I’M YOUR MAN 

PART ONE 

“Hi! Helloooooo? I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past block! Hello! Do you mind if I walk with you?” I drew back in mild surprise at the man who lightly jogged up beside me. I was nineteen and noticed that he appeared much older than I was, which upon first glance his escaping hairline seemed to support. But as I looked more in detail at him - now walking briskly next to me, almost touching my right elbow - I took in his broad, charismatic face that was alight with a boyish yet confident glee. His easy, worldly assuredness in his approach convinced me that he was at least in his mid-thirties if not older (caveat at end).

And that was okay. I didn’t give it another thought. I’d always had older or even elderly friends growing up as an immigrant’s only child, moving every two years throughout various cities and states in America. And even though I had been in Los Angeles for just over a month, all by myself, I had already met (or briefly lived with) a small variety of eclectic, well-seasoned street persons. I wasn’t afraid. At least, not yet. 

Two months prior I had sold most of my meager possessions and left the bleak dullness of Eastern Washington state in search of, I guess, myself. My Finnish mother was arrested after years of child abuse when I was seventeen, and my Texan father died when I was a year old. I had grown up with no siblings and a zero-sum total of family members. Higher education was a total joke to consider except for the year of community college that I had struggled to pay for on a Pizza Hut and retail shoe store salary. I was denied any kind of government grants or student loans as my alcoholic, mail carrier mom still claimed me on her income taxes. I might as well have been an orphan, which I basically was. But I was free. And completely, echoingly alone.

It had taken me over a month to drive from Spokane, Washington down to Southern California in my broken-down, 1979 Toyota Landcruiser which for most of the trip was dangerously running on 3 of its 6 cylinders and constantly leaked brake fluid until I could no longer stop the vehicle. I had slept and lived in that car along with the few material goods I had packed into it. Cops had even caught a sought-after murderer approaching my car at 3am while I was sleeping in it, parked in a Marin County gas station. However, the junker had given up its ghost about six weeks later, on a sleek Beverly Hills side street that I had gotten lost upon, smoke billowing out along with my only means of independent transportation. I had nothing to lose but didn't realize it at the time.

“Hey, hello! Please answer me, can I walk with you?” As I looked further into the visage of this stranger, who now seemed exceptionally interested in me, I felt a mixture of guarded apprehension and an overwhelming fear of having to make casual conversation. He possessed a wide nose with passionately flared nostrils (can nostrils be passionate?) that sat above a broad, expressive mouth parenthesed by quite nice dimples. His angular cheekbones arced gracefully upward to allow his shining, intense brown eyes to upstage the rest of his pleasingly interesting face and captivate whatever audience his vision sought out.

“No, I don’t mind", I squeaked out. Bashful and deeply shy, my naïve spirit that had dared to venture out into the world daredevil-solo and beyond conventional teenage norms was often not a great match for the awkward and usually insecure girl that was uncomfortable talking to people. Most especially unknown, fully grown, totally male humans.

This very adult man continued to travel at my side, speaking in constant and rapid waves and asked what was I doing there on Sunset Boulevard all by myself? I told him that my goal was to visit Book Soup, the famed literary retail store that I had read about for years. When I had boarded the bus that Saturday morning from North Hollywood, I was excited because I really wanted to browse amongst the aisles by myself as usually preferred. 

Appraising him even more closely, I saw that he was about my height, keenly muscled, cinnamon-skinned, and lean. I then noted our differences in appearance from the chin down: he wore a casual but fashionably patterned collared light blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves that was left unbuttoned to mid-chest but oddly not in a creepy way. No visible chest hair. Nice jeans, also light blue. No sunglasses, which was unusual for L.A. and why I could see his penetrating, darkly inquisitive eyes. His brownish hair was thinning and short, unspecific. My own fine, mousy blonde hair was pulled back into a short, untrendy French braid that exposed my makeup-free, round, pink face. No bangs. I wore baggy, faded men’s Levi 501 jeans which were actual day-laborer throw aways (stains + all) that nobody wanted back then. Cinched through the belt loops was a flowered thrift store scarf while a loose, white, short-sleeved sweater topped it all off. My cheap, second-hand clothing contrasted with the acres of neon spandex and expensive new breasts that slithered along the shiny West Hollywood landscape in 1990, rendering me an invisible presence amongst the more exaggerated and desired examples of femininity that surrounded us.

