Oh shit! He’s the one who’s been stealing from Michelle, and she thinks it is me!
Michelle steps back into the room, showered, dark blue eye shadow over her hollow eyes. “You ready?”
“Yeah. I guess.” I’m glad to be getting out. It’s been so long, and I miss my little Thor. I want to find out where I am, take note of the surrounding landmarks, and find something familiar that will get me to Glendale. But there is a freeway entrance near the apartment complex, and John jumps onto it almost immediately. Denny’s. There’s a Denny’s near the on-ramp.
“This is the Marina,” John tells me as we approach a long, white metal gate and security hut. “They watch everybody that comes in and everybody that goes out!” The Marina is a massive water parking lot for boats. Long wooden masts and white rolled sails line the sharp edge of the rocky shore with weblike finger docks that stretch in uniform rows—places to park the yachts.
Michelle politely calls her friend, a big businessman, on the house phone at the security gate and smiles at the guard as we’re granted access. The underground parking structure of a giant, square luxury apartment complex sits next to the water. John finds an open spot, and we head to the top units. Different sized sailboats sit anchored in a row on the docks just below us in the glass elevator, the horizon black with a sprinkling of stars. Michelle leads the way to a grand corner unit guarded by massive double doors, and knocks.
“Come in. Come in,” a slender, silver-haired man greets us. In his late fifties, he has bright blue eyes and a tanned and polished pockmarked complexion. He guides us into the main room, and I’m taken by its magnificence. The entire west side of the warehouse-sized room is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, a deep, black sectional sofa, and a baby grand piano that seems to hang over the twinkling lights on the sea. The marble floors, covered with plush animal furs, seem twice their size because of the many giant mirrors on the opposite far walls.
Michelle introduces me as Gabrielle and John, proudly, as himself. He vigorously shakes the hand of the deeply tanned man. Michelle beams at having “Johnny Wadd” as her escort. Fidgeting nervously, John smiles with as much glamour as he can muster and immediately begs to excuse himself, slipping out of the apartment. The silver-haired gentleman doesn’t hide his irritation and uneasiness. “Asshole,” he calls after John, loud enough for John to hear. He spins on his heel, marching across the sprawling room, and slams a back room door.
“Wait here,” Michelle demands, pointing to the couch. “I can tell he only wants to see me.”
I’m relieved and keep my comments to myself. I wonder if this place is a drug traffic house, like Eddie’s, with two-way mirrors. To keep safe, I fold my hands neatly in my lap and fix my eyes down at my crossed thumbs so I won’t be tempted to make a mistake. The quiet elegance of the room is hypnotic though, not like the tension at Eddie’s, and I doze for a while right where I sit, like a frozen mannequin.
Michelle startles me awake. Her hand bumps my shoulder as she brushes her hair and tucks her purse under her arm. There is no one with her; the silver-haired man never reappears.
“Let’s go,” Michelle mutters in a hurried voice, and I jump up to follow.
John is waiting outside, hanging out near the Chevy Malibu, trying to act nonchalant. He’s leaning up against the trunk, his head turning back and forth wildly as if he has no control of his body and can’t help but scan the entire area. “Get in,” he commands, voice low and rushed.
The backseat is packed with garbage bags spilling over with laundry, soda cans, and trash. I climb in. John and Michelle are in the front. The air is tense as John deliberately obeys the slow speed laws and gently crosses every speed bump. He’s stolen something, I sense. I just know it. John is a thief at every opportunity; he can’t help it anymore. I saw how he checked out the cars when we arrived, and when he almost ran out of the apartment to hang downstairs I was suspicious right away. And now he’s paranoid, grabbing for a cigarette, wiping his palms on his jeans. Damn, John. What did you do?
John rolls up to the security gate, and the guard flags him down. “Just leaving, sir,” John says, forcing a casual smile as if he’s an old friend and there’s nothing to worry about.
