The Most Beautiful Boy in the World

/ Born and Raised in Beverly Hills

He shot himself in the head. That was the first thing I heard. I squirmed. Couldn’t imagine. Didn’t want to.

The New York Times and Hollywood Reporter reported a different story. A suicide by pill overdose. Asleep. In his pajamas. Thank God.

Finally. His battered soul was free.  Henry Louis Jourdan, my beloved friend, dead at 29.

Louie and I were buddies from the start.  We met in Kindergarten at Hawthorne School on Rexford Drive in Beverly Hills. I was an anxious little girl with a patch on my left eye to strengthen the right. It was crossed. Add some frizzy red hair, freckles, and stick thin legs, and you had anything but a candidate for a cute kids contest.

I held my mother’s hand, walked into the large unfamiliar room, and immediately felt better – Mrs. Wilber, a heavy woman, with a soft, open face came over to say hello. My first teacher. She made me feel safe and eased some of my tension.

Every Kindergarten student arrived with a blanket. There were mats for nap time. Blue for boys and pink for girls. Naturally, mine was yellow. The one who never fits in.  Unique.  A misfit. Troublemaker extraordinaire.  Or, as my mother used to say: “Jenn, you are a caution.” You know it. Look out.

Mrs. Wilber asked us to find a new friend.  I saw a little boy across the room. He sat ever so still with his hands at his side. He looked like an angel. I approached gently.

“Hi. I’m Jennifer.”

“My name is Louie,” he said with a hint of French accent. And with that, we were fast friends.

Louie. All smiles.
Me. Sans eye patch.
Louie and I were Catholic in a predominately Jewish school. On major Jewish holidays, the school remained open, and Louie and I were one of the few who showed up. We had fun pretending we had the whole place to ourselves. Because we did.

Both of our families attended the Good Shepard Church on Little Santa Monica.  My mother would troop in with her six daughters every Sunday for 9 a.m. mass.  Louie was always there. He and his famous actor father, Louis Jourdan, and his lovely, petite French mother, drew admiring looks. Despite a congregation filled with the notably famous, they were outstanding. At least in my mind.

After mass, Louis and I headed for the social hall to prepare for First Holy Communion. We sat in a circle on a hard wood floor with our legs crossed and hands in our laps, while a nun gave instruction. Once in a while Monsignor Sullivan would check in to see how we were “coming along.”  He was a cold, mean, son of a bitch. But Sullivan didn’t scare Louie or me. Not one bit.  We giggled. He scolded. The more trouble we got in, the more infectious our laughter.  Once, both of us wet our pants. Despite our devilish behavior, Louie and I were approved for the Big Day. But not before we had our first confession. Because, as you know, second graders are riddled with sin.

I had no idea what to confess. The evil Monsignor slid open the screen in the tiny, dark confessional. You could make out a bit of his silhouette. This is the stuff of actual nightmares. I gathered my courage.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.” And then I blurted, “I’ve committed adultery.”

Instead of the man taking it in stride, or humor, he outlined the mother of all penance: Stations of the Cross and three rosaries.  I had no idea what sin I had committed and no one filled me in.

Me. A 7-year-old adulteress. It had a pretty nice ring to it.

I was absolved just in time to join the parade of boys and girls for our First Communion. We weaved around the Church sidewalk in two straight lines. The girls were visions in white from head to toe: veils, fancy dresses, patent shoes, rolled down silk socks, and gloves. We were led to believe we were Brides of Christ.  Indoctrination never smelled as sweet, because as we walked slowly up the sides of the marble aisle, Louie was my partner. They were supposed to be Grooms of Christ. Instead, I pretended Louie was mine.

Louie and I enjoyed five more years hanging out on the Hawthorne playground before my family had to move to Westwood. My father was in some trouble with his film business, and the elegant house on Heather Road off Coldwater Canyon had to go. I was pissed. By then, I was running with Louie’s clique, which included Danny Attias, Bobby Gersh and Lon Levin. I had tight girlfriends, Debbie, Laurie and Victoria. And I had an I.D. bracelet from Mike Sheridan. (I heard he too overdosed.)

But, by some turn of luck, I actually liked our new house and my new school at St. Paul the Apostle.  I made friends quickly. Fenny was my best friend, followed closely by Cassie Murphy and Laura Setterholm. One of my new classmates, Mark Harmon, went on to fame far beyond, I am sure, his expectations. And he was as genuine and handsome then as now.  I also found a new boyfriend – Paul Palmer. He got a St. Christopher Medal instead of an I.D. bracelet. What I lacked in looks I made up for in personality.

