Neon Angel

  It was June and the days were getting longer. The sun rose in the mornings and fell at night with a reassuring regularity. The passage of time no longer seemed daunting to me. Without cocaine, pills, and alcohol ruling my existence, the clocks actually started to make sense again. I had been clean for three months, and I was no longer a neon blur in the fast lane. I was no longer the Cherry Bomb. I was plain old Cherie Currie again, and I liked it.

  For the past three months, I had been attending twelve-step meetings twice a day. I felt healthier and happier than I could remember feeling in a long, long time. My old friends, the friends who knew me from the days when I was the ultimate party girl, would sometimes laugh and tell me that I didn’t need those meetings anymore. “You’re clean!” they would tell me. “So why do you keep going?” I’d just smile, because they didn’t understand. Not really. I was smart enough to realize that if I didn’t keep going to those meetings, at least for now, there was a very good chance that I would use again. It might just have been a glass of wine or a line of coke that somebody offered me at a party, but I knew how easily I could convince myself that one line, or one drink, was okay.

  It was amazing to me how all of the alcoholics and the drug addicts that I met in those rooms seemed to have stories similar to my own. They might have been mailmen, nurses, doctors, or musicians, but their addictive behavior almost always followed an identical pattern. When I heard them speak about their experiences, it confirmed for me that one drink or pill or line would take me right back to where I started. With every day of hard-won sobriety, the stakes got bigger. With each passing day, I stood to lose more and more if I decided to use again. No—I did not want to start over. I did not want to ever feel that horrible sickness, that utter and incomprehensible demoralization, again. The meetings were my way of ensuring that this didn’t happen.

  I took a job at a place called Designer Linen in the Topanga Canyon Plaza Mall. The first-ever “real” job of my life. When the man asked me what I wanted an hour, I didn’t have a clue how much to ask for. Unsure, I mumbled, “Two fifty?” He smiled and was more than happy to oblige. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I found out that the legal minimum wage was $3.25. I was making less than Marie used to make at the Pup ’n’ Taco. At times, that was difficult. Never in my life did I have to work so hard for so little. It felt slightly embarrassing to have a job in a mall after everything I had achieved in the past ten years . . . but I wanted it. I wanted to feel normal for once in my young adult life, and it made me proud to stand on my own two feet. That was what was most important to me, not what anybody else thought about it. To me, it was an adventure. An adventure in reality and humility. I was able to take home eighty dollars a week, and all of that money went to help Aunt Evie with the groceries. After everything that she had done for me, this small form of restitution made the petty annoyances of working at the linen store feel worthwhile.

  I was the only person working at the store except the owner, and often the work was backbreaking. My boss was an olive-skinned man with a heavy Arabic accent. One day I confronted him about my salary, angry that he hadn’t informed me about the minimum wage when I’d applied. He laughed, and said it had shocked him that I’d asked for so little, and gave me a raise on the spot. “I was just giving you what you asked for!” He smiled. He was awful, really. But there was nothing else in the world I needed to be doing more than working there. Working at the mall gave my life structure. The sun rose at six, and I was up by seven. I was at work by nine and home at six. It might seem strange, but this kind of routine was completely alien to me.

  I was “paying my dues,” plain and simple. I needed to. I wanted to touch the face of reality; I wanted to look with pure crystal clarity at how close I had come to dying. To candy-coat it in any way would be a travesty, and I knew that it could possibly lead me on the road to destruction once again.

  When I was fifteen years old, I imagined that I could just jump into being a rock star, and never have to struggle for it. It was like one of those rides at the carnival where the bottom drops away and you’re stuck against the wall, spinning wildly, feeling sick and disoriented, unable to get off or even move until the ride stops. When you finally get off a ride like that, you have to grab onto a wall or a pole, just to get your balance back. I thought of the job at Designer Linen as my pole.

  One day I was folding and stacking linens when a familiar face came into the store. I looked at her, and then froze. She didn’t recognize me at first. Of course, she wouldn’t have; she would never have expected to see me in these circumstances, working at a linen store in the Topanga Plaza Mall. She noticed me staring, but I guess she was well used to people staring at her. Everybody recognized her in those days. It was strange to think that I’d beat her out for the role in Foxes.

