like him. Purposefully he sits next to me, and this time I even let him hold my hand. As usual, he walks me to my door like an adoring gentleman and kisses my hand good night. I feel grand, like a queen on her throne, special. He brings extra treats for Terry too, but she sees through his ploy, sees how attracted we are to each other. She accepts them in silence, rolling her eyes.
By the weekend, John invites Terry and me to the movies. Juan can’t go. He has to work on Saturday, so Terry doesn’t want to go either.
“Please come, Terry,” I beg. “I don’t want to go alone.”
Tired of being the continuous chaperone, Terry agrees only reluctantly. As we cruise through Brand Boulevard in Glendale, nothing looks interesting. John doesn’t give up and decides to continue searching. He hops the freeway and heads toward Hollywood.
“Let’s see what’s playing at Grauman’s,” he suggests.
Terry and I don’t care, but Grauman’s is showing something John doesn’t like, so we turn around to drive back home to Glendale. At Western Avenue on Sunset, John unexpectedly makes an abrupt turn into a parking space in front of the Pussycat Theatre. John C. Holmes XXX, the marquee announces bigger than life. Now Playing: Mitchell Brothers’ Autobiography of a Flea.
“Wait here,” he instructs, shifting gear into park. Without making eye contact, he shoots out of the van.
“We’re not going here, are we?” Terry panics.
“I, I don’t think so. Maybe he has to do some business.”
“Oh my God, Dawn! Look! He’s signing autographs!” she shrieks and points in the direction of a small crowd. “He told me he was a movie star, and now he’s signing autographs. Maybe he is a movie star!”
“Maybe he is.” It is strange to watch John being treated like a star. Suddenly I become proud to know him.
John approaches the van. “Come on,” he says, pulling the keys from the ignition. He walks around to open the door for us.
Terry and I nervously step out onto the dirty gray pavement. My palms sweat, and my heart pounds in my throat. I smooth down my hair and feel dowdy and inadequate in my tan-striped sweater and bell-bottoms. John takes control, holds one of my hands, and pulls me close to him. With his other arm, he guides Terry by the shoulder toward the ticket booth. The short, red-haired lady behind the thick ticket booth glass wildly blinks her over-the-top fake eyelashes. A clownlike lipstick grin is frozen on her face, and I can’t stop staring at the streaks of red on her long yellow teeth.
“Do we go in here?” He points to the entrance to the right.
Mouth still open and mesmerized, she nods blankly. “Oh. Uh. Excuse me. Mr. Holmes. Do you think I can have an autograph please?” She steps out from behind the booth and races toward him, a small playbill thrust out in front of her.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Popping his gum, John gives a crooked smile and signs his name, slashing the black marker in all directions until his name resembles a giant scribble.
“Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Holmes,” she gushes.
John lifts his mirrored aviator sunglasses, flashing a quick flirtatious smile, puts his arm around me, and leads the way in. My chest swells. He is important, and he just made me feel important to someone who admires him. I feel I have been lifted onto a pedestal. I smile at the woman. Terry smiles too.
The movie has already started. The theater is dark except for the glaring light from the screen, and we fumble to find an empty row of seats, asking a few patrons to excuse us. The three of us flop down and sink low into our seats. On the screen, Technicolor images of naked people pop out at me. I panic, flinging my hands up in front of my eyes. I sense John next to me get a little tense and nervous and then scoot down low into me. I wonder how Terry, on the other side of John, is reacting to the nude bodies up on the screen. The Autobiography of a Flea is an attempt at a Victorian era piece. Through my fingers, I can see large white wigs, hoop skirts, and canopied beds.
