by Jenner, Kris
I wanted to get out into the world.
CHAPTER TWO
R.G.K.
My best friend in high school was Debbie Mungle. We hung out together every single day. Debbie had great style and was always so much fun. Her mother was the business manager for a professional golfer named Phil Rodgers. Phil was like a part of Debbie’s family, and he was very well-known. Debbie and I had been to many golf tournaments with Phil. And for our high school graduation, Debbie’s mom bought us tickets to Hawaii so that we could go with Phil to the Hawaiian Open.
“You’ll stay at the hotel, and it will be lots of fun,” Phil told us.
I was seventeen, and I am still shocked my mother let me go.
In Hawaii, I met a professional golfer I’ll call Anthony.
He was twelve years older than me.
He was tall, dark-haired, funny, and successful, and he represented this glamorous world of golf. Maybe I was just a golf groupie, but I liked him immediately. He made all the boys I’d hung out with in high school seem like, well, boys.
He was on the PGA tour with Phil. He was my first grownup, non–high school boyfriend. I was very young, and I think my mother probably thought it was a phase and I would grow out of it, which I eventually did. I don’t think she ever really thought that Anthony would be the person I would end up with for the rest of my life, because I was very, very young. She was smart enough to let me go through the motions and figure it out for myself. Even more, my mom and dad actually came to love Anthony, as did my grandmother. In my family, if the matriarch says something is okay, then it is okay. And everyone falls in line. They thought he was great because they had gone to so many of his golf tournaments. They loved going to the golf tournaments—especially Harry and his brother, Jim, who actually ran a golf tournament that Anthony always played in Torrey Pines. Harry and my mom used to take care of the scoreboard. They would go down to the eighteenth hole, and there was this huge board, and Harry would get up there and change the board. He had so much fun.
My parents loved golf. They loved that whole lifestyle, so when I ran off to golf tournaments with my girlfriend Debbie, my mom just said, “Have fun!” My parents weren’t strict when it came to things like that. They knew that I was going to be that independent person, so they just followed that old philosophy that if your kids want to do something, they’re going to do it with or without your blessing. So that is what I did, and Anthony went along with the whole golfing experience. We had many adventures together.
Anthony courted me; he showed me things I had never seen, taking me to PGA events in these beautiful places and resorts. I had grown up going to the La Costa Country Club with my dad and uncle, and I thought those big golf events were so glamorous and exciting. But that was nothing compared to Anthony’s world. Soon I was traveling with Anthony to Japan, Scotland, London, Mexico City. I spent a year traveling with him. Dating someone who was a professional golfer was thrilling. Anthony was hanging out with the likes of Lee Trevino, Ben Crenshaw, and Tom Watson.
After we had dated for a year and a half, Debbie and I convinced Anthony to let us live in his town house in Mission Beach—free of charge, of course. I have to admit, we were little con artists. We told Anthony that since he was on his way to being a truly big-time golfer, he needed us to live in his house and watch his plants and take care of things for him. So while
Anthony was out on the road, Debbie and I lived in his house. I was able to save money by continuing to work at my mom and grandmother’s candle stores, as well as a little dress shop in La Jolla. I was already multitasking.
One day, in the midsummer of my eighteenth year, while Anthony was out of town at a golf tournament, Debbie and I decided to go to the horse races. That was the fateful day I met a young L.A. lawyer named Robert George Kardashian.
Every year, my mother would go to the Del Mar Thoroughbred Club, very close to San Diego, on opening day. Going to Del Mar was exciting because it was such an example of wealth and high society. The clothes were amazing and the fashion was over-the-top. We lived in a beautiful neighborhood in San Diego, but I wasn’t used to going to big events. Naturally, I jumped at the chance to go to Del Mar with my mom.
Mom took us a couple of times over the years, but that summer we were living in Anthony’s place, Debbie and some other friends of ours went to the track on our own. It was a beautiful day in Del Mar. I was beside myself with excitement. The women were all in gorgeous white with big hats and giant sunglasses. I was wearing a white pantsuit with a huge hat and sunglasses, like some 1920s movie star. Around my neck was a gold necklace with a pendant that spelled out the words “OH, SHIT.” (I still have that necklace.)
