The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes

by Dawn Schiller

  “You, you okay now?” I ask, standing at the foot of the bed and paying close attention to her breathing.

  “Yeah, baby. You can go home now. Thank you, baby.” She waves her one free arm loosely in the air. “Hope you don’t get in trouble for helping me, sweetie. I’ll talk to him if you want me to.”

  “No. Thanks. It’ll be okay…I’m gonna go now. You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, baby. I’m good. Frosty’s got her medicine now. She’s good,” she says to the shadows on the wall, and I leave.

  John comes back late, around midnight, in a rotten mood. I can guess from the look of him that it is going to be a bad night—a night when no matter what I say or do, nothing is going to be right. The familiar apprehension over the brutal side of his presence washes over me, and I brace myself for the inevitable.

  Visually taking in the room as usual, he settles his hands into his briefcase. “Where have you been?”

  Fear seizes me. How did he know I went anywhere? I search the room for what clues might have given me away. I’ll be in trouble if I lie. “The black chick’s place over there,” I tell him, pointing out the window and trying to stay calm. “She needed me to hold her arm ‘cause she couldn’t get the needle in by herself.”

  John’s head perks up. “And did you help her?” His voice carries an eerie tone.

  “Yeah. I guess. She couldn’t get it in her arm, so I helped her get it in her tit. It was really bad. Gross. She was shaking so hard.”

  “And did you do some too?” He is tense, purposely staying calm.

  “What?” I’m taken off guard. I suspected he’d be mad that I went out without his permission, but I didn’t think he would ask me that. “N, no,” I answer honestly. “She needed help and begged me, John.”

  “Who was over there?” The strain in his voice cracks, his temper hidden with more and more difficulty. I inch my way toward the door, afraid the violence is about to blow.

  “Just her…and me,” I mumble, hoping the path to the door will stay clear for an escape.

  John notices my moves. In an instant, he bolts for the door and intercepts my feeble jump for freedom, pinning me up against the wall. “Where do you think you’re going, huh? Back over to Frosty’s? She introduce you to her pimp? Fucking tell me, bitch. You got a pimp now?” His nose pushes into mine as he screams louder and louder, his face red, his mouth spraying me with spittle.

  Crazy, crazy, crazy! I gotta get out of here. He’s out of his mind. Run. I gotta run! “John. Stop. No!” I yell at the top of my lungs. I want to be loud…loud enough that maybe someone outside will hear. Maybe Frosty will hear me and come and explain the truth to John.

  Unexpectedly, he lets me go. He puffs himself up like a rooster, confident that he has proven he’s in charge. Then he turns his back and reaches for the brown briefcase that has fallen from the bed.

  Oh, good. I breathe. He didn’t chain it. My eye is still on the door. He’s gonna snap again; I know it. John is bending, busy picking up the pieces of the spilled pipe parts, and I see it: my chance to run. I bolt for the door.

  I make five or six long strides ahead of John out the door before he realizes I have actually broken free, but just as quickly he is up and running full force after me. I quickly scan the parking lot to see if there’s anyone or anywhere I can run to for safety. There isn’t. John is catching up to me, and I panic. The 7-Eleven! I race across traffic on Ventura Boulevard toward the green and red building on Tujunga and rush inside the double glass doors. Pushing frantically past a man and a woman at the entrance, I run to the back of the counter and jump behind the clerk at the cash register.

  “Please, please, please,” I beg. “He’s gonna kill me. Help me, please. Help me!” I clutch his shirt at the waist and pull him in front of me. “He’s out there. He’s after me. Please help me.”

  The clerk panics, nervously trying to turn to face me while I scoot around him, keeping him in front of me for safety. He sees my red, tearstained face and the fingernail welts on my arms and then scans down to see that I am wearing only a large nightshirt and black sandals. He nods, satisfied that I am really in danger, and spreads his arms out to block anyone who might come close to us.

  “There he is!” the couple I crashed into yell out. “He’s standing by that car looking in!” The guy points to John’s figure slinking in the dark.

  “Look! He’s hiding. He’s going behind the building!” The couple and the clerk have jumped in to the rescue.

  “Call the police!” the woman shouts.

