Neon Angel by Cherie Currie
Her eyes . . . her eyes were like saucers, big pools of inky blackness . . . and I felt the sudden lurch of vertigo, as if I could have toppled into those cavernous holes. “Sure . . .” I heard myself slur. Pull it together, Cherie . . . some distant part of my brain was demanding. You can handle one quaalude!
She guided my hand, placing it on her waist. She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me in close. I could smell her perfume, feel the heat radiating off her body. We started swaying to the music. I felt her hot breath against the nape of my neck, and it sent a delicious shiver down my spine. The room was dark, so dark I could hardly see. I felt her mouth against my ear, the soft wetness of her tongue touching my skin. Then, almost without knowing how it happened, we were kissing. Our lips crushed together and I could taste her, I could feel her tongue in my mouth. I felt as if I were on another planet, the combination of the booze, the quaalude, the music, and Gail was giving me something of an out-of-body experience. A shudder of recognition traveled through my body: I was the alien—a chameleon, androgynous, not like the others with their rigidly defined roles . . . I could change my sex as easily as I could change my hair color. I imagined that this was how Bowie must have felt when he was with a woman.
“Come with me,” Gail whispered. She took my hand and led me off the dance floor. We walked past the other shadowy figures in the room as the song ended, and Lou Reed’s “Vicious” started up. We walked down the hallway, past necking couples, and long-haired stoner kids passing around a joint, laughing hysterically to themselves . . . toward the fluorescent glow of the bathroom. We walked in, and Gail closed the door behind us.
“Now I have you all to myself,” she muttered.
In the harsh light of the bathroom, suddenly everything was thrown into sharp focus. I looked at Gail and smiled softly.
Hell, what’s the big deal? Bisexuality is cool. Everybody’s bi these days. I swore I would never be afraid, didn’t I?
I grabbed hold of Gail and pulled her toward me, and then we were kissing with frenzied abandon. I pushed her up against the wall and ran my hands under her clothes, feeling the smooth contours of her body, our breath hot and fast, and in time with one another . . . I didn’t even hear the bathroom door open; I didn’t notice Vickie standing there as Gail and I made out furiously. Vickie stood there with her mouth hanging open, and I finally noticed her when she blurted, “Jesus Christ, Gail! What the FUCK are you DOING?”
I froze, and we pulled apart. Gail turned and sneered at Vickie. “What the fuck does it LOOK like we’re doing?”
I was standing there, with my back against the cool tiles, dazed by everything that was happening. I looked at Vickie through heavy-lidded eyes, but she was bumming me out. She looked like she was about to cry or something. “Cherie?” she said softly.
I didn’t say a word. It was if the words got lost on the way from my brain to my mouth. I was shocked by how upset she seemed. Vickie scowled at me, and then focused her ire on Gail.
“I don’t want you doing this!” she spat. “Not with Cherie! She’s wasted, goddammit!”
Gail ran a finger across my bottom lip and said, “Well . . . she looks fiiiine to me, Vickie. She looks perfect.”
Gail put her arms around me again, and pressed those soft lips against mine. As we kissed, I could hear Vickie crying.
“Gail, you need to get out of here. RIGHT NOW. I’m serious—I want you to LEAVE!”
We broke apart. Gail stared at me and said, “You wanna come with me?”
Vickie marched over, and begged me, “Cherie, no! Please don’t!”
I looked at Vickie, and then at Gail. “I’ll see you around, Vick,” I said, before heading to the door, with Gail’s hand in mine.
We pushed past the kids in the hallway. I was totally intrigued by Gail. Unfortunately, Vickie, poor Vickie, well, she just didn’t understand. Not the way I did. I thought of Bowie, and Elton, and Lou Reed. If they could all come out about being bi, then I wanted to know what it’s all about. Jesus, I was fifteen years old—I wasn’t a baby anymore. I wanted to experience this. I wanted to experience her.