Then I hear something that nearly makes my heart stop; a voice that sounds familiar blares broken and awkward from the speakers above. It is John addressing the audience in a very bad phony English accent. Mortified, I stiffen and sink down even lower in my seat. I feel John’s body freeze. This is horrible. He is the worst actor I have ever heard. I try not to breathe, to show my reaction, but unbelievably, a snicker escapes my lips. Immediately John’s elbow jabs into my ribs. “Ouch!” I sink lower, almost to the floor. I try to make out Terry’s image in the dark and spot the short, red-haired lady walking up and down the aisle, stealing blatant stares at us. Other people in the audience are sneaking random glances our way as well, but their attention quickly returns to the screen. Terry is staring straight ahead. A sudden feeling of bravery runs through me. I spread my fingers and look past them up onto the big screen ahead.
There is John, standing in a monk’s robe, desperately trying to deliver a few overacted lines to a couple having sex on the canopied bed. A tidal wave of warmth engulfs my body, one like I’ve never experienced before as my senses take in the erotic movements on the screen. John knows I have peeked and squeezes my hand. How can he know what I’m feeling? I am self-conscious now, exposed.
Suddenly, the moment is lost as I think I see John’s monk character on screen change into a flea and hop down the shirt of a French maiden’s blouse. Is John the flea? I start to snicker, uncontrollably now, so hard I snort. John is aghast, but smiling, and it takes only a second before his loud laughter joins mine. The audience is annoyed, turning our direction to give us hard stares. We are uncontrollable.
“Let’s get outta here,” John manages to say, tears running down his cheeks. He grabs my arm and signals for Terry to leave. Nearly tripping over our feet, we race out into the lobby. The redheaded lady is hovering at the glass doors with a small group of moviegoers. John stifles his laughs and graciously signs his autograph for them, keeping Terry and me nervously at his side. The crowd glances over at us, making me uncomfortable.
“Thank you, John. Uh. We really enjoy your work.”
“No problem, man. Thanks.” He shakes a few hands and guides us out of the theater.
Terry shakes her head. “That was gross.”
John and I roar even louder as we head for the van.
November comes that week. The weather gets noticeably colder, and the temperature between John and me gets increasingly warmer. The mood between us has grown deeper, more profound. Soon, my gut tells me. Soon. It
is inevitable to me now: no turning back. I am terrified. We look at each other knowingly as we wait for time and space to open the door of opportunity for intimacy. It comes. On the following weekend, my world will forever be changed.
The week seems to drag on. It is hard to focus on anything except John. When Friday afternoon finally comes, John is in the backyard digging holes for a plumbing line, covered in dirt and sweat, when I arrive home from school. He is very serious, not his normal friendly self. “Hey. You wanna run to the store with me real quick?”
“Sure.” I worry that something might be wrong; his face is stonelike.
We are quiet for most of the ride. I can’t think of anything to say. Mostly around John I don’t say a lot; he usually likes all the attention. Besides, he would think I was stupid; he is so worldly and smart. When we return and unload the van, John whispers in my ear, “Want to go to the beach?”
I swallow hard. This is it. Very clearly I answer, “Yes.”
“Meet me here in an hour.” His brow raises. We look at each other for a long while, his piercing gaze asking me if I am sure.
“Okay,” I tell him, and then nod at his silent question.
We hold each other’s stare for an eternity. John deliberately reaches his long-muscled arm out to me, firmly holds the back of my head and, bent low, brings his lips fully onto mine. We kiss. Passionate and tender, we seal the deal.
Through the courtyard we walk silently. The kiss still courses through me like a roller coaster, sometimes catching in my throat. Without making a peep, I slip into Harriet’s, gather my things, and wait at the van.
Our usual route to the beach now wears the heavy air of a clandestine rendezvous. John drives the van with methodical precision, following a path memorized from numerous visits past. The low pounding of my heartbeat sounds in my ears like a distant thunder, closing in with every pulse as we come closer to our destination. We do not speak.
Arriving at our spot in Leo Carrillo is as familiar as coming home. It feels right. Under the large sycamores, we gather wood without making a sound. John lights the sticks and branches and steps back. I stare into the fire as if it is my crystal ball, catching glimpses of my future through the flames. The fire speaks of passion.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 14
