A friend like Vickie was good to have. She was wild, loose and wasn’t ever afraid to cross the line. Just hanging out with her made me feel like I was wild too, pushing me further than I ever would’ve gone on my own.
Vickie’s younger sister, Linda, was my best friend. When she introduced me to Vickie, we clicked immediately. She was twenty-one, only a few years older than us but she was experienced, she knew about life; she’d been married, she’d had a baby and given it up for adoption, she’d lived on her own and she was fun. There was an energetic impulsiveness about her that was contagious. She’d get a crazy idea -- and we’d go do it. No hesitation or discussion, we’d just act. There was definitely a lot I could learn from Vickie.
One of our first escapades was hatched while driving around the Richmond California Hills in Vickie’s beat-up Volkswagen Beetle. She decided it was a great idea to go by her ex mother-in-law’s house to look to see if she had some kind of drugs we could take. Once we got those, we could attain the proper state-of-mind from which to decide what to do next. When we got there, the house was empty. It was then that I found out that her mother-in-law had died earlier that week and everyone was out attending the poor woman’s funeral. Since she'd been old and sick for some time, Vickie was sure there would be some kind of ‘downers' or 'uppers' lying around that we could take. She reassured me that rifling through the dead lady’s belongings was perfectly okay, because the woman had liked her and had given her a key. The thought that Vickie had purposely not returned the key to her ex after their divorce, never entered my mind. You see, Vickie had a talent for making everything she did seem logical and believable. You didn’t want to question her. You just accepted it because it was going to be fun.
At the dead woman’s house, we began a full scale search for prescription drugs that would’ve made a precinct full of police with a search warrant proud. The house was stuffy, dark, and reeked of illness. It was a little eerie to be looking through a freshly dead woman’s belongings. I tried to be neat, as I searched through drawers, putting things back as I had found them, as if anyone would know.
We found pills alright, lots of them, but all with names outside the limits of our recreational pharmaceutical knowledge. We put them back. The thought of taking heart or kidney medicine or whatever old people panacea she had lying around was far too risky. We were out to get high, not die. We snooped around a little more and left, empty-handed. At least, I had left empty-handed.
I found out later about Vickie’s proclivity for stealing. It became a familiar scenario to leave a party, only to have Vickie display some trinket she had ‘found.’ Found of course in the house we’d just left. But to her it wasn’t stealing, it was a party favor put out especially for her as a gift.
Vickie and I had plenty of adventures and I was a willing accomplice in them all. After a while, some were even my idea. There was the night we got drunk and drove around San Francisco stealing street signs. Any sign - restaurant valet parking signs, construction signs - if it wasn’t chained down, it got thrown in the back of my car. We’d scream hysterically, filled with that “getting away with it” rush, as I sped off. We were so cool. We were so stupid.
When we tired of cruising the city and congratulating ourselves on our brazen accomplishment, Vickie decided we should dump the signs in front of the apartment of a boyfriend who had recently dumped her. Vickie was big on ex-boyfriend revenge. Once she had even talked a carload of us into driving forty miles to an ex’s house, just so she could sneak out and spray paint penises all over his van.
We were lucky we escaped any run-ins with the police, well, major ones. During the summer, it was not unusual for me, Vickie and another friend, Kathy, to drive an hour and a half away to spend the day at Lake Beryessa. This particular time, on the drive home, we were pulled over by a Highway Patrolman who promptly handcuffed Vickie and took her away for unpaid parking tickets, leaving us two non-standard-shift-driving accomplices stranded in the car on the side of the highway. After sitting there for an hour, trying to decide whose parents would be less mad, we made the long walk to a phone booth. Kathy’s parents arrived to transport us back home. Her father didn’t say a word as he drove, but his face was redder than normal and his breathing was loud and wheezy. We sat in silence, listening to Kathy’s father breathe, all the way back to Richmond. That was the last time Kathy joined us on one of Vickie’s little road trips.