Gail drove me home. We crept into the rec room and climbed the stairs to the second floor. I put some music on, Bowie crooning, “It was a god-awful small affair . . .” and I fell into bed with Gail. When we kissed this time, there was an urgency to it, a passion that propelled us along with its own momentum. I could smell her skin, her perfume, and I wanted her. I wanted this. The sensation was both alien and familiar in some strange way . . . She raised her hips and slowly slid her pants down . . . I felt her running her fingers through my hair as I kissed her body, moving my mouth down, down her smooth, flat stomach . . . down, down until I reached the soft curls of her hair. . .
And then—like some shocking, horror-movie jump cut—I was awake in the bed.
It was morning. And I was going to puke.
A ray of sun was burning against my face, and my mouth felt rotten, dry. My head hurt, and my body hurt. I looked to my side dreamily and suddenly I jerked fully awake. There was another head on the pillow. Gail was right here next to me, sleeping. Suddenly I felt my guts churn as the floor dropped out from underneath me.
OH GOD!
It really happened. It wasn’t some kind of drug-induced erotic dream. Gail was sleeping in the bed next to me, and the memories from last night started flooding back to me. What had I done? I got to my unsteady feet and started pulling on my clothes. The movement started to bring Gail around, and I heard her murmur, “Where are you going?” in a sleepy, faraway voice.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. All I could do was climb down the stairs and run into the house. I staggered toward the bedroom, convinced that any moment I was going to begin projectile vomiting. My head was pounding from the booze and the pill. As I staggered over to my bed, I saw Marie sitting on hers, looking at me with open disgust.
“Where WERE you, Cherie? Where were you last night?” she demanded. I just stood there, rocking back and forth on my heels like a deer caught in headlights. I felt that if I moved one more muscle, I would vomit for sure. I wanted Marie to take pity on me, to see how pathetic I felt, but she didn’t. She just kept on, pushing home her advantage.
“Vickie told me you left with Gail!” she spat, before adding in a shocked murmur, “She told me everything!”
I staggered over to my own bed and sat down. I rested my throbbing head in my hands.
“What did you DO with her? Cherie, what did you DO?”
All I could do was breathe. Breathe. I felt like I was going to faint, or maybe just drop dead right there and then from a mixture of shame and horror. I managed to murmur, “Gail’s in the garage. She’s sleeping upstairs . . .”
Marie fixed me with her most withering stare. “Did you sleep with her?”
I just looked at my sister, my mouth open slightly. I felt like I’d just been slapped. I’d spent most of my childhood trying to win my twin sister’s approval. I couldn’t bear to hear her talk to me this way. I felt like dirt. I looked away, and put my head back into my hands. I began moaning to myself.
“You . . . you . . .” I could hear Marie’s voice cracking as she said this. “You just answered my question!”
With that, my sister ran out of the room. I staggered to my feet, because I could feel the tears welling up inside of me, and I followed her out to the living room, trying to grab hold of her, trying to explain. “Wait—Marie! Just listen!”
She reeled around, and her face was red. She was incandescent with fury. She held a shaking finger up to my face and hissed, “I don’t even know you anymore, Cherie. I swear to God, I don’t! You’re sick, you know that? SICK!”
I stood there, shaking. I could feel the tears about to come. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. But I couldn’t help it. Then, unbelievably, the situation got even worse. Hearing the commotion, Sandie and T.Y. came barging in demanding to know what was going on. Sandie got in between us.
Marie stared at her, her eyes wet with tears. “Why don’t you ask HER?”
I looked at Sandie, and then at T.Y. T.Y. looked really worried. I looked back at Sandie and she was staring at me expectantly. I could feel all of their eyes burning into me, staring at me, looking for an explanation. I couldn’t take it anymore. Finally I shouted out, “I slept with a girl last night!”
There was a moment of stunned silence in the room. And then SLAP! Sandie got me good, right across the face. I didn’t even see it coming, and I saw stars for a moment. Then, before I even knew what I was doing, I had my older sister by the throat, and was pushing her against the wall like a wild woman.
“Don’t you ever—EVER hit me again!” I screamed.
