Jack Nicholson came to my 18th birthday party. And no one spoke with him.

March. 1969.  I was a senior at Marymount High School on Sunset Boulevard, across the street from UCLA.  A screenwriter, dating my sister Diana, was Jack’s best friend. I joked, “Can you invite him?” He believed me. And he delivered.

My parents’ house was on North Rodeo Drive. Fancy address? Yes. Fancy home? Not really. But she had a casual elegance and a hint of New England charm.  There was an invisible sign on our front door: OPEN HOUSE. DOOR UNLOCKED. Always. Inside, six Dudley girls with a steady flow of friends. Night, day, or in some cases, weeks and months. We were the home away from home. A shelter from a personal storm.  The Kardashians had nothing on us. We were the 60’s version with a lot more style and a lot less crass.

Marguerite was the driving force behind the fete. She was, at the time, my best bud. Beautiful, ditzy, a party animal and, tragically, would be dead many years later from alcoholism. I was a tad, but not much less, wild, so we set out to have the biggest bash Beverly Hills could throw. For ME?! I was terribly insecure and shy despite my tough, sarcastic act. Most of my friends were stunningly attractive, from well-known or very wealthy parents. I was going to be, or so I believed, the center of attention for a night. MY NIGHT. I was nervous and sick to my stomach with anticipation.

We ‘manned’ the landlines and started dialing. Fifty calls. Maybe more. And bring a date.

7 OHHH clock. March 21. You know the address. A formal affair. Black tie not optional.

The big day finally arrived. Another perfect first-day-of-Spring evening (and damned if I am ever going to give up March 21 as the vernal equinox).  No room in our circular drive, so a stream of Porsches, Mercedes, MGs, Jeeps, even a stray Volksie, began to line the street. LONG lines. The evening, as they say, had begun.

My buddy Johnny was one of the last to arrive. I asked where he’d been. “I was trying to find a place to park. As I drove around, a great looking blonde pulled up beside me, rolled down her window and asked what was going on. It was Michelle Pfeiffer. I asked her to join me.”  I do not remember if she did. If not, she missed out on one hot dude.

I also don’t remember where my parents were. I’m sure my dad was on another trip around the world filming the light fantastic or a Tahitian tribe.  My mother was probably upstairs and had no idea how much hash and weed was being passed around the pool. Or that her bar was being used to fill up our glasses. Beer was never our drug of choice. Champagne, scotch, vodka or Tequila.

I made my way to the back den and into the middle of the now-crowded, music-blaring, smoke-filled room. My sister tapped me on my bony shoulder.

He’s here!

My freckled face turned the color of my auburn hair.  There he was. In the flesh. Jack Nicholson. I could see him through the crowd, walking toward the dining room. Jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Rumbled hair. Shades. Guess he didn’t get the dress code memo. Obviously, he didn’t give a shit. The dude was up for an Academy Award for Easy Rider, and I was stuck in quicksand. Couldn’t move.  He pulled up a chair, put his back against the dining room wall, and sat. And sat. For at least an hour or more while people walked by, stared, gawed. Words in their throats. He smiled, the famous JACK grin. Never spoke.

My brother-in-law, Gabriel, a Broadway and film producer, and Dick Donner, a film director of note, stood together in the butler’s pantry smoking cigarettes. I wandered over to join them, and squeezed between their six-foot, five-inch frames. Only then did I feel safe to be a voyeur of the famous face across the room.

“This is the best damn looking group of young people I have ever seen assembled in one room at the same time,” Dick bellowed in his profundo tone.

It took quite a while, but I finally got the guts to walk across the floor and introduce myself. I shook his hand and thanked him for coming. He looked at me and took his sunglasses down to reveal a devilish glint in his eye. Then he flashed a Jackman killer smile and said, “Happy Birthday, Jennifer.”

With that he stood and left.

Had I been less intimidated and naïve, I would have suggested we share a joint or two. And maybe, just maybe, a little more…

After all, I was 18.

Hey, Jack – Today’s my 66th birthday. You’re invited.  Let’s talk.