“Can I ask you to pull over to the side for a moment, sir?” The guard motions with his flashlight to the side of the road. They arrive out of nowhere: a swarm of flashing red and blue lights barreling in on us. In an instant, the police have circled the car, blocking every escape route. Uniformed officers charge in, opening our doors. “Can you step out of the vehicle please?”
“Can you tell us your name, sir?” they ask John, guiding him out of the car by his arm.
“John.”
“John. Do you have a last name, sir?”
“John Holmes.”
“Mr. Holmes, is there anything in your vehicle you want to tell us about?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then you don’t mind if we look in your trunk, sir?” The guards are on their hands and knees, rifling through the garbage and clothes. Two other officers guide both Michelle and me to the other side of the road, far away from John. “Do you two ladies have any ID?”
“No,” I answer. Michelle pulls out her wallet from her purse.
“May I ask you ladies what business you have here tonight?”
“We’re visiting a friend,” Michelle replies.
John, pale and nervous, leads two officers over to the trunk of the car. He fumbles with the keys for a moment, stalling. An officer helps him pop the trunk, and his shoulders sink. Flashlights beam into the dark opening. “And what is this, Mr. Holmes?”
John says nothing. From my distance on the other side of the car, I can see a thin sheen of sweat on his face and detect a faint scent of adrenaline reek from his body.
“Is this your computer, Mr. Holmes?”
John still says nothing. In an instant, the guards are handcuffing us and reading us our rights.
Oh God! He’s stolen a computer! While we were upstairs, he stole a computer! We’re being arrested! I can’t believe this.
Three separate police cars drive off with Michelle, John, and I handcuffed in the backseats. Sharon’s Chevy Malibu is impounded.
Early in the morning on January 14, 1981, the Huntington Beach Police Department, a dank cinder block of a building surrounded with barbed wire topped fencing, is crowded and busy. Michelle and I sit handcuffed on the bench in front of the booking counter on the female side of the jail.
“Dawn Schiller.” The woman police officer calls my name. The wall with the lined height measurements is cold, and instantly I shiver. “Hold still, please.” She poses me to face a camera for my mug shot and fingerprints and then leads me to a holding cell. Several women crowd the tiny eight-by-eight cell, and each of them scurries to see if the new person is big enough to make her move. “You’re gonna have to find a space,” says the husky officer.
Two bunks, a top and a bottom, are overflowing with bleary-eyed women, some leaning against a gray concrete wall and the rest sitting wherever there is leftover space on the floor. Near the door of the cell, a metal toilet, yellow and plugged up with paper, is the only space left to sit. I prop myself up against the cell wall and try not to look at anyone or think about the smell. This is an all-time low, I tell myself, and I want to break down. I have a bus ticket waiting for me, and I’m stuck here. I don’t want to go to jail because of John. The hard stares from the others keep me from crying. I want to, though. I want to wail like a baby. Keys jingle again at the lock; the officers have come with Michelle.
“Move over,” she hisses. She is boiling.
“Oh God, Michelle. What are we going to do?”
“We? What do you think? John’s going to call Eddie to bail us out of here.”
“Oh, good.”
“Good? He’s not bailing you out!”
“What? Why?” I am mortified.
“He knows how you’ve been stealing from me. He’s not going to bail you out so
you can come back and rip me off some more!” Her eyes are fiery mad.
John’s grabbing the hand-carved figurine from the mantel plays before my mind’s eye. “It wasn’t me,” I promise her desperately.
“Don’t fucking lie,” she snaps, then turns her back to me. “John told me it was you!”
Oh no. It was John. He’s the one who made her suspicious of me. She’s going to make them leave me here. I replay his movements in my head. I can’t bear it. “John did it! John’s the one who has been stealing from you. I saw him take a figurine from your shelf. I swear to you I haven’t been taking anything. I promise. I promise.” I am terrified to be left in jail. I can’t be left here. What will I do?
“Don’t fucking bullshit me.” She lunges back like a cobra.
“I’m not. I’m not. I saw him take it. Please! It wasn’t me!”
She curls into a ball on the floor. “You better not be bullshitting me!” She closes her eyes and drops off to sleep.