*** We were never bored. We would always make up some game to play. Some way to shock and thrill people then make a hasty escape. Sometimes it would be the car game. We’d drive up next to a car full of guys at red light, get them to roll down their window and shout, “Can we suck your dicks!” Then we’d speed away, laughing hysterically. This had to be timed right, of course. You had to make sure the light was about to turn green before you shouted at them. I was good at it. Vickie’s timing was always off and she’d end up yelling, “Can we suck your dicks!” while the light was still red, leaving us sitting there with a car full of horny guys ready to pounce. It was a stupid game but it made a night out exciting.
Another game was the fainting game. We’d go to a heavily populated tourist area in San Francisco and pretend to faint, just to see who could get the most people involved. Usually we’d get odd looks, or slight concern, at which point we’d “come to” and help the other to walk away. Although we took turns, Vickie never committed to the fainting game as much as I did.
We were in Fisherman’s Wharf one afternoon when we decided to play. Vickie went first and did a half-ass faint, which didn’t garner any reaction. Then it was my turn. As we walked toward a busy area, I began my performance. My legs slightly buckled and I let my body go limp as I dropped ever-so-gently onto the sidewalk. A cable car that had been moving downhill next to us then squealed to a halt. I was about to “recover” when I noticed the conductor jumping from the cable car and rushing over to me. Oh Shit! He ran to my side and took control from Vickie, who stood there muffling a laugh. A crowd gathered, the cable car passengers where upset, I figured at that point I couldn’t just jump up and say I was kidding, so I closed my eyes and “passed out.” I heard the conductor ask Vickie if I was on drugs or medication. As he fumbled to check my pulse, I felt it was time to wake up. I pretended to be dazed and opened my eyes. “What happened?” I mumbled. He helped me up and made Vickie and I promise to go see a doctor. We agreed. Then my hero ran back to his cable car full of anxious passengers, clanged his bell and continued down the hill. We walked about a block in the opposite direction, with Vickie helping to support me. Once out of sight, we ran, screaming, high off the success of our prank. I had won the game but it had scared us both a little. It wasn’t going to get any better than that performance. So it was the last time we played the fainting game.
*** Vickie moved to Lake Tahoe the next summer. Encouraged to come up often and visit, I would get up at 6am and drive from the San Francisco Bay area to Lake Tahoe, arriving by nine, spend the day partying, and leave by 6pm to get home by nine.
Vickie had a great A-frame cabin that she shared with two friends and worked as a waitress in a local Italian restaurant. Lake Tahoe was a party town and full of teens who would sneak up to the mountains and have parties in their parents’ cabins. There were always parties; daytime beach parties, night-time cabin parties, in the winter we would climb the fence of the closest hot springs and have parties. And then there were the casinos.
I grew up in a family that gambled. Every week my parents, my aunts and uncles would get together and play poker till the early morning hours. They loved to gamble. Every year, our family would drive across the country to visit relatives in Michigan. It was tradition to stop in Reno, where my parents would leave my sister and I at a Greyhound bus station, buy us enough hamburgers and comic books to keep us occupied, while they ran off to gamble. I would always wander off to watch the cowboys in the bus station play slot machines. I’d stand nearby reciting “Hail Mary’s” to bring them luck so they would win. I remember one time my mother returned to find me praying fervently for this cowboy, and as she tried politely yet forcefully to drag me away, I screamed that he needed me. I was helping him. But she won that fight, made me give back the silver dollar he had given me for my prayers, and dragged me off. But from then on, I longed for the day when I could play the machines myself.
The money Vickie made on a waitress salary was barely enough to cover her rent. We learned to be resourceful in Tahoe. I’d drive up for the weekends and we’d dress up and hit the casinos. The Sahara was the most lax of all the gambling establishments, rarely checking ID’s or hassling underage patrons. We would play nickel slot machines all night long, taking advantage of the free cocktails to drink ourselves into a Tequila Sunrise stupor. Vickie, the more experienced gambler, would play blackjack and often win, handing me her winnings and making me promise not to give it to her later, no matter what she said. Inevitably there would come that 2am desperation plea, which turned to anger, and then she would drunkenly scream at me to give her her money. I’d always give her half and convince her that’s all there was. And she was always happy that I didn't give it all to her the next day.