He introduced himself as Judd and said he was an actor. Had I seen Pee-wee’s Big Adventure or Red Dawn, he asked? Maybe David Lynch’s Dune? Since I was at the start of what would become a five year, near total blackout of most popular entertainment both by fiscal necessity and a misguided but earnest attempt at spiritual introspection, I sheepishly answered no. His smile slightly dimmed, but this also seemed to make him even more curious. I had zero aspirations in the acting industry and even less interest in the rumored crude underworld of Hollywood, if those kinds of people even existed. He pursued and persuaded as we kept walking.

After a woefully brief visit to Book Soup, Judd offered to buy me a cappuccino at a nearby coffee shop, where he quizzed me further about where I lived, what I did for work, etcetera. Upon finding out that I had been sleeping on my very gracious supervisor’s couch for the past few weeks while trying to find an apartment or a place to live, he immediately offered in grand fashion to drive me around the city for the rest of the day so that he could show me the best, most affordable neighborhoods. He knew them all, he said. It was quite a generous offer both with his time and knowledge, I thought, so I didn’t let my shyness refuse him… although I really wanted to. 

What was I going to say, stuck in a car with a strange older man all day who was an actor? Was he going to try anything, could I trust him? How could I hold a conversation with this person, who was clearly a galaxy away in sophistication than I, yet still wanted to be in my company and wanted to help me?

We climbed into his two-seater, older model, convertible red Mercedes parked nearby. The dashboard was sun baked and very cracked, the seats were frayed. The stereo was missing and random wires wearily drooped out of the rectangular hole. Oh no… no music, I worriedly thought. As we took off and he began conversation again, I told him that it was very difficult taking the bus every morning from my boss’ apartment in North Hollywood all the way to Century City, where I worked as an admin in an office. He asked me where the office was, and I told him that it was on Avenue of the Stars, and that the company was located on the 5th story of the Fox Plaza building.

“You mean the Die Hard building, right? Where the Bruce Willis movie took place?” Yes, that’s the one, I said. Die Hard had just been released two years earlier in 1988 and was one of the few movies I actually HAD seen, unlike poor Judd’s films. During my first week of working in the building, I had thought it was funny that tourists would line up to take photos and view places where important scenes from the flick took place. Judd continued, “One of my best friends was in that movie! Him and his brother live down the street from me in Sherman Oaks, you should live there too, we could be neighbors! I’m going to take you there just to look.”

We drove around until late afternoon, during which I might have spoken *maybe* six sentences, while noting that there were no apartments in the Sherman Oaks area: only very nice and neat upper middle class suburban homes. He, on the other hand, was incredibly talkative, speaking in a near-monologue as I was terribly unaccustomed to being a sparkling conversationalist. Plus, I instinctively knew that most of what I had to say would probably seem stupid and insignificant to this person that I had so little in common with. At least so far.  At least on the surface.

When he finally dropped me off at my boss Marvelle’s apartment in North Hollywood late that afternoon, he asked if I would have dinner with him that evening. I accepted, even though I wasn’t necessarily attracted to him and was still a bit confused about his intentions towards such a geeky, non-sexy rube. I felt like I owed him at least something, even my time, for driving me around all day. Especially since he had probably worked really hard and experienced so much more than I did. I mean, nobody could truly earn a living as an actor in Hollywood, right? So whatever other jobs he worked at meant that he was spending his very valuable and very hard-earned money upon me, a nobody, which meant that he definitely must be a good person. Maybe he was just trying to pass along a little bit of help. Isn’t that what artists do?

Judd arrived on time at 8pm to pick me up. It was mid-November and already dark when he parked curbside next to a small restaurant on a dimly lit street. Not knowing the city or its suburbs at all, on top of not being able to explore much of it since I didn’t have a car anymore nor did I have any friends, I did not know where we were. However, there were tiny Christmas lights already up in the windows of the eatery, emitting a comforting and inviting vibe.