  “No, don’t call the police!” I cry. Suddenly I’m afraid…of the police. They’ll arrest me. I’ll have to tell them about John and walking the streets, the drugs, and…oh God, no…. Eddie Nash. A flood of tears pours out of me. “Just take me to Glendale. Please! I have somewhere to go, but I only need a ride. Glendale. Can I get a ride to Glendale, please?”

  The clerk raises his arms in the air helplessly. “I, I can’t leave the store,” he explains honestly. “I’d help you, but I can’t leave.”

  “Oh God! He’s gonna kill me. I can’t go out there. Please!” John is still lurking, poking his head in and out of the shadows of the side of the store, waiting to jump me. I know it; I can feel his ominous presence nearby. But this time I have some protection: The clerk and the young couple know it too.

  “Where in Glendale do you need to go?” the young man asks me, making a decision to help. His girlfriend locks eyes with him and nods. They are in their early twenties, sweet and clean-cut. They are also leery of me…and deep inside, I don’t blame them.

  “We saw him running after you and then run to the side of the building. Where can we take you?” the woman adds.

  “Glendale: 1012 East Acacia,” I recite my old address. “Thank you.”

  The three of them—the clerk, man, and lady—form a barrier around me and walk me to the backseat of the couple’s Volkswagen Beetle parked out front. John is nowhere to be seen now, but I can still sense the danger, that invisible angry threat that wears his face and lurks right around the corner. Nervously, the young man starts the car and takes off. Something scurries behind a dirty gray pickup truck.

  “There he is!” the lady yells.

  The car backs out onto Ventura Boulevard and peels away.

  I wipe my face—tears, mucus, and fear—on the bottom of my dirty, stained nightshirt, and I pray that Sharon will be home.

  Tap, tap, tap. My frozen knuckles knock painfully on the cottage door. Tap, tap, tap. Shivering, I keep a continuous plea on the painted white wood. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. My knocking flows steadily with the rhythm of my cold, shaking bones. I haven’t seen Sharon for months—it seems longer—and I am horribly ashamed to face her again, especially like this.

  The sweet couple with the Volkswagen has just let me off in front of the courtyard. I assure them I will be all right. “My friend Sharon is like a mom to me. She is always home,” I tell them. They look worried, but agree.

  The street is empty; a soft buzzing noise hovers over the trees from the distant freeways. It must be after midnight. I feel the damp chill of the December fog soak through my skin and down to my bones. I pull my nightshirt to the front of my body, tightly clenching in as much body heat as I can with my arms, and crouch low on the dimly lit porch of my former home. Here I am, nineteen. Things aren’t supposed to be like this. John and I aren’t supposed to be like this, and Sharon, who is like family to me, is always supposed to be here. I will be twenty in exactly a week, and I’m not sure if I’ll make it. Dear God…let her answer the door, I pray over and over in sync with my chattering teeth.

  I can hear the dogs prancing on the other side of the door. They know it’s me and don’t bark, only snort and sneeze and scratch in friendly anticipation. Thor. I wince. Thor’s with John. God, I hope he doesn’t hurt him.

  I have to stop knocking. My hand is too cold. So cold it seems if I knock one more time the bones in my hand will shatter. A light flickers
on at the neighbor’s cottage. Quickly, I duck. Oh shit! What am I doing? John’s right. Sharon doesn’t want me here. She’ll just call the police. Then what will I do? The light goes out. Oh my God! It’s so c, c, cold. My teeth begin to chatter harder, uncontrollably, as I stay on the porch curled in a ball, my knees tucked tight under my nightshirt and my chin. M, m, maybe I can find a warm spot to sleep here.

  The cold air is too much—too thick and damp and chill. There is no place warm to escape the frozen first night of winter. My body is in pain. I thought extreme cold was painless, but it’s not and I’m finally forced to lift myself off the freezing concrete porch. I tap on the door one last time, using as much strength as I can muster. This time the dogs bark. I hear a rustling come from the bedroom. I knock hard and fierce, then listen.

  The response is silence.

  She doesn’t want me here, and I don’t blame her, I tell myself. John’s words of disgrace tear through my wounded self-esteem. God. What do I do? I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go back to John. I hunker down again. Now my legs won’t stop shaking back and forth, mechanical like a fifty-cent horse ride outside of the supermarket. They won’t hold still no matter how hard I try. God. I can’t stop shaking. I have to move, have to get warm. I have no choice. I have to go back to John.