Louie and I continued to see each other when I was invited back to Hawthorne parties. I thought I was so cool – smoking Newports, wearing white erase on my lips, sporting miniskirts and making out.  But not with Louie.  We were tethered by something finer and more intense.

The most beautiful boy in the world

It wasn’t until High School that we separated.  I to Marymount High School. He to Beverly High.  We both got lost in our diverse worlds. Especially Louie.

After graduation, I heard through the gossip line that Louie had gotten into psychedelics, uppers, downers and heavy drinking. A friend asked me to go to Louie’s house and speak with his father. Help Louie get some help.

I knew what I was up against. Louie’s dad was mean, cold and unforgiving with his son. Louie confided, and I kept his trust, that he had a three-year-old sister who died when he was five. The family never spoke of her, and I believe he bore the full brunt of that tragedy.

Mr. Jourdan opened the door to their Crescent Drive home.

“Mr. Jourdan. We would like to see Louie.”

“Of course,” he responded with his perfect French, affected accent. I sensed reticence, arrogance and anger.

Louie came down the stairs loaded. We suggested they sit while we remained standing. I told them I would like to go with Louie to the Manhattan Project  – a youth addiction center in Pasadena. Mr. Jourdan lost it.

“NO. There is nothing wrong with Louie. Please leave.”

big and little louis

I didn’t know the French for ‘denial,’ but I did know ‘fuck you’ in three different languages. Despite that, I held back.

Louie phoned me later that day. I invited him to our home for dinner. By then, we’d moved back to Beverly Hills. Despite knowing our family well, he sat in silence and didn’t say a word.  Admittedly, getting one in at the boisterous Dudley table was rough going. But, after the dishes were cleared, we went into the little den. He agreed to go with me to a meeting.  A first step. Or so I thought.

A few evenings later, Louie held my hand tightly as we walked into the building and into the main room. We sat down on a wood floor with our legs crossed like we had so many years before at church. The group began to share stories of drugs, LSD trips, heroin binges, booze and arrests – the gamut. He never moved or spoke. Tears fell. From his eyes and mine.

We left just as we came. In silence. He wanted me to drop him off at a phone booth close to Beverly Drive and little Santa Monica. I figured he was going to connect and score. I had no more control than he did. I got out of the car and hugged him until my arms ached. I figured it would be the last time.

But ten years later, as I was walking alone down the shopping district of Beverly Hills, I stopped by 308 Rodeo Drive where my father’s company, Dudley Pictures LTD, used to be.  I let the memories take up some time in my head, and then I J-walked back to the other side. Peering into a shop window, I saw a refection behind me. A tall man. Dirty, disheveled. Greasy hair with bandana. In a long black coat.

I moved toward him and looked down.  He was barefooted, toes invisible with filth. His eyes were  dark and empty.

“Jennifer, it’s Louie.”

I was numbed.  Words were lost. I stumbled awkwardly toward him, held his hand, and gave him a kiss. He kissed me too.

It was 1981.  A month later. He would be dead.

It took me a full year to find the courage and send his parents a letter.  It was about my love and loss. I referred to him as here:  The Most Beautiful Boy in the World.

It was returned unopened.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

31 thoughts on “The Most Beautiful Boy in the World”

  1. He was indeed a beautiful boy… The last time I saw him was around that same, dark time and sitting over me at Dana’s house!!! It was different!
    Brought back so much and each piece gets better Jen…😀

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  2. It’s very rare that a short piece of writing can move me to tears. I felt as if I knew the “beautiful boy.” Thank you for sharing what must have been a very painful memory. Your writing is absolutely amazing. I’m waiting for a novel.

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    • Not sure who you are but will accept your compliment with pride and equal amount of modesty.. There is a memoir in progress. with same title.. Born & Raised In Beverly Hills. and survived.. It is not Beverly Hills I survived per se… moreso….. well. that’s for a hopeful publication… thank you very much again

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  3. Speechless. Jenn, without a doubt the best thing you’ve ever written (that I’ve read). So moving!!! I’m so sorry for your loss. The loss is palpable as is your friendship in this piece. He sure was beautiful, then again..so are you!

    I actually teared up. Hate his father, but he too must have been in such pain. So artfully written. Your voice so poignant! Great friggen job! Truly art work! So heartfelt!! Love you! Rob

    Sent from my iPhone

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  4. Bravo! My mother used to pick me up from high school, only four blocks away — just to catch of glimpse of the beautiful boy with the outstanding style — sporting a trench coat and the stunning Brooke Palance on his arm. They were quite the sight. I barely knew him. But, as the ravages of mental illness took him much further down and he took more drugs to squelch the madness — a friend I knew who also suffered from schizophrenia lived with him in a hotel/motel on Crescent. It wasn’t pretty anymore. Just a few years later, people with this illness were finding the right meds to help them live a better life. So sad.