With a gentlemanly flourish, he insisted upon opening my car door and then escorted me into the restaurant where the host greeted him by name. Seconds later, a chorus of yells called to him from the bar area across the room. Judd already had a favorite booth reserved, so I slid into the red vinyl. Still preening from the attention, he remained standing next to the table while his falconish eyes circled around to find the source of his supportive praise.

As he stood there, a shorter man dressed in a conservative black blazer, open-necked white business shirt, and plain black trousers came over to the table and hugged him. Judd invited him to join us, and I was immediately uncomfortable. Not because there was anything threatening about this friend, but because this was going to be yet another older man that I was going to have to try and make nervous, stilted conversation with while I battled against retreating into my more comfortable silent, inner world.

Seeing this new configuration of expected social interaction, I started sweating and my still-intact braid, makeup-less face, and out of fashion clothes were getting damp while Judd introduced us. His name was Larry and he projected a nice disposition that made me notice right at that moment how much Judd did not project that kind of trusting warmth.

Judd and I looked over the menus and ordered our food. Since I was a vegan before the concept had really hit mainstream consciousness, my only choices were between a plain salad or tomato soup. I chose the soup. Larry left and headed back to the bar, leaving Judd and I alone for fifteen minutes or so. My nervousness built itself up into a small wall between me, my true self, and what I later came to find out, Judd. I hid behind those delicate bricks while Judd talked about things I don’t remember. I smiled and nodded a lot when he spoke, but he kept leaving the table to talk to his other friends at the bar, always returning a few minutes later.

Each time he did this, I would sit there alone while feeling a mixture of shame and embarrassment. Shame for my lack of sheen and uncultivated country bumpkin-ness that struggled against a full-blown session of hearing my abusive mother’s voice: “Slut!” “Ungrateful!” “Lazy!” “Spoiled!” “Typical American!” “You’re just like your father!” As well as my schoolmates’ voices, society’s voices, even my favorite artists’ voices: you’re stupid, uneducated, unattractive, un-American, poor, fat, and worthless. You are nothing and will always be nothing. I was painfully, obviously out of my depth and absolutely out of resources to draw from in order to survive the drowning sensation I felt every time he left the table to surf around the restaurant and laugh with his more familiar, interesting companions.

After I finished my soup and after Judd left the booth yet again for another jaunt to the bar, Larry came over and took pity upon me by trying to engage me in conversation. He told me that he was a songwriter, his most famous composition being “Rhinestone Cowboy” which had been a major hit for pop country artist Glen Campbell in the mid 1970s. Which I loved! I had instantly liked Larry’s down to earth vibe, as well as his jokes about being a Jew from New York in Hollywood. He seemed like a dad, which I had never had, and was earnestly trying to be nice to me while possessing at least a pretend concern in his eyes. 

A few minutes later, Judd returned and another of his bar friends drifted over and stood next to the table talking, clearly friends with them both and clearly already intoxicated. His eyes swept over me, his pupils narrowing like a scorpion’s tail getting ready to sting. His name was Bill and he introduced himself as a stunt actor, musician, and professional womanizer. OK, that last title was just a guess. But - even in my pseudo inexperienced mind - I knew these kinds of men after years of being groped by their younger versions in school hallways and from seeing my single mother be heartbroken by them over and over and drinking herself into oblivion. 

Standing at six foot four, Bill’s endless legs were encased in macho-tight blue jeans, and a western denim shirt that was open to the navel that showcased his mean and deeply tanned torso. A raggedy cowboy hat topped a devil-may-care brown mullet with sun-bleached split ends, and his authentic cowboy boots never made me question his claim of being raised on a pig farm in Kansas.  I instantly wanted him to go away even though there was nothing outright aggressive or wrong about him. But the way he swayed near the booth while talking with Larry and Judd, aiming his hips toward my eye level while winking in my direction, well… it made me even more intimidated by what appeared to be the epitome of a raging maleness that thrilled to the scent of playing with the powerless. That crooked cowboy smile had surely already pierced a thousand feminine veils of tenderness and was laced with the kind of fake charm that makes countless women fall to their knees in an instinctual, reptilian surrender. I knew it and loathed it and could almost smell its leathery toxicity.