When we were hungry we would take the elevator up to the casino hotel rooms and search the hallways for room service trays, grabbing bites of uneaten hamburgers and desserts, pocketing ketchup and condiments, anything we could take back to their poorly stocked kitchen. We rationalized the thefts because of our gambling losses. Basically, we had paid for the food playing slot machines. I’d drive back home Monday mornings, hung-over, bank account emptied, and with barely enough change in my pocket for the gas to get me home.
*** Vickie was uninhibited. So it didn’t surprise me when she started making porno movies. She and her roommate had hooked up with this celebrated director, Alex DeRenzy. DeRenzy had frontiered the somewhat fashionable pornography movement in the seventies with his award winning documentary on Swedish sex festivals. I remained friends with Vickie as she pursued her “acting” career, although I silently disapproved. It was an odd choice to me, but one Vickie was excited about because the money was good. They were making a whopping one hundred dollars a day. A fortune at the time. And I benefitted by remaining her friend with free dinners, invitations to parties, and a completion of my sexual education. I was totally lacking knowledge in that area. All the things my mother or sister should’ve, but never told me about sex, I learned from Vickie and her roommate. Their perspective was probably a bit twisted, but it was all I had.
I met Alex DeRenzy at one of Vickie’s parties. When he asked me out, I was frightened. He was this older man, who made porno movies and I was supposed to go on a date with him? Would he be coming to my house to pick me up and chat with my father while I finished dressing? He didn’t seem like my type of guy, but he seemed nice enough. Besides, I wasn’t getting asked out much by any guys my age in those days. Vickie reassured me, and vowed that Alex was indeed trustworthy, so I went.
DeRenzy picked me up at Vickie’s, and took me to dinner. It was an expensive restaurant and I ordered lobster. That made me happy and relaxed me more than the wine he ordered. We drove around afterwards in his foreign sports car and he asked if I’d like to see his ranch. By then, I was feeling safe enough with him so I said yes. We drove to Marin County and he showed me around his house. It was impressive and clean, and not at all like I’d imagine a Porn King’s house to look. While touring his home theater and office, he told me I was pretty. Was this a ‘come-on’ starting? I never dared for a second to think that I might really be pretty. I became uneasy. He smiled a warm, calming smile. I relaxed. Then he told me he thought I would be perfect for porn. Huh? First of all, it was nice to think someone thought I would be perfect for something. But was this to be my special calling in life? I started laughing. He said it again. “You’d be perfect for porn.” Twenty years of Catholic upbringing and ten years of pubescent body insecurity welled up in me. I imagined it for half a second, then thanked him and told him no. I couldn’t see myself doing movies that my parents couldn’t watch. And although they didn’t always succeed at it, my parents did do their best to try to be supportive of me. I imagined my mother sitting in a theater watching close-ups of my private parts being penetrated by some oversized male organ and remarking, “Look at my baby. I am so proud.” And my father: “She's perfect. Just like her mama.” Yeah, that was not going to happen. It wasn’t in me to be a porn queen. But it was nice to be asked. DeRenzy didn’t push the issue. He drove me home, got out of the car and opened the door for me. I thanked him and went inside. There was no goodbye kiss, no lecherous touching. The Porn King had been a perfect gentleman. I never heard from him again.
*** Vickie wasn’t one to look back with regret. Years after her foray into the world of pornography, she was on to a new career as an artist. I had known this guy named Mikey through mutual friends. He was a friendly guy, prematurely balding and slightly overweight, and he had just broken up with his girlfriend. He asked if I had any friends I could fix him up with. I figured he’d be good for a date. He was sweet, with enough of a wild streak to make him not entirely boring. I had heard a story about how he had to rush his ex-girlfriend to the emergency room one night. After some particularly festive Christmas holiday sex play, a large peppermint candy cane had gotten stuck up her… Anyway, I figured he and Vickie might hit it off.
