The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes

by Dawn Schiller

  Sharon Ann Holmes

  Oh my God! I weep. She doesn’t know. What am I going to do? Now she’s mad at me, and she doesn’t know the truth! The feeling of being a caged animal returns; it is a sharp, gut-wrenching awareness. My skin, my chest, my buttocks, my back, and legs burn and sting, walls close in on me, and my brain shuts down. This isn’t happening, I chant, willing time to reverse. Everything is really over now. No! This can’t be happening! But it is happening, and I know deep down my time in what I used to call home is over.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Worst Day

  The underground parking lot of the Holiday Inn on Hollywood Boulevard is dark and piss-stained. John wants to lie low before we check into the place; he is scanning the lot for easy hits. Lately, he’s helping himself to anything worth trading that isn’t locked or bolted down, using me as a cover.

  It’s over—our time as a family with Sharon. The dinners, the holidays are just a blur and a topic John doesn’t want me to talk about. It is John and I now, living in seedy motels and in the Chevy Malibu when there isn’t enough money for a room. The van is gone. It has been traded for an old postal truck that never runs and has been abandoned back in Glendale. Here, in the backseat of the car, our belongings are shoved into black, plastic garbage bags. On the floor is a bowl for Thor’s water. At least I have Thor. The few precious pieces of knickknacks left in our possession I wrap in T-shirts and a brown paper bag, which I set carefully next to me in the front passenger seat. I am scared of John now, all the time, but he is all I have and the memories in the bag are, to me, a small portion of the dwindling proof that our love really existed.

  He won’t let me out of his sight now, not after I tried to kill myself that day. He takes me on all his runs and has me wait for him in the motel room or the car outside the drug deal houses. Rarely do I know where I am. I’ve never gotten my driver’s license—John never allowed me—and the freeways scare and confuse me. I know a few homes are in the Hollywood Hills; I recognize the large wooden Hollywood sign that hovers over us from the side streets. It’s eerily prophetic when Bob Seger’s “Hollywood Nights” plays on the radio as I lie on the front seat of the car, waiting; or when the depressing lyrics of the Eagles’ “Hotel California” wash over me as I wait in front of their manager’s house while John delivers and deals inside. The houses on Dona Lola and Wonderland become the most familiar, the ones we most frequently drop by.

  A couple months ago we stopped sleeping at the house in Glendale with Sharon. That part is okay by me, I guess. I am too ashamed to face Sharon any longer, and John has stolen more from the house than he can get away with. “Does Sharon ever ask about me anymore?” I ask John one day after he has returned from Sharon’s with freshly laundered clothes.

  “Nope! Why would she?” His tone is flippant; his scowl implies, How can you ask such a stupid question?

  “Of course not,” I remind myself, agreeing immediately. The pangs of shame and guilt ravage what hope I have left for our relationship. This is all my fault, I admonish myself silently. Just as John says, this is all my fault.

  It is Thanksgiving week, and the Holiday Inn is a grade better than what we are used to lately. John has made a little extra on a run he’s just finished for a man named Eddie Nash. John simply calls him Nash, and he gives me strict instructions: “He’s the baddest motherfucker there is. People who try to fuck him over die. That’s why you’re a secret. He can’t find out about you or Sharon or the family. It’s not safe. Do you know how many bodies are buried in the desert that no one will ever find?” John is passionate, dead serious. He reiterates his orders to never cross this guy, until he’s satisfied that I understand.

  Nash is the owner of the house I wait in front of on Dona Lola Drive, and I can never let him or any of his bodyguards see me—or else…“you might turn up missing like the rest.”

  A strange kind of dealer—runner underworld friendship has started up between John and Nash. “This guy is all about the drugs, baby. And he calls me brother,” John confides with a smirk as if to say, Boy do I have him fooled. In a short time, the friendlier John and Nash become, the waiting gets longer and longer—but his payoffs are also higher.

  John’s foul moods and cruelty soon become greater and greater as well.