Bill wandered back to the bar with Larry. The waitress cleared the table, and afterwards Judd excused himself, saying he had to make a quick call using the restaurant’s pay phone (clearly this was pre-mobile phones). Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by and I started getting worried. Was he alright? Did he use the restroom afterwards and get sick? I briefly stood up and looked around, spying the public telephone, but nobody was using it. I sat down in the booth for another few minutes before Larry wandered over again and sat next to me.

“Have you seen Judd?” I asked. “He’s been gone a long time and I’m a little worried, would you mind maybe checking the men’s room to see if he’s in there or needs help or something?”

“Honey, Judd isn’t here. He left.”

I could barely comprehend the shock of his words. “He was feeling very insecure around you, I mean, you know how actors can be, hahahaha. You just weren’t talking very much, and he felt bad about himself and has this insecurity complex because you're so young, you know, so he just went home.”

PART TWO

A tingling sensation of hyper awareness lightning bolted off his words and slowly sunk into my skull. My mind started to rapidly process this unexpected and cruel turn of events. Scratch that: cruel decision.

I don’t know where I am! I have no money! Worse yet, I don’t have my boss’ address or phone number on me, as I had trusted Judd to bring me back to Marvelle and her husband Calvin’s tiny one-bedroom North Hollywood apartment. Was I even close to North Hollywood? I just sat there with liquid eyes and a far-away stare while mumbling to Larry, “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to do.”

I was abandoned. Just like the broken-down, useless Toyota Landcruiser that I had to simply leave on a foreign Beverly Hills street a few weeks before. Judd hadn’t even paid the bill before he left, and I had no money on me. As a minimum wage office worker brand new to a “big city” who had no bank account, no credit cards, nor anyone significant to call for help, I couldn’t have paid anyways.

But what exactly did I do so very wrong to someone that I had just met the same day… to a person who had initially chased after me, insisted on driving me around all day, and had proposed to spend even more time with me that evening?

What did I do aside from being a supremely shy, unfashionable teenager? What had happened during the last couple of hours that inspired this older man to purposefully abandon a young girl in what he absolutely knew was an unfamiliar place to her, leaving her amongst unknown, decades-older men?

Lastly, what did this say about my own internalized self-hatred and barely acknowledged past emotional traumas? When Larry had informed me of Judd’s exit, my brain's default reaction had been to automatically play back a well-worn emotional loop deep within, that blamed myself entirely for my lack of attractiveness, lower social status, boring personality, or my inability to hold a grown man’s attention and interest.

The deeply isolating, abusive childhood I had grown up with was fertile breeding ground for the brutality and shame that seemed to be handed out with just about every pair of ovaries in this male dominated society. It had taught me a master class in survival and submission but had also fueled a barely suppressed rage that threatened to castrate those poisonous, damaging situations that constantly inserted themselves into my daily life with no provocation.

I wish they had. I wish I was stronger…or had been.

Perhaps sensing my desperation or, having pre-arranged something else with Judd, Larry stepped up and said that he was going to pay the dinner bill. However, he also stated that he couldn’t help me get “home” because he had to get back to his wife and kids. He stood up and called over Bill, who swaggered his way across the room. “Can you take this girl home” he asked, “because Judd has left her here.” Like it happened every day, I guess. They engaged in a whispered discussion between themselves, and then I saw Bill nod and say yes while looking at me. Larry said goodbye and quickly left.

I looked up at Bill and haltingly explained how I didn’t even know the address of, nor how to get back to where I was staying so I couldn’t give general directions because I was new to town. I’m so very sorry - could he possibly assist with helping me find my way back somehow? Maybe I could pay him whatever money I had in compensation when I could finally access my purse again at the apartment? Even though I didn’t have any money, I was so damned corny that I was thinking that maybe I could wash his dishes for a month or something to make up for it.

He leaned over and drawled, “It’s OK darlin’, but I got more drinkin’ to do. If you really need a ride it’s gonna be a while.” Further watching his glazed-over eyes, it appeared as if 99% of my polite explanation and offer was totally lost on him as he updated his mental calendar for the evening and casually sauntered back to the bar.

