Read My Lips (8 page)

The Sea Witch was another of our favorite spots for a sandwich and a malt. My friend Burt Shonberg, a vibrant and eccentric artist, lived in a tiny room above Sunset Boulevard, not too far from the Witch, and he painted murals on its interior walls in exchange for free food. He did that all over Hollywood—art for food! But the time always came when the coffeehouses would change hands or close up for good, and Burt would watch his beautiful work being painted over, often in a drab, lifeless white, as the space prepared for its next inhabitant.

On my twenty-first birthday Burt made a painting for me titled, “Something Greeen for Sally,” featuring a psychedelic alien and my then-address, 1331 Havenhurst, down in the corner. Green was my favorite color. I still have the painting hanging in my office. Just this year I was interviewed for a documentary about Burt. He developed quite a following over the course of his life—Ringo Starr purchased several of his paintings—but I often wonder how many walls along Sunset have Burt’s magic buried beneath layers of paint.

After I got off shift, if I was still up for it, I’d go with Barry to the neon-lit Knife and Fork and have some chocolate ice cream with bananas. Otherwise, I’d go back to my apartment and have
people over there. Or I might—as I did on one particularly bizarre night—find myself getting a freakish lesson in human sexuality from a man with a bath towel wrapped around his head.

On the surface Mr. Blank—who I’d always refer to as Towel Head after my first “lesson”—seemed like a perfectly normal guy when first he showed up at Chez Paulette. One evening he walked into the Chez with Anna Kashfi, Marlon Brando’s first wife. I was so excited. She’d been married to Marlon. Anyone who was close to Marlon I found fascinating.

“Can I have some honey, honey?” Mr. “Blank” said to me after I had brought over some tea. I brought him his honey, wondering how he knew Marlon and Anna, and the three of us made some small talk. Mr. Blank mentioned to me that he painted, and that’s really all I remember about our introduction.

But that wasn’t the last of him. Several nights later, as Max and I were closing up, the phone rang. It was around 1 or 2
A.M.,
and Max told me I had a call. It was Mr. Blank. Did I remember him from the other night? Sure, I did. Well, would I like to come over and see some of his paintings?

It was after one in the morning, but I was young, virginal, and a little thick around the waist—not to mention the head, when it came to men—far from experienced, to say the least. The old line, “Hey, honey, wanna come up and see my etchings?” was lost on me. Something felt strange about it, but I have never been good at saying no. I rarely had the confidence to speak my mind or turn anyone down. So I pawned off the decision on the only person nearby that I could ask for advice: Max “Napoleon” Lewin.

I put my hand over the phone and turned to Max in a tizzy. I explained my situation and asked him what he thought. Should I go over to see the man’s paintings? What did Max think of Mr. Blank?

Max, in all his wisdom, answered, “I would trust him with my life.”

I may have been inexperienced—people like Barry were constantly teasing me for being uptight and naive—but I always
had a healthy curiosity. Because I had Max’s blessing, I thought I should risk the adventure. I got back on the phone and said I would be on my way.

“I hope you don’t mind that I have my robe on,” Mr. Blank said.

“That’s fine,” I answered. “As long as you don’t take it off.”

When I arrived at the apartment, Mr. Blank did, indeed, answer the door in his robe.

He had a nice apartment—bigger than mine, certainly—and he walked me over to the living room, where there were two couches. I perched on one, he sat on the other. After a little small talk, he steered the conversation toward the topic of nudist colonies.

“People should feel free to sit with each other naked,” he began.

Uh-huh . . . okay. I wondered why he was telling me this, but I just sat and listened innocently. I didn’t know about nudist colonies.

Then, suddenly, he stood and excused himself, disappearing down the hall. I naturally assumed that he was going to get his paintings.

So I waited. And waited.

When he did finally return, he was empty handed. He was still wearing the robe, but now he had a bath towel hanging around his neck too.

I asked him what the towel was for.

“It’s funny that you noticed that,” he said, as if it were the most insightful question. “I really think men and women should feel free with their bodies.”

I thought he was going to sit down and return to the nudist colony discussion. Instead, he continued, “For instance, if I should whip off my robe, you should be perfectly comfortable . . .”

With that, he dropped his robe, sweeping the towel up around his head and face like a mummy. He performed both actions in one giant swoop—the robe hitting the floor and the towel going up around his head—as though his movements had been carefully
rehearsed or he’d done them a thousand times before. A little sliver of eyeball was all I could see of his face.

“This won’t do any good,” I said, turning away. “Because I’m not going to look. Besides, you can see me.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him adjust the towel so that his eyes were now completely covered.

I peeked. I had to. There he stood, completely naked, with a huge erection.

Then he began talking—lecturing me, really.

“It’s important for you to understand that a man has plenty of control even if he has an erection,” he said, his voice quivering and his breath becoming heavier. “I mean, a man can just stand there with an erection. Don’t let them fool you. Don’t ever let them tell you that you have to give in, claiming they can’t control themselves. A man can hold it for a long time. Because a girl like you—and I’m trying to help you here because I know you’re a virgin—it’s really very important that you understand these kinds of things.”

As he kept talking, I felt myself shift into classroom mode as though I were sitting in school, in front of a blackboard. I wasn’t scared; I was mesmerized. I told him I couldn’t wait to tell my analyst what I was learning. He said in a wobbling voice, “Well, be sure to tell him, a friend was just trying to help you.”

“I’ll show you in a minute what a man likes to do and what he likes a woman to do,” he went on, then carefully made his way back to the couch across from me. He lay down, put his hand on his erection—the towel still on his head, of course—and began to stroke himself. As he did, he gave me a play-by-play account of what he was doing to himself.