Since it was a fix-up, I went with Vickie over to Mike’s house. She was apprehensive and she made it clear to me that she wasn’t going to have sex with him. He offered us wine and we drank until all the awkwardness of the situation had melted away. It seemed to me, Mike and Vickie were getting along okay and I tried to bow out. But they insisted I stay with them. Ready to move the merriment to a new location, we got in my car and drove around the city.
San Francisco is a great city to drive around. It’s like an obstacle course with blind hills, dips, crooked streets and cable car rails throwing your car’s traction off. As we neared the North Beach area, we decided to get out and walk. I parked the car and we checked out City Lights Bookstore, teased the Broadway shills outside the strip clubs, and drank more wine. Mike suggested we go to a movie. In North Beach, there weren’t any regular movie theaters, only porn. Not being new to the idea, Vickie agreed, and I went along with it. We found a theater on a side street, checked out the marquee and poster and decided it would be a kick to see a porn movie together. Mike paid for us all and we settled down in the dark theater. You didn’t get movie previews, ads, or the cartoon with the little popcorn guy who buys his date candy, just a blank screen. We joked about being there and drank from a screw top bottle of wine I had stuffed into my purse.
A beam of light hit the screen from behind us. The music began, the credits rolled and the opening image appeared. As our giggling subsided and our eyes focused on the screen, I adopted a nonchalant “okay-I’ll-check-this-out attitude.” Suddenly, Vickie let out a loud, spontaneous “Uh-oh!” I looked at her and she laughed nervously. “This is my movie,” she whispered to me. It sure was. Not only was she in it, she was the star of the movie and it was filmed at her house. Not sure how to respond, I started laughing too. Mike sat there confused by our reactions. Then Vickie told Mike. He looked surprised yet intrigued. Vickie explained that in the porn world, many times movies are redistributed as new works from a director by changing the movie title and actors names. The more she talked about the business, the madder she got. She felt she had been cheated and should’ve gotten paid more if they were going to do that. I was amazed at how easily she turned an embarrassing situation into a righteous diatribe championing the rights of underpaid porn actresses.
Anyway, with all the awkwardness cleared, we decided to stay and watch the movie. Although I had been around Vickie during her “acting” days, I had never seen a porno movie. It was horrible. The acting, I mean. Plus a thinly contrived plot, which was about a swinging couple that kidnaps a young girl (Vickie) and tries to get her to have sex with them. In one scene, Vickie sat at the foot of the bed with her back to the couple while they screwed away. Occasionally, she would glance over her shoulder to look at them and remark in badly feigned disinterest, “I’ve seen that before.” Eventually the couple engages her in their fornication and a threesome happened. If I was Vickie, I would’ve been more embarrassed by my bad acting than my full-on sexual exposure. We all laughed through the whole movie. Thankfully, it was short, and we decided to skip the second feature.
Mike put the moves on Vickie after the movie. And what was she going to say after he had just seen her do everything in the book. The two of them made out in my car while I drove them back to his place. I drove home feeling shock, amusement, and a little bit sad for Vickie. But then again, I knew never to be surprised. It was just another wild night out with my crazy best friend.
*** I lived in New York for three months before Vickie followed. She moved with a photographer friend, into a fourth floor walk-up in Chelsea. Our life went into high gear. It was all about going to parties, reading about parties in the Post, planning our wardrobe for parties, and crashing those parties. We were never turned away. We became cocky about it, always daring to push the limits of the type of parties we’d crash; hundred dollar benefits, private birthday parties, designer fashion shows. I don’t know if it was the unflappable confidence we had, the good looks, or my increasingly more imaginative excuses for forgetting our tickets, that got us in. But it always worked.