  Dejected and desperate to get out of the cold, I quietly step off of the porch and walk down Acacia to Glendale Avenue to stick my thumb out and hitch a ride back to John.

  “Where you going?” the Hispanic man asks with a broad grin from behind the wheel of his early 1970s model cream-colored Chrysler.

  “I, I think Ventura Boulevard.” My teeth still won’t stop chattering. “Near Laurel Canyon. My boyfriend and I have a room there, and I need to get back to him. He’s waiting for me and will be real worried.”

  “Yeah, come on. Get in.” He gestures for me to hurry to keep the cold out. “I know where it is. Come on.”

  I jump onto the front seat, keeping my arms across my chest. The driver has dark hair and an olive complexion and is dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt. He makes a clicking sound with his cheek, as if he’s annoyed. With a sideways glance he looks me up and down, but he says nothing about my attire. “What’s your name?”

  I smell the alcohol billow from his breath and notice a slight slur. “Dawn,” I tell him. “And yours?”

  “Dawn. Si.” He pauses. “Jose. Ieee just came from a Christmas party and had a fight with my boss. So Iee, uh, leffft.” His slurring is becoming more pronounced.

  “Oh, really? Where do you work?” I ask, hugging myself tighter and remembering the date, December 22, near Christmas.

  He shoots an angry stare my way, letting me know he doesn’t like my question, and takes another long moment to answer. “Nordstrom. At the Galleria.”

  He doesn’t like me; I can sense it. “Oh,” I answer uncomfortably and decide not to ask any more. Slowly, I inspect the inside of the car. It has a dark interior. I can’t quite tell the color—maybe a deep bloodred. I notice it has power windows and long push-down door locks. They are up. Scanning down, I notice the control panel. Automatic locks, I note. He can control all the locks. Cautiously, I lean up against the car door and ever so slowly place my two fingers under the smooth, knobby lock, making it look like an attempt to keep warm. This guy is acting strange, and I want to make sure he can’t lock me in. We drive in silence for a long, long time. John has neither allowed me to get my license nor given me directions anywhere, so I don’t know whether we’re going the right way. Even though my gut screams, This is wrong, I have to trust this stranger for the moment.

  We enter a freeway. “You know Ventura Boulevard, right?” I ask again. I’m getting more worried that I don’t recognize the freeway we just got on.

  “Iee know. Iee know. Chut up!” he snaps.

  I gulp. Did he tell me to shut up? Paralyzing silence permeates the air, and my heart catches in my throat. Oh my God! This guy is angry! He’s not going to take me to John! I push myself away from him against the side of the passenger door, using my body to cover my hand on the lock. Farther and farther we drive. My insides are screaming, He’s going the wrong way! Houses seem to be fewer and farther between, and all I can think about is the Hillside Strangler, the Trash Bag Murderer, and the girl on the news who got her arms chopped off while hitchhiking.

  In a drunken haze, the driver sees my fear and sneakily lowers his hand to fumble at the control panel, flipping the switch that will lock all the doors. I feel the tug of the lock between my fingers, while the audible click of the others snapping down echoes like a gunshot in my ears. I’ll jump! I think, keeping a weird sense of calm at the idea. But where? He looks over at me and smiles. He thinks he has me trapped.

  “W, where are you taking me?”

  “Chut up, bitch!” he snarls. He methodically frees one hand from the steering wheel and like a vise grip bolt grabs my throat. “Chut up or I kill you!” He squeezes tighter.

  Beating his hand from my neck with my free hand, I keep far away from him, never releasing my grip on the lock with my other. “Okay. Okay,” I choke. “Stop! Stop!”

  “You chut up, bitch. Okay…Okay?”

  “Okay! Please stop!” I beg. I need to get him to trust me, a voice from inside my head speaks plainly and clearly.

  He lets go. With a wicked smirk on his face, he puts his hand back on the steering wheel and keeps driving. Lights pass sporadically now, and I can see the silhouette of the mountains in the background.