  John has me wait in the car in the Holiday Inn parking lot before we bring our things to the room, giving him time to slink through the parked cars to check for an unlocked door. Jumping up from between a couple of cars a few rows down, John walks casually down the middle of the lot wearing the appearance of an innocent guest. “Come on,” he snaps from the side of his mouth, motioning for me to hurry out and walk with him.

  Clumsily I pull a large garbage bag from the backseat while holding on to Thor and my precious brown paper sack filled with breakables. “John, help me,” I ask, getting nervous about dragging our clothes and things in such a disorganized way. “There are security guards.”

  “What? What is all that shit?” He sounds annoyed and whips quickly over to see what I’m carrying. “What is this?” he snaps again and yanks the brown bag from my hands.

  “It’s, uh, uh, stuff,” I answer, frightened at his demeanor. Protective of the sentimental items in the bag, I hold my hand out to get it back. “They’re presents. Presents I gave to you…and you and Sharon gave me. You know. Back at the house,” I explain, trying to take back the bag. I hope he will soften up at the memory, that he’ll appreciate my caring enough to cart them with me…affectionately, as awkward as it is. Yet the opposite is true.

  “Presents! What kind of presents?” He rummages through the bag and smiles when he wraps his hand around the one gift that means the most to me—the cobalt blue vase.

  Smash! “Those kind of presents are over!” he barks.

  “No!” I cry, feeling a knife rip through my heart. I fall to my knees to try and pick up the shattered pieces of blue, willing the hand-painted white rose back together.

  “Pick up that garbage,” he scorns, “before security sees us.” He walks away and tries to cover the commotion with a nonchalant stance.

  Tears burn my eyes and face. The grimy ground of the parking lot is slick with dark brown grease. On my hands and knees, I pick up every tiny cobalt shard and hurry over to where John’s standing. Not wanting him to get any angrier with me, I wipe the wet from my face. I try to act cool and swiftly stuff down the huge knot of raw pain in my throat and quiet the well of echoes from the back of my head that beg for the bad feelings to go away.

  Growing impatient, John flings one of our large garbage bags over his shoulder, puts his arm around me, and walks past the surveillance cameras trying to act as though we are a couple in love.

  Two men in tan sports jackets pass us casually as we walk through the garage door into the lower level hallway.

  “Huh, those look like cops,” I whisper into the crook of John’s arm. He pulls me roughly closer to his side and guides me to the elevator.

  Once on the second floor, we dash across the hall to room 252, where John immediately jams the desk chair under the doorknob, slides the chain into its lock, and presses his eye against the peephole. “Close the drapes,” he hisses, then runs to do it himself instead, peeking out for ten minutes or so, head bobbing like a chicken’s.

  Satisfied we made it without being noticed, he undresses and sits on the bed, leaning against the headboard. The hair on the back of Thor’s neck stands up like a porcupine’s quills, and he disappears under the bed.

  Snap, snap. John opens the brass clasp of his briefcase, pulls out the freebase pipe, and lights the bowl.

  Oh no! I think. He doesn’t have any base, and he is scraping his screens. I am quick to assess the drug situation. I have to. The more he has, the less likely he will be cruel. My insides cramp up and become paralyzed with panic. No wonder his mood was ugly downstairs. Maybe he has some Valium and can get to sleep soon, I tell myself in an effort to stay calm. He’s real tired too.

  After co
ming back from a run, John is always tired, having been up for days. When I wait for him in the car I sleep mostly, hidden under blankets with Thor. But on days John knows he will be a while, to make sure I won’t leave him and run to my mother’s, he drops small amounts of freebase with a pipe on the floorboard. For me, the drug is an escape that blocks out the pain of my reality, if just for a short while. After it’s gone, I have the warmth of little Thor and sleep—sweet sleep that takes me away to a place of warmth and safety—until John climbs into the driver’s seat and orders me to stay down.

  Back in the motel room, he gruffs, “Draw me a bath.”

  When I return, he is searching for something in his briefcase once again. “Did you take my other glass pipe?”

  “No, John, I didn’t take anything.”

  Crash! His pipe goes flying across the room, and I start to cry in fear.

  “No, John…”

  “Fuck you, bitch. All you want are the drugs!”