  She stopped, looked again, and then her eyes opened wide in recognition. “Cherie? Is that . . . you?”

  “Hi, Rosanna,” I said quietly. I had become friends with Rosanna Arquette because of my brother-in-law Steve Lukather and Toto (the song “Rosanna” was written about her).

  There was a mix of emotions when Rosanna came over to me. Shame? Maybe just a little, but it wasn’t shame for what I was doing there—working like other normal, everyday people do every day. It was what got me there that made me ashamed. The urge to run away came over me for a moment, but I told myself that there was nothing to be ashamed of. I was much more proud of myself in those days than I had been in a long, long time. I may have thought of myself as the glitter queen in the distant past, but in those days I was the unhappiest I had ever been. Today my happiness did not depend on what other people thought of me. It did not come from a pipe, vial, or a bottle of booze.

  “Cherie . . .” Rosanna was looking at me with this bemused amazement on her face. “Cherie! What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Working,” I said, giving her my proudest smile.

  “But . . . but what about your music? What about your acting?”

  I shrugged calmly. “There’ll be time for that again,” I said. “Just not right now.”

  “Well . . .” I could see that she was totally caught off guard by this, and she was struggling to find the right thing to say. “Well . . . you look great. You look really great, Cherie.”

  “Thanks!”

  That was a compliment that I really needed. Since getting clean, I had put on twenty-five pounds, and looked healthier and more alive than I had in years. It was nice to get the reassurance.

  “I feel great,” I told her. “You know, I’ve been off drugs for six months now.” I didn’t mind telling her that. It was no great secret that I used drugs, and to be honest, it seemed that everyone in Hollywood had a drug problem of one kind or another. Hollywood people would admit to being drug addicts long before they’d admit to having plastic surgery. “I’m in the twelve-step program,” I added.

  She reached across the counter and took my hand. She smiled warmly and said, “Good for you.” Then she laughed slightly. “I know plenty of people who should be doing what you’re doing.”

  “I saw your last movie. You were great.”

  Actually, I’d seen all of the movies she’d been in. Desperately Seeking Susan, Silverado . . . Rosanna was a fantastic actress. In the early days of my sobriety, it was hard to watch movies, especially any movies that starred contemporaries of mine. It reminded me too much of what I had lost. It made me realize that I could have had roles like that if I hadn’t let drugs tear my career apart. But I made myself get over it. That was ego, pure and simple, and those kinds of thoughts always led nowhere.

  “So, how’s Marie?”

  “She’s fine.”

  It still wasn’t easy to think about Marie. There was a lot of unresolved hurt there. Something had profoundly altered between us. Sometimes I wondered if we would ever be able to get back to just being sisters, without any of the bullshit that went on between us, poisoning the air.

  “Have you seen the baby yet?” I as
ked.

  “Not yet. Soon, though.”

  “Excuse me, Cherie! I need you!”

  That was my boss. He hustled over, ranting and raving as usual. Whenever this happened, the urge to tell him to stick his lousy job would come over me, but I always resisted. The old Cherie would have done that and not thought twice about it. But I didn’t want to be the old Cherie anymore.

  “Come on! Ring her up! No time for conversation!”

  I smiled at Rosanna, and she handed me her linens. I could see that the fact that I was waiting on her made her feel uncomfortable. It didn’t bother me, though. Not even my pain-in-the-ass boss, standing over me and glowering at us, could ruin my mood.

  Before she left, I made eye contact with Rosanna for a moment that seemed to last a lot longer than it really did. I handed her the bag.

  “You know what, Cherie?” Rosanna said to me. “You have a lot of guts.”

  I smiled my thanks at her and watched her walk out toward the entrance, back to a life that—for now—I was no longer a part of.