We were having lunch at the Turf Club, the private club at Del Mar. I walked out to make a $2 bet. After I placed my bet, I stood next to a nearby pillar to wait for Debbie to place her bet. That’s when I noticed a guy standing in front of me.
“Hi, is your name Janet?” he asked.
“That is the worst pickup line I have ever heard!” I replied.
“No, I’m serious. Is your name Janet?” he continued. He was dressed in a blazer and slacks, platform shoes, with slicked-back hair and had this big mustache. He looked very successful, and a lot like the singer Tony Orlando.
“No, my name is not Janet,” I told him.
“Well, then what is it?” he asked.
“What’s your name?” I shot back.
“I’m Robert Kardashian.”
“Okay, my name is Kris.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because you look exactly like a girl I used to go out with.”
“If you used to go out with her, you should know her last name.”
“Come on, tell me your name.”
“It’s Kris Houghton.”
“How do you spell that?”
“K-R-I-S-H-O-U-G-H-T-O-N.”
“Where do you live?”
By then I’d had enough. He was so bold. He was hitting on me! I thought he was cute. I also thought he was way too old for me.
“San Diego,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, and paused. “Well, would you ever consider going out with me?”
“No!”
He stared down at my necklace, which, of course, spelled out “OH, SHIT.”
“Nice necklace,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. I have to admit, I was snobby. I knew I looked pretty cute. I was on my game that day, and I knew it. I turned to go back to the Turf Club.
“Maybe I’ll call you sometime. What’s your phone number?” he called out after me.
“I’m not giving you my phone number,” I replied firmly, and that was that.
I felt his eyes on me for the rest of the day. I would look around and find him practically stalking me, standing in the corner, staring at me. When a race was about to begin, I would go to the window to place another bet. Sure enough, there’s Robert Kardashian, waiting for me to show up. This time he had brought his brother.
“I’d like to introduce you to my brother, Tommy,” he said. He and Tommy and their father, Arthur, came to the races every year, just like we did.
“Nice to meet you,” I said to Robert’s brother. Then to Robert: “See you later.”
“Are you still not going to give me your number?”
“Nope, not going to give you my number.”
Back in the early ’70s, you could look up just about anybody in the phone book. I wasn’t listed, though, because Debbie and I had just moved into Anthony’s house about six months before. We had a new phone line of our own. It was just an old-fashioned one-line dial-up phone.
One day, Debbie was at work when the telephone rang.
“Hi there, Kris! It’s Bob Kardashian,” he said. “Remember? The races?”
I remembered all too well. “How did you get my number?” I asked.
“My friend Joni Migdal works for the telephone company,” he said. “Sh
e just looked up your records and saw that you have a brand-new number and she gave it to me.”
Oh my God! I thought. But I just said, “Well, hi.”
I put him off for weeks and weeks as he kept trying to convince me to go out with him. He called me twice a week. Then weeks turned into months. He had this low voice, and it was so adult and grown-up. He actually scared me a little bit. He was a little intimidating.
I got to know him a little over the phone, even though I really didn’t want to for some reason. Robert said that he lived in Beverly Hills, and he had a really nice house. He told me about his close Armenian family. But every time he would get around to asking me out, I would say, “I really can’t.” I never told him the full story about Anthony, but I did eventually tell him that I was dating someone else, and that his name was Anthony and that he was a PGA golfer.
Months passed. I hadn’t seen Robert again, but I had continued to speak to him by phone. One day, Debbie and I went up to Los Angeles to watch Anthony and Phil play in the Los Angeles Open at the Riviera Country Club. We checked into the round Holiday Inn on the corner off the 405 and got all dolled up. I remember I wore a pair of new sunglasses I had just bought at Judy’s—really great movie-star sunglasses—and I had this little purse with a wooden handle so that you could change out the purse itself and just attach different bags to the wooden handle, gray flannel or black-and-white check or black leather. Every golfer’s wife had that purse. I thought I looked pretty cute with my golf shoes and my fabulous outfit and my little sweater. We had VIP passes and the purse, just like the other professional-golfer wives.