I sat alone in that unholy red booth for the next four hours. Even if I had wanted to (I didn’t), I could not have joined him or anyone at the bar because I was legally underage. I drank tap water while the annoyed waitress closed down the sections around me as well as the entire restaurant, but - because she probably knew this gaggle of actor regulars - allowed me to sit there as I watched Denim Bill and his gang of friends across the room sometimes look over at me and burst out in knowing laughter. I wanted to set myself and my stupid, poor people clothes, limp braid, and small, un-Hollywood boobs on fire and return to…where? I didn’t know. I didn’t have a home anywhere. Not even in Spokane. Not in Finland, Texas, Colorado, or California or anywhere else I had ever lived. My car had been the closest, most sacred, safe place to call home and it was gone.

At 1:45am the bartender shouted, “Last call!” Bill staggered over to the booth. “Ya’ll ready, sweetie? My Bronco’s right out front, c’mon.” He was swayingly, supremely drunk in that overly affectionate but repulsive way. As we drove around, I tried my best to desperately look for any kind of familiar landmark amongst the darkened streets. Anything that I could point to and say “there, go that way!” But I utterly failed. After only 15 minutes of his half-hearted searching and swerving, Bill suddenly pulled over and stopped the Bronco. He turned his head toward me and his predatory look explained everything before he even spoke. “Darlin’, this car ain’t goin’ nowhere but my place now.”

I sat silent and stiff on the way back to his house, wrapped in a hurricane of fearful possibilities that I knew were imminent. When we arrived, he told me that he did, indeed, live just down the road from Judd’s in Sherman Oaks. He also lived with his younger brother, another actor. Is this what actors did?

As we pulled into the driveway, Bill said “Have you seen the movie Die Hard? My brother’s one of the bad guys in it. Maybe he’s still awake, you’ll like him.” As if he even knew what I liked, who I liked. Especially after an evening of being mostly alone and totally vulnerable while being corralled and trapped into situations beyond my control by several older men. Weren’t actors supposed to be sensitive?

We got out of the Bronco and he opened the door to his suburban, very regular-looking home and led me past the living room, which contained a long black leather couch that faced a large screen television. Short-pile dusty blue carpet, scattered Playboy magazines, and mounted fishing trophies further accentuated the traditional manliness of the surroundings as Bill offered me a beer from the fridge. I declined while he further imbibed, sometimes slurring his words. 

He asked if I liked music, and for the first time that evening I finally had a brief opportunity to engage in small talk about something that I actually enjoyed and practiced. After telling me that him and his brother Dennis played guitar in bands and with other musicians, he led me outside and into the darkened backyard. He explained that they had converted their guesthouse into a recording studio and had also built it themselves.

He opened the studio door and we went inside. It was beautiful and superbly built. Lovely golden wood slats formed the walls and crisscrossed into the acoustically enhanced ceiling. A few black and white framed photos decorated the walls, and I studied them as he turned on his then state-of-the-art 24 track and played back some instrumental music - jamming along on the guitar that he had plucked off of its stand. He was actually a really good player and my inner band nerd secretly geeked out a bit, but I knew that I couldn’t say much else other than “Wow, you’re great!” because men like this did not want to hear anything technical or knowledgeable about their talents from women. Or girls. They wanted other things.

He noticed me studying two of the framed photos on the wall and stopped playing. “We just took those pictures a few weeks ago when we were recording here” he said, motioning to the picture. “That’s River Phoenix right there - there’s me, my brother Dennis and our producer friend. River’s a really great friend of mine.” Even in my pop culture ignorance, I knew who River Phoenix was but wondered how close of a friend he really was with Bill and was having a tough time picturing them bonding. But these superficial thoughts were only trying to override the looming dread of the situation that I knew waited for me once we returned to the main house.

Trying to stall, I asked him to play more guitar and music, but he was losing his mojo and turned everything off, herding me back into the quiet house. He stared at me from across the kitchen’s small breakfast nook. His skyscraping eight inches of extra height above my head wavered as he guzzled the last of his beer from its can, saying it was now time for bed. “Could I maybe sleep on your couch please? I’m used to it, that’s what I sleep on now”, I pleaded, pretty much knowing the answer but asking anyway.