My wardrobe was lacking, so I’d always end up getting ready at Vickie’s. She had more clothes and a gay roommate who would help us dress, making sure we looked fabulous! Vickie’s bedroom faced the back of the building, with large multi-paned windows spreading across the entire wall. The only problem about dressing in Vickie’s bedroom was that she had no window covering and a Peeping Tom. Considering Vickie’s background, it didn’t bother her much. So, picking up her cue, I didn’t let it bother me either. We called him Tom. He was a pale, skinny guy who’d wear a robe and let it hang open so we'd see his pale, skinny penis. He seemed harmless enough and we thought it was funny. I didn’t mind letting him see me in my underwear, but that’s as far as I took it. He was her Peeping Tom, not mine.
After a few weeks, Tom became more and more attentive. Sightings were more frequent and his existence in Vickie’s life became more intrusive. He came to her building, figured out the name and apartment number and looked up her phone number. Then the phone calls started. Between the live show and the calls, Vickie was becoming Tom’s full time obsession. The phone would ring at all hours. At first it was the heavy breathing routine, then he graduated to basic obscene phrases: “I wanna (bleep) you” “I’m touching my (bleep)!” You know, nothing too clever or original. Tom was a hack. But the constant phone calls started to bother Vickie. Not one to let things get her down, she screamed at Tom the next time he called. She was struggling, she had no money and she didn’t need this pervert harassing her. A weak, apologetic voice came from the other end of the line, “I’m sorry. Do you need money?” Vickie was taken aback, yet greedy enough to quickly recover. She answered, "Yes!" And for the next two months, my best friend was supported by her Peeping Tom.
This was the perfect New York arrangement: a symbiotic relationship between predator and prey. Everyday he would put money into Vickie’s mailbox, provided she promised not to cover her windows.
Whenever we were going out to a crash a party, first we’d do is check her mailbox. It was fun to find twenty or forty bucks of mad money waiting there. Sometimes he left cash, and sometimes bags of groceries. After a while, “Tom” became more demanding. He called and asked Vickie for a piece of her underwear. Vickie thought about it, then decided maybe it was time to cut the guy off. When Tom called the next time, Vickie “broke up” with him. After that, we never saw him in the window again. We figured his feelings had been hurt and imagined he’d killed himself out of despair. Vickie took the last forty dollars Tom had given her and put up curtains.
*** I’m not clear about the specifics that caused our argument on 23rd Street. I guess I’d grown up and the novelty of Vickie’s antics had worn off. After returning from yet another party, we got out of a cab and stood in the street. I was mad because she had obviously lied about something in front of some people we'd been with, and made me look stupid. The argument got heated. As she babbled and lied and tried to cover and defend her behavior, I lost control. The rage rose up in me and my arm flew up and I slapped her hard on the side of face. Her black-framed glasses, which gave her a deceptive intelligent and bookish look, flew in slow motion into oncoming traffic. A yellow cab sped by, narrowly missing them. I turned to walk away as Vickie yelled about how much the glasses cost. She missed my point entirely.
I walked up Sixth Avenue and home to my little place above the flower shop. We spoke the next day. To her, the argument was forgotten, there was nothing wrong. Vickie just didn’t go that deep. But I knew something had changed. And although we remained friends, our contact lessened in the next weeks and months, then completely stopped.
I saw Vickie in San Francisco several years afterwards. She said she was married to a painter named Jack, and had a kid. She looked good and I was happy for her. We made plans to get together for dinner so I could meet her husband and her kid. As I walked away, she chased after me and said, “Oh, Bernadette. Jack doesn’t know about the porno thing, or any of that other stuff we did, so don’t say anything. Okay?” “Okay, Vickie,” I promised, and then hugged her. We never had dinner. We never had any more wild, crazy times together again. Our lives had gone in separate directions and we had outgrown each other. Neither of us wanted to admit that we weren't best friends anymore. But we both knew. We both knew.