I lie awake on the hard concrete floor until daybreak, cold to the bone, wondering if I will be left behind in jail. Breakfast is served early, and a few of the drunken women who are there to sleep off their buzz are released. Every time an officer appears at the barred metal door, I hold my breath, hoping my name will be called and I will be released. Midmorning an officer calls for Michelle. My heart sinks.
“See you later, bitch!” she snaps as she steps over me.
Her words cut me like a Samurai sword, swift and sharp down to my core, and I shrink back dejected. But it is short-lived. Immediately behind them, another officer is at the door calling my name. “Oh. That’s me.” I leap to my feet, relieved, and follow Michelle and her escort. I wave good-bye to a couple of the girls who, in the night, were kind and showed me how to use the toilet.
The booking desk is bustling; inmates in handcuffs and shackles shuffle by, escorted by detectives in suits. We sign for our few things and are released out into the harsh morning light.
John is waiting out front, pacing and chewing anxiously on a plastic cigarette filter. Michelle ignores the bogus grin he displays as we step through the jail’s metal doors, and she storms briskly ahead to the waiting Malibu. Without a flinch, John saunters up to hug me.
“How did you get us out?” I ask.
John’s plastic smile stays plastered for the surveillance cameras and he shoots me a look. “Nash. How do you think?” he breathes from the corner of his mouth, still chewing on the filter.
In the car, we are quiet heading back to Michelle’s. The relief of getting out of jail is wearing off, and my next concern—how to not get beaten again—is crowding in on me. Michelle will challenge John about my jailhouse confession. This is not going to be good. I wince. I’m going to run. As soon as I can, I’m going to run, I promise myself. Please. Please. Let my bus ticket still be there. The next chance I get, I’m going to run.
Back at the studio apartment, Michelle and John head directly into the bathroom. This time I don’t hear the bubbling of the freebase pipe but their muffled arguing instead. She’s confronting him about stealing. He’s gonna be mad. The feeling of walking on eggshells is taking over again. My stomach shrinks into a nervous, acidy knot, and I swallow back a taste of bile as I scan the room.
Suddenly, a chilly breeze blows across my arm. The drapes by the sliding glass door ebb and flow with a January wind and faintly billow at my feet. For the first time, that glass door stands out as never before—a way out.
The arguing gets louder. Something bangs against the wall. In an angry rush, Michelle storms out and grabs her coat. “I’ve got an appointment. I’ll be back in half an hour. Nobody had better take anything from this house, or else!” She slams the door behind her, and she’s gone.
“Dawn!” John calls from the bathroom. I can hear the gushing of the running water fill the tub. His voice sounds mellow…tired, not angry.
This is good. I figure jail wore him out. “Yeah?” I brave an appearance and come to the doorway.
John is stripping, shedding the grungy jeans and T-shirt from days of being high and sleeping in jail. He steps into the steamy, hot bathwater. “Get me a cup of coffee, would ya, babe?”
“Sure.” My voice is purposely soft. I don’t want to give him any reason to flip out.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My hair hangs limp and dull. My eyes are sunken with circles beneath them so dark that the blue-green that used to be their color is now a cold, steel gray. John’s oversized T-shirt and jeans drape loosely on my bony frame, and my chest, where my B-cup breasts once were, is completely flat. I don’t know the person staring at me in the mirror; she is like a ghost, a hollow shell of who I used to know as Dawn…a complete stranger.
I pull myself away. I don’t want to look at myself anymore, and I don’t want to draw John’s attention. I head into the kitchen to make him his coffee.
A draft of cold air rushes through the room, and the drapes of the sliding glass door billow toward me again like long arms reaching out. I shiver. The door. The low hum of traffic plays like an eclectic distant radio station, and I can smell dusty humidity in the air. It’s open wide. I have never noticed the door open before.
“Are you coming with my coffee?” John shouts impatiently from the bath.
“Yeah!” I answer quickly, unable to take my eyes off the wispy arms of the drapes. I time how long it will take to get through the screen door and for John to realize I’m gone. Do it. Do it now! In a split-second decision, I run, making a mad dash for the sliding glass door and freedom.