  “John, stop.” I try to calm him, but he is on a roll, frenzied, throwing everything from his briefcase on the floor and up against the walls. He picks me up, throws me across the room. I slam into the motel room door and land on the broken glass.

  “Owwww!” Blood gushes from the bottom of my foot. A large piece of the pipe is sticking out of the tender part of my arch.

  Bang, bang, bang! “Security! Open the door!” Voices barrel through the walls.

  I hobble over to the bed to tend to my foot.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  John’s eyes bug out, and he jumps up nearly out of his skin, pulls on his pants, and throws me a towel from the bathroom. “Here. Wrap that up,” he whispers, picking up the scattered glass.

  “Yeah. Just a minute. Hey, who is it?” He slides the chain off the door and opens it just a crack. It is the two men in tan jackets we saw in the parking lot.

  They push the door open farther, flashing badges and barring it from closing. “We’d like to ask you to come with us, sir. Neighbors are complaining that there’s a loud argument in here.” They scan the room, looking at the broken, silvery shards covering the floor, and make note of the bloody towel pressed against my foot. John turns his back to them and throws me a threatening look.

  “I, I cut myself on some glass. It was an accident,” I lie, afraid that if I don’t John will really hurt me, as his look suggests.

  “Shut up!” John snarls at me under his breath, then turns back to smile cunningly at the two men. “We, uh, had an accident, officers,” he says with a smile. “She’ll be fine—”

  “Can you come with us, sir?” they interrupt.

  John looks scared for a minute and then nods. Searching for his shirt, he holds a hand out to me. “Can she come with us?” he asks, acting loving and concerned toward me.

  “As a matter of fact, we would like her to come with us too, sir.”

  John bends to wrap one of his socks around my foot, and we follow the two security guards to their office at the end of the hall.

  Oh my God! We’re going to be busted!

  John squeezes my hand hard as we are led inside.

  The guards shut the door securely behind us. I can tell they want to keep the noise level down. “We have reason to believe there’s drug activity going on here. You were witnessed downstairs in the parking garage acting very suspicious…looking into patrons’ cars.”

  “Drugs? Uh, what? There are no drugs…we got no drugs,” John rambles.

  “Then you don’t mind if we search you, do you, sir?”

  “N, n, no. G, go ahead.” He steps back nervously, spreading his arms wide. “You don’t really gotta do this. I can assure you, I don’t have an, an, anything illegal on me,” he tries to convince them.

  Both men approach John on either side. “Then we can search you and we won’t find anything, sir. Right?”

  “Y, y, yeah!” John agrees.

  “Spread your legs, sir, and place your hands in the air.”

  John does as he is told, and I begin to cry. They’re gonna find something. I can feel it…and then what am I gonna do? I can’t even drive. My mind races illogically.

  “And what do you call this, sir?”

  Keeping his hands up, John looks down at his pockets. “That? Well, uh, that is a pipe…for, uh, you know…” His voice trails off as he peers down at the small piece of paraphernalia in security’s possession. He knows he is caught.

  “We’re gonna have to call LAPD, sir,” the taller man informs him. “Is there anything else we’re gonna find on you?”

  “N, n, no. Nothing.” His face is pale as they pull out his corncob pot pipe from his other pocket.

  I cry louder. Knowing John is definitely under arrest, I hobble over to hug him and interrupt the search. I’m afraid they might find more. But they have enough evidence and aren’t fazed by my intrusion. John lowers his arms carefully and pretends to give me a big, despairing hug. “Baby, baby. I’m sorry, baby.” He kisses my forehead and lowers his mouth to my ear. “Get my phone book when you get back to the room and call Eddie from a pay phone. Tell him his brother is in jail. He’ll know what to do.” His breath is hot and hoarse.

  “O, o, okay.” I nod in his embrace and continue to cry.

  “Make sure you talk to him only. No one else! Got that?” He grips my arm to the bone.

  I nod again, sniffing back my tears.

  “Uh, excuse me.” John is laying on the charm. “Do you gentlemen mind if she goes back to the room till checkout time tomorrow? She needs to take care of her foot and, uh, well, I don’t really want her to see me like this.”