“Well darlin’, my brother and his friends are gonna be watchin’ a big football game in the morning, so it’s your choice but I don’t think you’ll want to be there.” His eyes gleamed. MY choice. I quickly processed what this scenario would be like: his actor brother and a group of his potentially rowdy, maybe also actor-y and jock-y friends, fueled by early morning booze and testosterone, encountering a sleeping, jejune girl that oozed far more unexciting sincerity than nubile sexiness.  Not that any of these qualities would produce a better situation or result, of course.

I started to follow Bill into his bedroom, awash with even more shame and a sinking, dead-eyed remembrance of how many times I knew what to expect from so many men. Boys, too. And how I was rarely surprised or wrong. In the hallway, he randomly tried to kiss me and after the first unsuccessful attempt of me saying please, no - he simply leaned down and mashed his face into mine. His swollen and heavy tongue thrust itself into my mouth and it just lay there on top of mine. I wanted to throw up. I backed away while his tongue limply slithered away, and I said how tired I was. We continued into his room.

He opened the door and almost instantly and in such a quick motion that I thought his clothes had been a magic act held together by Scotch tape and hope: he was fully and unashamedly naked. He stood there smiling while I felt my face turn red and I tried to focus on the windowsill behind his head. The only detail I wanted to remember about his body was that he obviously sunbathed in the nude.

I avoided his eyes and, saying nothing, I quickly slunk to the right side of the bed and laid down on top of the already messy sheets, fully clothed. I curled into a fetal position and my fingers gripped the bed frame. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend like I had already passed out while lying on my side, clinging to the edge.

But like some kind of human grasshopper, he neatly jumped into the middle of the bed and grabbed me from behind with his muscled arms. He wrapped himself around me, his powerful and insanely long body started to grind against my entire backside. As I felt his erect penis push and push into my tailbone, trying futilely to get through the barrier of my clothing with each thrust, I thought about how weird it was that he didn’t turn off the bedroom light. I also hoped that he wasn’t going to release himself on my clothing, as I didn’t want to walk into my supervisor’s apartment the next day wearing a cum-crusted shirt, but OH MY GOD…would I even find my way back there, though.

That thought brought me back into the crushing reality of where I truly was and encased me again with a stinging despair while I kept squeezing my eyes shut and tried to ignore the large, dry humping man using my teenaged body to get off in his drunken haze of self-pleasure. Now I know what a horny young boy’s practice pillow feels like, I internally joked with myself.

After what seemed like eons, he finally stopped, rolled over, and snored off to sleep. I remember thinking that I was so relieved that he didn’t force himself on me, or rather, IN me. I remember being almost grateful that he eventually left me alone and didn’t actually rape me, only tried to, unsuccessfully. I remember that he had pawed at me everywhere, explored every crevice of my body, but didn’t tear away my clothes, nor did he ever reach climax either. I remember asking myself why… Why didn’t he? What was it: had he drunk too much (probably), was he too tired (most likely), or was I not attractive enough? What the fuck, why did I even think that last thought, or wonder about his inability at all? Or worst of all: why did I feel so thankful and lucky that I wasn’t fully raped, even though he had still violated me? And why did I blame myself and feel so disgusting and ugly?

Was it because I had already known so many girls and boys who already had been raped, and knew the statistics, and knew that I was in that rarified minority because it almost never ended up this way?

I mean, my best friend in first grade, Trinetta, had told me about her uncle …almost bragging about what he did to her body. And it was just normal, almost cool that men selected you, to collect and use. Like pretty trash or cars with no stereo. Either way, when I looked around at the world as a young woman, it was obvious that our role was to be a pleasant receptacle for all the dirty, violent refuse from mediocre garbage men in order to make them feel whole. Make them feel supported and make them feel clean. Yet nobody empties out our own trash baggage but ourselves while we wait and wait on others with war torn smiles and happy pancake breakfast bullets behind our eyes.

We both woke up around the same time the next morning, his old clock radio read 10:06am. He said Well, we’d better get you going and walked around the small room still proudly unclothed while I was still in my rumpled clothes. I thanked him and said how sorry I was again and hoped that I could find my way back to the apartment quickly somehow, so that I didn’t waste his day, he had already been so nice. I then braced myself for what awaited outside that door, as I could already hear the whoops and hollers. I cringed at the thought of even briefly interrupting their circle jerk of macho ritual. 

