Colleen and I went out for the night and came back to our stuff smashed into half-zipped suitcases. Well. A quarter of our stuff smashed into half-zipped suitcases. The rest was gone.
We were going to get the freshest start ever.
CHAPTER 6
A Spoonful of Sugar
Colleen and I moved into a room in Marilyn Monroe’s old house with Paul the kind artist, and we tried to get into a new rhythm together. Yes, a junkie had just stolen all of our stuff and we were still reeling from Damon’s abuse, but this was our chance to have some peace of mind!
Things did calm down for a while, at least in comparison to what they used to be. And no matter what happened, Colleen and I were together. We kept each other safe.
At the house, Paul started bringing over his new best friend, Adam, who was also Leonardo DiCaprio’s completely wild brother. I guess these were the types of famous people we were rubbing shoulders with now. Side note: What kind of parents name one kid Leonardo and the other Adam? Like, I’d have a complex, too, if my sister was named something really cool like Cleopatra and I was just Laura.
Now, remember when my parents had told me that my grandma was dying in order to save me from my abusive relationship with Damon? Well around this time, she really did die. I was pretty skeptical of my parents at first, but after Colleen started crying, I realized it was the truth.
We were devastated. We had to fly home for the funeral. But first we had to get wasted at the Mondrian in order to not deal with our emotions.
While we were back in Chicago with our family, we got a call from Paul.
“Heyyyyy girls. Um. How’s it going? How’s your grandma?”
“She’s dead, Paul.”
“Right. I’m sorry. I just wanted to let you know that Adam offered me more money for the room you’re staying in. . . . So I’m going to pack up your stuff and rent it out to him. But I’m going to pack your stuff really nicely, though. I’m so sorry, bye!”
“Wait, what??”
*Click*
He hung up. Fucking Paul. And why was everyone always packing our stuff for us?
We flew back to LA after the funeral with no plan and no place to stay. We got our stuff from Paul’s house, neatly packed up in the living room. It was very organized, he did a great job with it. He didn’t even steal anything! What a guy. Soon enough we were out on the street with no place to go.
We floated around Los Angeles, staying with random people we’d meet while we were out. We slept on a futon at a house with a bunch of frat guys in Long Beach. We met this weird Canadian writer that let us stay in his garden room. We just drifted around. As chaotic as this was, nothing shitty ever happened to us. We protected each other.
Looking back, it feels insane that we ever did that. Today, I would walk through fire to avoid sleeping over at someone else’s house.
After a few weeks on the Canadian writer’s couch, he told us that his ex-girlfriend, Cheyenne, was looking for roommates. We met up with her and hit it off immediately. Colleen and I moved right into Cheyenne’s extra room and we were soon as close as the three musketeers.
That’s when life really started to calm down for us. Turns out having a home where you weren’t afraid of being assaulted or having your shit stolen was pretty fucking cool. Cheyenne was this brilliant actress, model, and painter who was so funny and outspoken and smart. She knew her way around the city in a much more legitimate way than I ever had. Soon enough we were going with her to tons of upscale parties and events. I saw her as an inspiration: her career was proof that it could be done. People could move to LA and support themselves with their art.
But then I found out that she had a side hustle. Everyone’s gotta have a side hustle, right?
Some people make extra money bartending, or waitressing, or nannying. Cheyenne’s side job was to dabble in escorting. How does one dabble in escorting? Let me explain! One night she was out at a bar and a woman came up to her and said, “Hello, I’m here with this man, Mr. Peters—” She pointed to an old man sitting in a private booth. He was in probably the most expensive suit ever made, and had one disfigured arm, but the suit was tailored to fit it. The woman continued. “He would like you to sit and have a drink with him.”
How weird to have a woman come up and talk to her for him. Was she his wife? Cheyenne responded, “Oh, no thanks. I’m here with my friends.”
The woman pulled out a crisp bill. “He’ll give you one hundred dollars.”
Cheyenne took the bill. “I guess I was going to have a drink anyway!”
After the drink, the woman came up to Cheyenne again. “He would like to have lunch with you tomorrow. He’ll pay five hundred dollars.”
“I guess I was going to eat lunch anyway!”
Turns out she was “dating” a sleazy billionaire with sixteen other girlfriends.
Lunch turned into dinner. “Two thousand dollars.”
And then: “Mr. Peters would like you to get tested for STDs and spend the night with him. Five thousand dollars.”
It kind of just happened. And that’s how you dabble in escorting.
She’d come home from a date, and I’d mock her a little. “Hey Cheyenne, how was your date? Did you run into the ten other girls on your way out?”
“Shut the fuck up! Unless you want to give me back that purse I got you.”
Touché, Cheyenne. Touché. Cheyenne had gotten so many gifts from Mr. Peters that I got by on her hand-me-downs. He even started paying her rent. He would fly her and her family around wherever they wanted to go. Jewelry. Vacations. Cars. And all she had to do was . . . well, you know! Eventually, she fell in love with an English stuntman who lived upstairs from us. This development compelled her to leave the business.
LA is a town full of rich, old, sleazy dudes that take advantage of beautiful women with dreams. I love LA, but damn. It can be dark here.
Sometimes I couldn’t believe she did that. But most of the time I couldn’t believe that no rich guys had asked their madams to approach Colleen and me when we were out at night. We were VERY OFFENDED.
But it’s fine. At least we got Cheyenne’s hand-me-downs.
One night, the three of us went to a huge party at Shane Black’s house—he’s the director of all the Lethal Weapon movies. He has this crazy gaudy mansion that has like six floors, a huge dance floor, and an elevator.
We walked in the front door and were so confused when it seemed empty. We asked someone (his butler?) where the party was, and he answered, “Up the elevator, of course.”
Oh, of course.
At this particular party, I saw this man across the room. He was tall and handsome, and he was holding the tiniest black Chihuahua I had ever seen. I had to talk to him. The dog, of course.
I went up to him and introduced myself. His name was Rudolf and he had a slight German accent and a formal, upright demeanor. The man, I mean. The dog’s name was Comet.
“This is Comet. He likes to go to parties.”
He also had a Germanic knack for describing things with complete, literal accuracy. Later on in our relationship:
Me: How was your flight?
Rudolf: It was efficient.
His favorite joke was:
Rudolf: You know what they say about German sense of humor?
Me: No, what?