  The two men give me the once-over and discuss it for a moment. “All right, Miss…? Do you have any ID?”

  “Dawn Schiller. No. No, I don’t have anything.”

  “You know your boyfriend here wasn’t exactly honest. Say your good-byes, Miss Schiller. He can call you from the station.”

  The taller of the two officers picks up a phone to call for backup and warns me to keep the noise down or they’ll return to the room and ask me to leave.

  John pulls me in closer for what is supposed to look like a final hug and kiss, and presses his lips into my ear again. “Wait a couple hours after their shift changes. Then use the pay phone outside. Remember: tell Eddie it’s his brother!”

  John’s briefcase is open on the bed as I scramble to find the address book in the top folds. “Here it is,” I say out loud to the beat of my racing heart. Lying in the bottom of the case are a joint and his pewter flask. Immediately I drain the flask, downing the bitter shot of liquid to calm my nerves. Wiping my nose on my sleeve, I pick up the leftover pieces of glass from the carpet and crawl under the covers, checking the time on the clock.

  I hear a slight whimper and remember little Thor. He is scratching at the side of the bed and his eyes are watering, telling me he wants up to snuggle. He feels safe with John gone. I reach my arm down and let his quivering warmth hop into my hand.

  I am still shaking; the gash on my foot is throbbing; I need something more. Lighting the joint, I take two very large drags and snub it out. John will get mad, I panic. He will know I took some. The mellowing effects of the pot take hold. The staticlike sting of my nerve endings numbs, fear subsides, and I am safe in the moment, a capsule in time. I pull the covers up under my chin and fix my eyes again on the clock. The large digital numbers of the alarm clock flip past, and I spend the next two hours in the dark, waiting…

  “He, he, hello,” I stammer in response to the deep male voice on the other end of the line.

  “Who is this?” The hard tone sounds like stone, demanding.

  “I need to speak to Eddie.” There is silence. I swallow a lump in my throat that threatens to take my voice. “I have a message from his brother.”

  Still, silence and some shuffling in the background. In a short while, there’s another voice. “Hello,” an accented male voice answers.

  “Eddie?”

  I can hear his breath pull in…hesitate
. “Yes.”

  “I have a message from your brother.” I wait a moment, then continue. “He’s in jail. Your brother is in jail, and he told me to call you,” I gush, wanting to get this call over with. I am scared out of my mind. I feel violated, like I’m being mentally stripped, my private parts examined without my permission.

  Thick silence permeates the line. “Yeah…who is this?” The thick accent turns slightly kind, coaxing.

  I think for a moment about what to say next. The fear of the man I’m talking to sinks in further, and I picture myself being driven to the desert and executed.

  Click. I hang up.

  My heart’s pumping. Questions. No questions. The less he knows about me the better. John’s many terrifying reasons to fear Eddie Nash continue to swirl through my consciousness…kidnapped, tortured, murdered…I can’t seem to stop it. I race back to the room, smoke the rest of the joint, and lie motionless under the blackness of the polyester bedspread and a starless night.

  John arrives back at the room early the next morning. He’s in a hurry to pack up and leave. “Fuck this place,” he snaps with contempt, opening his briefcase for a cigarette. I notice him rummaging around for the joint, but he says nothing about it.

  “I, I called Eddie like you asked,” I tell him.

  “I know, babe. Thank you.” He leans over to peck me on the cheek.

  Good. Eddie must have bailed him out, I tell myself, hoping everything’s okay now and his good mood will last.

  Heading over the Laurel Canyon pass, John has only one destination in mind—Dona Lola Drive. He parks near the entrance of the cul-de-sac and lowers his voice. “Stay down and don’t let anyone see you.” He checks the contents of his briefcase and covers me up with a blanket he pulls from the backseat. “This might be a while.” He grabs his briefcase and steals a kiss. As if he’s forcing a genie into a bottle, he nervously contains his breathing. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, John,” I mumble to his disappearing shape. He makes a quick dash across the street, head turning from side to side, fast, exaggerated, as he scans the neighborhood scene.