Bill had me walk out first and in front him, his hand on my waist guiding me towards his brother and their friends gathered in the living room. This pathway forced me to walk between the television and the bro-infested leather couch, not only because the living room was between the front door and the bedroom, but because I knew he wanted everyone to have a good look at what he had brought home. 

Whistles, shouts, and humiliating high fives ensued as Bill ushered me slowly before him, pausing every few seconds to nod at or laugh with his peers. His sexual prowess at bringing home such a young girl and surely fucking the shit out of her all night was never doubted and firmly reinforced by a group of about eight adult men over thirty. 

Mid-walk, he even quickly introduced me to his roommate brother - the Die Hard actor, remember? Dennis looked like a much taller, more rugged Huey Lewis (from the 80s pop group Huey Lewis and the News). He mirrored his tanned, towering 6’4” brother as well, except with a blonde mullet instead of brown.

During these few minutes, I was doing some majorly serious inward questioning. By what god or goddess had decreed this weird horror of a world and situation, on top of, why in the hell was this stupid action movie now at the very epicenter of both my first job in a big city as well as my eroding emotional trust in men?

In the driveway, Bill opened the passenger door of his Bronco for me first, just like his fellow gentleman pal, Judd. After driving around for 20 minutes or so in the bright sunlight, I somehow began to recognize a few buildings, tree clusters, and road signs that looked somewhat familiar. Finally, Marvelle’s huge apartment complex on Lankershim Blvd. loomed up on the left and sparkling showers of relief bathed my exhausted mind and body. 

As I started to exit the vehicle, I thanked Bill again and he reached into his wallet, pulling out a plain looking, dusty blue business card that matched his bachelor home’s dusty blue carpeting. “Why don’t you call me sometime?” he said. “I’ll take you out and we’ll really have some fun.” I was stunned.

What kind of alternate reality or forgetful, embellished ego would make him think that I would want to see him again? Especially since his supposedly good friend and close neighbor had set this entire drama in motion. And now this. The business card. Handed to me like a transaction. Was this just Hollywood, or was this the real world? Or was the real world only more magnified and in sharper Technicolor via Hollywood?

I walked into the apartment building, holding his card. Right before knocking on Marvelle’s door, I looked down and read it:

“BILL HAYDEN - Stuntman / Actor / Musician / I’m Your Man”

NOTES:

1. According to Google, Judd Omen was actually 50 years old when I was 19 at the time of this occurrence in 1990, which I did not know until I looked him up online in 2022. Up until a few years ago, I had always assumed he was in his mid to late 30s.

2. Also according to Google, Bill (William Hayden) was 42. He passed away in 2016.

3. Larry (Larry Weiss) was 48 and still alive. I had no idea until recently what his actual music legacy was.

4. Bill’s brother Dennis Hayden of Die Hard fame, is still alive & known as “the Huey Lewis dude” and did a very popular 2017 Von Miller Old Spice commercial during the Super Bowl (he's the old white coach)

5. Pics that I surprisingly found on the internet: the b/w were the actual photos I was looking at that were framed on the wall of Bill/Dennis’ backyard studio - which were also taken inside the studio. In the photos: Bill is shirtless w/ brown hair, Dennis is the shirtless blonde, actor River Phoenix, and director William Richert in t-shirt/longer brown hair. Apparently, these were taken during production on the Richert/Phoenix film, Jimmy Reardon. 

Judd w/ Kyle McLachlan training for Dune

Judd w/ Paul Reubens in Pee-wee’s Big Adventure

Fox Plaza aka Nakatomi Plaza from Die Hard

l-r: Dennis Hayden, Bill Hayden, William Reichert, River Phoenix

Dennis Hayden (left) w/ Alan Rickman in Die Hard

Judd w/ Ron O’Neal in   Red Dawn

l-r: Dennis Hayden, William Reichert, River Phoenix, Bill Hayden

Dennis Hayden (right) aka “Huey Lewis Guy”