We headed to the golf course. Anthony was playing a round with Arnold Palmer. Arnold Palmer had fifty bazillion followers—“Arnie’s Army,” they called them—and they were his fan club. I followed Anthony around with my little stick seat, which unfolded out into a chair. With my little seat and my cute outfit, I looked like I had been out on tour for ages. Debbie and I floated around between Anthony and Phil. The round Anthony played with Arnold Palmer was crazy—there were so many people around. It was like having your boyfriend play against Tiger Woods.
I was walking down the fairway when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there he was. “Remember me? Bob Kardashian,” he said.
I was shocked, but he kept talking. “This is my friend Joni Migdal,” he continued, introducing me to the woman who had found my phone number for him.
“What are you guys doing here?” I said, my mind racing. I was trying to put it all together. Did he just run into me accidentally? Was Joni Migdal actually his girlfriend? Robert and Joni started to follow me around the fairway. I found Debbie, but it was clear Robert and Joni were not planning to leave.
Around this time, Anthony walked by and saw the little parade on my tail. “Oh, who are your friends?” he asked.
“This is Robert Kardashian and Joni Migdal,” I said.
Robert turned to me and said, “Cute glasses.”
I smiled at that; I loved those sunglasses.
“They’re filthy. You better clean them,” he added.
I took them off and, sure enough, they were filthy, smudged, and I was so embarrassed. I thought I was so cool and so meticulous, and here I was, wearing a dirty pair of sunglasses. Robert thought it was so funny. I cleaned them immediately and we all walked around together for the rest of the day. Finally, Robert said, “I’ll call you.”
“Isn’t Joni your girlfriend?” I asked when she was out of earshot.
“No, she’s my friend,” he answered. “We came out here to find you!”
I had been blowing Robert off every single phone call, but apparently when I told him I was going to the Los Angeles Open, he decided he would come there to find me. After they left, I had to admire Robert’s persistence. Here I had blown him off for a year, and he still kept calling me. The Anthony thing seemed serious, but I think I loved the lifestyle more than the man. So the next time Robert called and asked, “Will you finally go out with me?” I relented.
“If you come to San Diego and take me out on a real date, I will go out with you,” I told him. I didn’t tell Robert that I had agreed to marry Anthony.
Anthony proposed, and I had been having so much fun dating him that I thought that saying yes was the right thing to do. But as time passed, I started to realize that I didn’t really want to marry Anthony. At nineteen, I was too young to be engaged to anyone. I had also reconnected with my biological father. My dad had moved back to San Diego, and I reached out to him a lot. My dad became not just the dad who didn’t get along with my mom when I was a child; he became more like a friend. He was a really cool guy, and I really enjoyed the time I would spend with him. We formed this really amazing bond during that time.
Also around this same time, I fell in love with cooking. Debbie and I entertained at Anthony’s house on his tiny patio, taking turns hosting parties. Debbie would make the best tacos and peach margaritas and amazing dips and guacamole, and I would make steaks, Caesar salads, and baked potatoes. We invited our friends over, and I started inviting my dad. Dad got to know Anthony a bit, and he already knew Debbie. When I told him about Robert, he wanted to get to know him too.
But it wasn’t meant to be.
The night of our big, long-awaited first date, Robert picked me up and said, “Let’s go to the movies.” He had actually flown from Los Angeles to San Diego just for our date that night. After the movie, we ended up back at my house, which was also, of course, still Anthony’s house. Debbie was working that night, so Robert and I were alone, and somehow we made our way upstairs. We were messing around and heading in the direction of some major hanky-panky when we heard the front door open. Anthony was home!