After a short time he reached over and took my hand and placed it over his. He held it there and explained in detail what was about to happen next and that I shouldn’t be alarmed. But I was bit anxious. This was only the second time in my life I had ever touched a man’s penis; the first was Jennifer’s father.

Then Towel Head ejaculated, and the lesson appeared to be over.

I stood up and prepared to leave.

“Gee, thanks,” I said, making my way toward the door. “I can’t wait to tell my analyst about this.”

“Oh well, remember when you do, you just tell him that a friend was trying to help you,” he answered.

“Oh, I sure will,” I said.

I meant it sincerely. I know it sounds crazy, but I was so grateful that he would take the time to teach me, to show me how it all worked.

Then, as I moved past him to exit into the hall, I actually shook his hand. Then he reached out and touched my boobs. I kept right on walking and went to my car.

Driving home, I was excited, elated, and wired from the whole strange experience. Then suddenly, it struck me, “Oh my God, that was horrible. What have I done?!”

When I got home, I went into Virginia’s room, woke her up, and told her the whole bizarre tale. She found it amusing more than anything and wasn’t all that fazed. But she was distracted. She had news of her own that she wanted to share with me.

“I lost my snowflake last night!” she exclaimed.

So there it was. I got the pervert and Virginia got laid.

The next night I went to work, dreading the possibility that Mr. Blank might come in. How would I act? What would I say? But Towel Head was a no-show. Months later, when he did return, we both pretended that nothing had ever happened.

I never did see his paintings.

O
NE PERSON WHO TOOK MY DISTRESS OVER THE
T
OWEL
H
EAD
incident seriously was Tom Pittman. A fine actor, Tom was going to be the next James Dean, or so people thought. He was around the same size as James Dean, with the same soulful intensity, that same brooding look. Tom, who was about five years older than me, was a kindred spirit. I looked up to him and hung on his every word. He was kind and spiritual, believing strongly in things like God and hope. He cared for me, touched my heart, and was one of the most important people in my young life.

I’d met Tom through mutual friends shortly after my family moved to Los Angeles. He would come over to visit when we were living in Park LaBrea. The first time he had a proper role on live television, on
Playhouse 90,
he came over to watch it with my parents and me. He was never too fond of his own image. The moment Tom saw himself appear on screen, he gave a little groan and crawled under the coffee table. My dad didn’t like that at all. He didn’t have to say anything; I could tell by looking at him that he didn’t approve of Tom’s reaction to seeing himself on TV. I only hoped that Tom didn’t notice.

My father didn’t like anyone who didn’t like themselves. Later he would get angry with me for doing the same thing. Whenever
he’d tell me he was going to tune in to see some bit part I had on TV, I used to say, “Oh, no! It’s nothing. Please don’t watch! Don’t tell anyone.”

“Fine. If that’s how you want it,” he’d snap. “And we’ll tell all of our friends not to watch you either.”

“Don’t do that, Daddy!” I’d plead, reversing my position. I did want to be seen; I just didn’t want to know about it.

The day after my night with Towel Head, Tom had picked me up to go to a friend’s pool party. On the way I told him the whole story, start to finish, paintings to penis. Then I looked at Tom and said, “What must that man think of me?”

Tom answered, “Sally, if I were that guy, I’d be a lot more worried about what you thought of him.”

Tom tried to get the guy’s name out of me, but I refused to give it up. Later, to egg me on, he ran around at the pool party snatching beach towels and wrapping them around people’s heads. Tom always knew how to make me laugh.

Tom never became a boyfriend. We would kiss and hug and snuggle, and I thought he was the greatest, but the minute I felt like it was going to turn serious I turned to stone. I didn’t know how to react. I liked him so much but still felt so insecure, so uncomfortable with that kind of attention. He never let any of that get in the way of our friendship, though, and I felt more comfortable around him than anyone else, except for maybe Luana.

He’d call me up and say, “Come on to Will Wright’s—I want to take your picture.” Tom loved taking pictures, and we adored Will Wright’s, a place that served some of the best desserts around. Mopey me, I would usually answer, “I can’t go. I’m too fat and I have a pimple.” But Tom put up with me being a sad sack.

I’ll always remember the day he rang me up and said, “Meet me at the Laurel Canyon General Country Store.” (It’s still there—different owners, different name.) “I have something really important to talk to you about.” When I finally saw him, he was deadly serious.

“Don’t smoke grass, Sally,” he said. “You’re going to be a singer.”

That was his big message. I don’t know what prompted his concern. After all, I was still so painfully square. Maybe he was seeing more people he knew doing drugs. He knew I had seen that too, especially in jazz. Grass, heroin. I was around those scenes, but I was just looking. It was so different from the world I’d grown up in. But it was the music that I loved. Maybe he wanted to protect me. But what came through loud and clear was that he cared, even if he had no reason to worry. At twenty-one, I didn’t smoke grass, drink, or make love. Not yet, anyway.

T
OMMY HAD BEEN MISSING A LITTLE WHILE WHEN
I
FIRST
heard about it. Someone called me up to say that Tom hadn’t been seen since Halloween. He had gone to a party in Benedict Canyon, and no one had heard from him since he left. Soon after, the police called, referencing Tom, and asked me to meet them at the Renaissance, a club at the corner of Sunset and Olive, where the House of Blues is now. I knew the spot—I had gone to see Stan Getz play there. I didn’t give it a second thought that they didn’t ask me to come down to the station; I had never met with the police before, and all I knew was that I wanted to do whatever I could to help Tom.