Sprinting in the cold air through the maze of the apartment complex, I stumble on a major street and spy the Denny’s near the freeway on-ramp ahead. I turn to look behind me to see if John is following, and run with all the strength I can muster to make it to the restaurant’s pay phone. I am panting, can’t catch my breath. The receiver keeps slipping out of my nervous, sweaty hand. I dial zero. “Hello. Operator? Operator?” I try to make a collect call, but I keep getting disconnected. Damn it. I need a quarter to get through. I’m desperate. Maybe someone will loan me one. I still don’t see John. I try to tap into my internal radar on him and picture him searching the apartment for me.
I hold my head down, in case he might be lurking around, and I go inside. The waitresses pinch their faces at me—I’m sure I look homeless to them—and ignore me. I begin to cry.
An old man, in his late seventies, with crinkly eyes and wiry gray eyebrows, studies me from the counter. “Are you all right?” he asks, limping fragilely over with his cane.
“No.” I cry harder. “I need a quarter to call my mother. I need to see if she has a bus ticket waiting for me. I ran away from my boyfriend. He is beating me, and he’ll be coming after me. I’m trying to get to my mother’s,” I blurt out like a balloon losing its air.
The elderly man sits down in the seat across from me. His face is covered in deep wrinkles, but it is soft, oval, and kind. “I’m Sam. Here. Here’s a quarter. Now go call your mother, and come back and have a nice bowl of chili with me.”
“I’m Dawn. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I hurry back, paranoid that John will catch me.
The old man is still there with a steaming hot bowl of chili waiting for me at the table. “Well? Did she send you a ticket?” His voice is raspy, like an ancient heavy smoker’s.
“Yeah, she did. She has one waiting for me at the Greyhound station in Glendale. Do you know how to get to Glendale from here?”
“Well, I, uh, know, but I don’t really have any way to get there. This is San Fernando and, uh, you see, I live in the senior home around the corner. I don’t drive anymore. Don’t know anyone that does.” He sees the worried look on my face. “But let’s think about it for a minute, and you eat your chili, sweetie. It’ll warm you up.”
Whispering a thank-you, I devour my food.
“Maybe you can call the ticket agent and see if you can transfer it to this area. Glendale is pretty far. Or we
can look up the bus schedule. But they don’t run on Sundays, and it’s getting late. Do you have anywhere to sleep?”
“No, I don’t. My boyfriend is crazy. I know he will start looking for me as soon as he finds out I’m missing. He’ll kill me. I know he will. He’s always told me that if I leave him, he will hunt me down and kill me!”
“No, no, no. Now stop it. Calm down. He’s not gonna kill anybody. You can sleep on my floor in my dormitory. I’ll have to sneak you in. They don’t allow overnight visitors, and I share the room with another old fart. Hell, he won’t mind, and it’s just until you can catch a bus in the morning, right? Come on. Finish your food, and let’s go.”
“Really? Thanks.” I gobble down the rest of the beans and grab a handful of plastic-wrapped crackers to shove in my pocket. I follow him out the door and around the block, trusting that somehow I’ve gotten lucky and run into a person who cares and will help. What other choice do I have? “Dear God, let this be someone who really cares,” I whisper under my breath.
“Shhh. We gotta be real quiet.” We sneak in through the kitchen entrance, a two-story, tan concrete block of a building, and tiptoe up a flight of stairs to a semi-hospital-style room. The floors are shiny and polished, and the smell of disinfectant burns the insides of my nostrils. “Here’s Ted.” He waves his arm across the room at a hospital bed. Ted groans in acknowledgement. “Here you go.” Sam hands me his extra pillow and blankets and points to a clear space on the floor.
“Thanks,” I whisper, ready to lie down in my makeshift bed.
“Uh, there’s one favor I’d like to ask you if you don’t mind.”
I freeze. “Uh, yeah?” The thought of Sam wanting sex for the favor of taking me in makes my skin crawl. Oh shit. No.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 34