  “Please, please—,” I plead. “I’ll do anything you want. Ju, just stop. Here—right here. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I’ll do whatever you want!” I try to reason with him, soften him, hoping he will stop near enough to people that when I jump I’ll see someone someplace near enough to run to.

  He pays no attention, as if he can’t hear me, driving steadily onward as if he has someplace in mind. The air in the car grows heavier…ominous…dark, as if the deadly presence of evil has crept into every crevice of the car—and then I know! I know this man wants to kill me. Not just hurt me, like John, but kill me. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  Now the tears come, violent flooding tears, and I beg him for my life. “Oh my God! Don’t do this! Please!” He turns his head to look me dead in the eye. He knows I know. In his eyes there is death. There is rape and violence and pain. In his eyes there is anger—boiling, seething hatred—and it twists his face into a mask like one my little brother wore one Halloween that scared me so bad…the mask of a killer.

  “Chut up!” he says one final time harshly.

  I can almost feel my neck snap. I obey. Counting every streetlight we pass, I try to calculate when to jump. I gotta do it now, before he takes me any farther. But he’s going too fast. I gotta get him to slow down somehow! The houses and buildings are disappearing. On either side of the freeway there are only mountains, twinkling with a sporadic sprinkling of lights as we speed along. On the left I recognize the distant isolated glow of the Eternal Valley Memorial Park. Gena. That’s where Gena is buried! The upper desert. Oh no! He’s taking me to the upper desert!

  The speed of the car is too fast; there are no more buildings now. The only streetlights left are near the periodic off-ramps. Traffic is sparse, and things look bad. I have to get him to pull over…and then I’ll jump! Up ahead is an on-ramp with another lone streetlight. But as we approach, I see something different: a second light. A small building maybe? Maybe someone is there. I have to try now. This is my last chance.

  “Please, mister. Please. Just pull over, and I’ll do anything you want. Anything!”

  He turns to look at the side of the road, nods, seemingly satisfied, and slows to pull over. The car comes to a stop.

  Bracing myself, I lean my full body weight into the door and pull the handle. Whoosh! The door opens.

  Instantly, his head whips around and just as quickly he stomps on the gas. The car lunges forward. The door flies open.

  My head s
naps back and forth with an invisible slamming force. As if in a vise grip my hands are glued onto the door handle, holding on for dear life. I dangle there, hovering stretched out over racing asphalt and gravel, long enough to catch my breath. Then, in a split-second decision, I let go. Over and over I roll, blinded by my momentum on the pitch-black pavement that burns hot into my skin and crunches rock into bone. Like a cat that’s fallen from several stories above, I land on my feet, wind whipping my hair in my face. I run full speed toward the just-passed on-ramp. For a moment I can’t believe I am really able to run—and not just run, but race like I’m going for the finish line in the 300-yard dash in seventh grade. Peering down I see I have lost one of my black sandals and both my knees are bleeding. I turn to look behind me. The white blob of the car is parked on the side of the road, and he is running after me!

  A huge rush of adrenaline surges through my body and, with superhuman strength, I double my pace. Eighteen-wheelers fly past, honking a long, eerie, banshee scream; a car or two whiz by. My arms are frenzied flags, but no one stops. I turn to look behind me once again, and gasp. The car’s still there, but he’s gone! He couldn’t have made it back to his car in that little time! Oh God, no! He’s in the bushes!

  My pace quickens; air rushes hot in and out of my lungs, pushing me forward. I make it to the freeway on-ramp and my only hope—that second light. No! Please no. It’s a utility box. No! My heart falls. Then I hear him. Twigs and branches snap just a few feet away. He’s right behind me! I gasp and keep running down the ramp for something…anything.

  Suddenly lights—bright, blinding lights—flash like a searchlight. Two of them. Can those be headlights? Yes! A car! I jump—I don’t care—in front of the oncoming vehicle, waving my arms like a lunatic in distress. A small, light blue Ford Fairlane slows to a moving stop. I dash to the passenger side and bang wildly on the window.

  An elderly woman, shaking and nervous, rolls her passenger side window down a few short inches.

  “Please. Please,” I plead breathlessly. “There’s a man behind me in the bushes! He’s trying to kill me! Please take me to the police. Please! He’s right behind me in the bushes!”