  Chapter 35

  This Side of Forever

  Ventura Boulevard never changes. Not really. New buildings go up, old ones come down, but the landmarks remain pretty much the same. Everybody who lives in the Valley has their own landmarks along Ventura Boulevard, and I’d guess that no two people have the same ones. I was pondering this as I took a trip down that boulevard on my way from Aunt Evie’s place to Studio City. The warm morning air felt good against my face as it blew through the open windows of my car.

  Two years sober. This was quite an achievement. The idea that I could abstain from drugs and alcohol for two whole years would have seemed impossible to me once upon a time. But today, I was there.

  I was nervous as I made the drive. A niggling anxiety. It reminded me of that time, ten years ago, when I was auditioning for the Runaways. My hands were cold again; clammy, too. Back then, I was a scared little girl with sweaty hands and sweaty armpits, who thought that the whole world rested on a mean guitar riff and the beat of a bass drum. Today I was nervous for a different reason. This wasn’t an audition. It was much more important than that.

  As I cruised down the boulevard, I crossed Hayvenhurst Avenue, the street that led to our old house. There on the corner was Gleason’s Wine Store, where Marie and I used to hang out in the days before we’d discovered places like Rodney Bingenheimer’s and the Sugar Shack. Then, two blocks up the road, there was the old house. No doubt that forty-two-thousand-dollar piece of property was now worth close to a million at least. The pool would still be there. Maybe new kids were teaching themselves to do flips off the board. Different families would be starting out there, maybe breaking up and getting divorced, too. Then houses would be sold again, and new lives would start all over again within those walls. I wondered absently if houses had some kind of sentient memory of the pain of all those failing families who’d once lived inside of them.

  I wondered who was in my old bedroom. What posters would be covering the walls today. Maybe Def Leppard, or Bon Jovi. Or had those posters already come down, to be replaced by next season’s stars? Hell, maybe Bowie was still up there. Through the years, Bowie had always seemed to stay in style. David Bowie, Elton John . . . all of those sounds that had once pumped from the PA of the English Disco were still resonating in this new era.

  I met a lot of stars during my time in the Runaways. More than I can probably remember. While all of it was going on, I was so loaded on pills, and booze, and coke that I’m sure I have forgotten as many of them as I can remember. But one that I’ll never forget is David Bowie.

  He came backstage after one of our shows. I remember that my heart just about jumped out of my chest when I heard he was there with Iggy Pop. They were touring together at the time, to promote Iggy’s album, The Idiot. Then I turned and saw him. It was one of the most surreal encounters of my life. He came over to me and shook my hand. Wearing a scarf, sunglasses, and an English cap, he told me that he’d enjoyed the show, in that inimitable British accent of his.

  I can’t remember a word of what I said to him. I was totally and utterly starstruck. I do remember that he seemed smaller than I’d imagined. Quieter, too. He was shy and distant, as if there were a million important things he was quietly pondering. He looked . . . well, he looked like a man. A musical genius perhaps, but just a man nonetheless. Not the god that I had once believed him to be. After my initial dazed reaction faded away, I remember looking back at him and thinking, There’s David Bowie. Okay . . .

  I think that this is every rock star’s secret fear. That someone will cut through the wild, bigger-than-life image that the Kim Fowleys of this world paint and just look them right in their face and say, “So what? You’re just a human being. Just like me.” It took me a long time to realize how ridiculous it was to think that a rock star could be anything more than that. That I could be anything more than that.

  The Runaways had all taken different roads now. Joan Jett, of course, had become the star that we all knew she would be. Lita, too, had gone on to achieve solo success. Sandy was still drumming, although her life would be tragically cut short by lung cancer in 2006. Jackie left the music industry altogether. She was back east in law school, and I’d heard that she wanted to be the mayor of Los Angeles one day. It was a scary thought, because a part of me believed that she might actually do it.

  Up ahead was the Fireside Inn. Daddy’s favorite restaurant. One of my earliest memories is of being there with Dad, Mom, Donnie, Sandie, and Marie. Marie and I must have only been around three, fighting and squirming around in a booth. I have an image of Donnie sitting in his high chair, trying to figure out how to use a spoon. Now the sign on the restaurant says twains. Farther along again, at the Coldwater Canyon intersection, was the Denny’s where Tommy crashed Daddy’s car while I was unconscious in the passenger seat. The light post we rammed was still there, as solid and sturdy as ever.