“Kris!” I heard him calling from downstairs. I looked at Robert, and Robert looked at me. Oh, shit. We were so busted. We flew to our feet, but we were stuck upstairs in Anthony’s town house. And we are not talking about the Taj Mahal here—it wasn’t a big place. How are we getting out of here? I thought. We couldn’t jump out of a second-story window. I couldn’t hide Robert in the closet. Thank God we had our clothes on.
“Let’s make a run for it!” I said, and we went running down the stairs, right past Anthony, and headed for the front door. It was stupid and immature of me to think we could get away with that.
“What are you doing here?” Anthony yelled at Robert.
I stopped, turned around, and I answered, “Oh, this is my friend Bob.”
“What are you doing here, man?” Anthony repeated, and he and Robert got into it. Anthony started to grab Robert, and I immediately realized Robert was not a fighter. He was standing there in his designer jeans, Gucci loafers, and a gorgeous Gucci sweater with an anchor knitted into it. Anthony grabbed the sweater first.
“Don’t touch the sweater!” Robert screamed. “It’s my brother’s!” He had stolen his brother’s brand-new Gucci sweater out of his closet to wear for our big first date, not thinking he might get attacked by a really pissed-off professional golfer while wearing it. Anthony didn’t give a damn. He grabbed the sweater and ripped it, stretching it out terribly and ruining it. Robert just broke away and went hauling down the street, running for his life.
I ran past Anthony, grabbed my car keys from the front table, jumped in my little red Mazda, locked the doors, and took off after Robert. When I reached him, we were both shaking. “Get in the car! Get in the car!” I yelled. He hopped in, and we could see Anthony in the rearview mirror, chasing us down the street.
“I am never coming back here again,” Robert said.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said. I was so upset. I thought he would never speak to me again. I had told him that Anthony and I weren’t getting along, but I never meant to put him in such a situation.
“Where do you want to go?” I asked him.
“Just take me to the airport,” Robert said. “When you get things straightened out with this guy, or decide what you want to do, we’ll talk. But that was sc
ary.”
I dropped him off and he flew back to L.A. I didn’t hear from him again for a really long time. He had probably never been in a fight in his life before that night.
That same year, on Easter Sunday evening of 1975, I was standing in the kitchen at Anthony’s house when the phone rang. It was my paternal grandfather.
“I have some really bad news,” he said. “Your dad’s been in a terrible accident, and he didn’t make it.”
He told me the awful details: He was with his girlfriend in his vintage yellow Porsche—his pride and joy—and was run off the road by a jackknifed semitruck in a remote, deserted area of Mexico. A group of nuns found the wreckage by the side of the road and took him to the closest medical facility. My father’s girlfriend survived, but he suffered severe internal injuries. He was only forty-two years old.
I screamed, dropped the phone, and was just crying, crying, crying, hysterically crying. A few nights before, my father had called me. “I’m going to Mexico for Easter break and I’m taking my girlfriend. I would love to see you tonight, honey. Are you busy?” he asked. I hadn’t been busy, but I was tired. When I told him that, he said, “It’s okay, I’ll just see you when I get back. It’s fine.” And now he was dead. He was the first significant person in my life who had died, and when he had wanted to spend time with me, I had blown him off.
It was an important lesson about love. Love your family; try to do as much as you can. I think that’s why I’m always trying to burn the candle at both ends now. I want to be there for my family and for my loved ones, and if somebody needs me or wants to be with me, I feel really bad or guilty if I can’t be there for them. You never know when it might be the last time you see somebody.
My dad was a lot of fun. He liked to have a good time. He was very social. I remember that one time when I was a teenager he invited me up to spend the weekend with him in Long Beach. He took me to Venice Beach, and he thought that was so cool. He would always try to think of the cool thing to do that would help him relate to me at whatever particular age I was at the time. I was probably sixteen and I had just started driving when he invited me to come up and see his place that weekend. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but when I look back at that moment, I realize how much thought he put into where he could take me instead of just maybe another movie or a dinner. He wanted to make sure I had a good time.