I pulled my fist back, about to give it to her right in the mouth, but then I froze when I saw the terror on my sister’s face. Before anything else could happen, I felt myself being lifted from the ground as T.Y. grabbed me from behind and pulled me away. “Enough!” he was screaming. “Girls, that’s ENOUGH!”
Sandie was crying now, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. I started sobbing and ran out of the room, completely mortified. I ran out of the house, and when I was on the street, I sat on the curb sobbing harder than I had ever sobbed in my entire life. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and I felt like I was going to vomit. The feeling of dread was all-encompassing, and I honestly would have welcomed death with open arms at that moment. My entire world felt like it had crumbled around me. At the end of the street was the Lincoln Bank building, and I imagined how it would feel to plunge from the top of it, to feel the black wind whistling past my ears, knowing that in a fraction of a second all of my pain would suddenly end.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was T.Y. I stiffened and didn’t look up at him, but he sat down next to me anyway. I stared at the sidewalk. I heard that voice of his saying, “So how’s it going, Cherie-zee?”
There was something weirdly comforting about his voice, but I was still crying, I was still torn apart inside. “Not so good, T.Y.,” I managed to blubber.
“Come on, darlin’,” he said, and I felt his big hands running through my hair. “Your sisters will cool down. I mean, look, I know this must feel like the end of the world right now. But it isn’t. Not by a long shot.”
“That’s what you think,” I said in a small shaky voice.
T.Y. shrugged. “I hate to break it to you, kid,” he said, “but life is full of tough situations. It’s how you react to them, that’s what matters. You know what you just had? You just had a learning experience, darlin’. That’s all. In fact, when you really get down to it, that’s pretty cool, because now you just grew up a bit more. What happened last night isn’t the most important thing . . . it’s what you take from it, and what you do next that matters. You see?”
I sniffed, and wiped the tears away from my face with a shaking hand. T.Y. put his arm around me and looked up to the sky. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said in a dreamy voice.
We sat there in silence for a few moments. Then I turned to him. “You’re not disappointed in me, T.Y.?”
T.Y. laughed that deep, sweet laugh of his. “Oh, hell no, Cherie-zee. I’m not disappointed in you at all. In fact, I’m proud of you. You just chalked up some real life experience . . .”
Somewhere off in the distance I heard a car door slam and an engine rev. It was Gail leaving, and as she sailed past the two of us, she waved out the window. I waved weakly back at her, watching her car disappear down the road.
T.Y. turned to me. “You ready to go back in?”
I shrugged, and looked up at the sky. I felt as if a great weight had lifted off of me. I turned to him and said, “Sure, T.Y. I’m ready.”
He took my hand, and we walked back into the house.
Chapter 5
The Orange Tornado
There was a point when I realized that you could get away with just about anything so long as you do it with enough conviction. Take my image for instance. When I first changed my look, the kids at school didn’t know what to make of it. I guess most of them thought that I had lost my mind, but I didn’t let it bother me. In fact, I secretly enjoyed that they were so freaked out by me. Marie often had to come to my defense when the kids would try to come after me: I remember one kid threw an apple at me, smacking me right on the head. Before I could even react, Marie had jumped on him, and she gave him an almighty ass kicking. But slowly, in almost unperceivable steps, they started to come around. When they realized that their opinion of how I looked didn’t matter to me in the slightest, a begrudging kind of respect made its way around my school. Soon people were talking to me again . . . even sitting with me at lunchtime.
Big Red was more agreeable, too.
Once, just before class started, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, and standing there, bigger and uglier than ever, was Big Red. I folded my arms and just stared at her.
“Uh, Cherie . . .” she said, her face registering utter confusion as she got a load of the lightning bolt, the hair, the outfit.
I didn’t say a word.
“I, uh . . .” Big Red looked around, and then dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. “I just wanted to tell you . . . that I’m sorry. That we’re cool, okay?”
She looked like she was waiting for me to respond. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at her like she had two heads.
“Uh . . .” Big Red carried on, “we are cool, aren’t we?”