  Up in the hills around Coldwater Canyon were the houses that hung from the mountainside on poles, balancing dangerously on the cliff, like the spinning-plate act in a sideshow. Houses just like Bruce’s. Dangerous homes, where dangerous parties took place every night. Parties where nobody really knew or liked anyone else, but we all pretended like we did. Parties where we talked a lot, but said very little. The years have gone on, and music and fashion have changed, but the spinning-plate homes still do their balancing act up there, and the spinning-plate people still throw parties full of strangers. One thing I knew for certain was that I was glad I wasn’t one of them anymore. There was a time when I used to think you’re either living or dying. Living was doing whatever you wanted. Dying was everything else. I believe that’s true for the practicing alcoholic or addict. Now I live to live, and in these last two years I’d squeezed as much as I could out of life.

  . . . .

  I could see Marie in the garage and Tina in there with her. I stopped at the bottom of the driveway and watched Tina—who had just turned two—hopping around madly on one foot. She had just learned how to do it, and was obviously very excited about it. Marie, who was eight months pregnant with her second child, was sculpting. Marie had been sculpting ever since we were children, and she was amazingly good at it. Even though she did it throughout most of our childhood, I had never really taken much notice until recently. In these past two years, I felt like I had really been seeing for the first time.

  I took a moment to think. Was I really ready for this? Was it too soon? I looked at myself in the mirror and told myself not to worry. I continued up the driveway.

  As I stepped out of the car, Tina came running toward me, flashing those beautiful blue eyes in excitement. “Aunticherie!” she cried. “Aunticherie!” That’s how she said it, as if it were all one word. She jumped into my arms and hugged me. A happy thought occurred to me just then: Tina had never seen me on drugs. She had never known the old Cherie. I was very grateful for that.

  “Hey, Cherie!”

  Marie gave m
e a hug. The hug was strong and warm. The kind of hug that felt like it had been a long time coming. Two years ago our hugs were as cool and reserved as they could be. But with each passing day of sobriety, they had thawed. Today that gulf between us that I had felt in the hospital was just a painful memory.

  “Wow, what are you working on?”

  “My latest creation . . .”

  In the garage I looked at the sculpture admiringly. It was a statue of an alien, and it was a magnificent, graceful, and whimsical creation. Then Marie took my hand and placed it on her belly. I could feel the soft rippling of her tummy as the baby kicked.

  “Oh my God.” I laughed. “Any day now!”

  “Maybe he’ll be born on Tina’s birthday,” Marie mused. “Wouldn’t that be a trip?”

  Tina was hopping around us on one foot, impatiently.

  Marie glanced at the name tag on my jacket. I had come straight over from work, and hadn’t had time to get changed. “Wow, Cherie . . . look at you!” She laughed. “You’re a full-fledged drug counselor now. How does it feel working with those kids?”

  “I like it.” I smiled. “I like it a lot.”

  I had been working at Coldwater Canyon Hospital for over a year. I began as a tech, and then took a course to qualify as a counselor for drug-addicted adolescents. The work was intense, and could be emotionally draining, but ultimately it was very rewarding. It amazed me how in the end our stories almost all seemed the same, no matter what the background, the drug of choice, or other mitigating circumstances.

  Unable to take it any longer, Tina blurted out, “Aunticherie! What about the pony rides?”

  I knelt down and picked her up. I nuzzled the soft skin of her neck. “That’s right!” I laughed. “We can’t keep the ponies waiting!”

  I turned back to Marie, with Tina in my arms. I could see the mild lines of worry forming on her forehead, but they quickly vanished in a smile. Today was the first day that Marie was letting me take Tina out unaccompanied. The first day that she would trust me to take her daughter for the whole day. For me, it was the most wonderful occasion I could imagine. It meant that finally my sister trusted me again. She trusted me enough to leave her daughter in my hands. I felt that today, the ghost of the old Cherie had finally been laid to rest.