I looked at her for a moment. Then I turned and walked away, leaving her standing there with her mouth flapping open.
Not long after that, I noticed others who were cutting their hair in a shag and borrowing other things from my look. I had gone from teen terror to trendsetter in less than a year. At first, it pissed me off: all of those square kids who were jeering at me and calling me names were now suddenly dyeing their hair and dressing like genderbending little glam rockers. But then I started to see the funny side. This was a valuable lesson in the mentality of the crowd.
There was a part of me, deep down, that almost missed being an outcast in school. A contrary, punkish part of myself really enjoyed hating everyone. Still, I figured that there were plenty more people out there to hate. There was always something to kick against. Just because I was having an easier time in school didn’t mean that the Dereks of this world had gone anywhere.
I didn’t go to Rodney’s club anymore. It was finally closed down. The place had become a magnet for all kinds of negative attention, and it eventually went under in a cloud of legal and financial problems. Some people said that Rodney’s died the moment that Rodney allowed Chuck E Starr to play disco records, breaking the glam-rock hegemony at the club. Of course, the fact that the place was always full to the brim with drunk and stoned underage kids probably didn’t help matters. All it took was for Iggy Pop to fall over in the club a few times, and then the press started writing about the scene at Rodney’s in their typically overblown and hysterical way. Once that happened, the club’s fate was pretty much sealed. Once the club closed, Chuck E Starr packed up his records and moved over to the Sugar Shack.
Since the passing of Rodney’s, the glitter sluts, the space-age Lolitas, the young, the damned, and the glamorous dispersed all around Hollywood. Some went on to full-time groupie-dom, camping outside of hotel rooms trying desperately to score a member of a band—any band at all—while others spun out on drugs and booze. Me, I followed the music, and found myself hanging out at the Sugar Shack.
The Sugar Shack was in many ways a continuation of what had been going on at Rodney’s English Disco with one big difference: it was an under-twenty-one club, meaning that when the security people checked IDs, they were making sure that you were underage before they’d let you in, which is an interesting reversal of normal circumstances. Paul was a regular at the Sugar Shack with me; Marie, too. Everybody knew us at the Sugar Shack back then. We had c
As Mom and Wolfgang had gotten more and more serious, and Mom spent more and more time away from home, the Sugar Shack became the closest thing I had to a stable family life. I knew everybody who went there regularly. Most of the time I just went there by myself, wanting to dance, make new friends, watch, and be a part of the carnival-like atmosphere.
It was at the Sugar Shack that I met a man who—for better or worse—would change my life, forever.
They didn’t serve alcohol at the Sugar Shack, and that night I was sat at the juice bar sipping a Coca-Cola. The club was tiny, and always packed with kids. At that moment Chuck E Starr was DJing disco, so I’d stepped off the dance floor to take a break. But I knew that soon he would drop a crowd favorite like “The Time Warp” or “Suffragette City,” and kids would line up to do their best moves, checking themselves out in the mirrored columns as they danced. Of course, just because they didn’t serve alcohol didn’t mean that kids didn’t drink it: they just went out to the parking lot and guzzled everything from flasks filled with booze stolen from their parents’ liquor cabinets, to Colt 45, or Mad Dog 20/20, before they staggered back inside blasted out of their skulls. Quaaludes were also a favorite, and in the upstairs room you could see survivors of the glam-rock scene—guys in huge platforms with fire-engine-red hair and their best Ziggy Stardust outfits staggering around totally luded out, making out with each other and getting into all kinds of trouble. I liked quaaludes a lot, but alcohol didn’t really do it for me. I found the spectacle of those drunk, crying, puking, and fighting kids a little pathetic. No, I was there to get off on the music . . . and the music was amazing. At that moment hundreds of kids were on the dance floor, doing their best moves to Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You.” I was watching, smoking a cigarette and admiring the sea of beautiful people. I could already see a few booze casualties in the crowd, and I smiled a little to myself. Not everyone could handle their drink as well as my father could.