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  5. I went to Beverly with Louie, and other than a few brief encounters, didn’t really know him. I’d give him a ride to school when I’d see him hitch hiking. I don’t remember him ever saying a word. I have seen Lon Levin write about his close friend and how difficult his life was. When you see someone who seems to have everything, you don’t imagine they are in turmoil. When I heard of his death, I was hit with a sadnes that was unexpected. Our class also lost a very close friend, Rick Caesar, who took his own life three years ago. I very much like your insights. NIcely and lovingly written.

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    • Howard. Thank you for reading and responding.. I had not connected with Lon since 6th or 7th grade. Did so today. It was a great exchange of memories. He was very close with Louie . So much so Mr Jourdan had Lon watch out for him throughout high school. I have just finished reading on Freddie Duke’s FB page a multitude of comments.. All of them emotional .. along with those on my emails . texts, and yes. my facebook page RAY WAGNER our 6 year old black lab. I wished to be incognito! Ha.. I find myself overwhelmed and finally sobbing . I never expected this kind of return on my words. Guess all of us have a child inside. Hopefully one better than our friend. At least no one slammed me for my reality of Louis Sr. seems all agree..

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  6. Did I mention to say that, that opening line grabbed me right in? Great friggen piece of writing. I kno I’m repeating Now but truly such a great job. Love you, Xo Rob

    Sent from my iPhone

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  7. Wow, what a sad and touching piece of literature. I love the relationship you had with LJ Jr. I had no idea Louis Jourdan was such a dick. I know the French side of my family were real hard asses and denial is the order of the day. When I was going to Beverly I was extremely depressed at times and my mother would always tell my I wasn’t depressed and I was supposed to be happy. No wonder why kids get so fucked up. Thanks for the piece. It is written beautifully.

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  8. So I was either the most nieve girl in town or the denile thing was alive and well…forcing me to think if I act like its not happening, then it’s not….what I’m referring to is the LSD and pills my brother was selling to his classmates….and eventually sent Larry to Camarillo State Hospital, where our Uncle, a Psychiatrist was able to get Larry some amazing help to save him…..he was one of the lucky ones…unfortunately addiction took our little brother Bruce out at age 53….I was able to hide my addiction until much much later….and losing Bruce forced me to take action….this story has me asking myself tonight “what IF I had just opened my mouth and told my parents all the celeb kids were Larry’s customers….would more have survived by the kind of help my parents were able to get for Larry” ……

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    • Susie Your response is well worth its weight in drugs!! I was also a tad naïve … I went to Marymount .. class of 69/ We were smoking lotsa weed and a few of my friends dropping acid. I did once. It wasn’t a fanciful trip! The bottom line of most of my writing is much of what you speak . In my family of origin there is a great deal of addiction . We are all still alive. All six girls. If you read my first blog on 90210survivor.wordpress.com it states a bit about my father.. some of my sisters are ./ well lets say less than wowed I am beginning to open my Pandora’s box. While my words are my truth’s and reality there is no question how we, as a family, were affected with our environment. Fear and inability to accept the realities of origin.. the main reason I have begun a blog.. one I hope to turn into a memoir of short stories. Born and Raised in Beverly Hills and survived. BTW. it is not BHhills I survived. I got through a lot more. inside of my home. and continue to. thank you for your read. I hope you continue to follow my blog.. jenn

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    • I literally “cry a River” for all of you who suffered such sad lives, but cannot, in all fairness, understand why, why, oh, why you did not make a last little effort to get control of your lives.

      My life wasn’t a “rosebed” either, but, perhaps because, not in spite of it, I started fighting for my own life from an early age, and managed to make a decent human being out of myself, and help my brother and sister as well.

      Father was a self-centered bastard, to sum him up, Mother was a naive, timid, loving woman who couldn’t help herself more than she could help her brethren, and don’t get me started on grandfathers, phew!

      To further complicate my already miserable existence, I was short, dyslexic=considered mentally retarded, and navigated life treacherously, but always looking for a better life elsewhere. (I was kicked out of my parents house at 10 years, old, after having told father that he was an inadequate husband and father (I looked up the word on a Dictionary, to make sure of its proper use).

      (Being small, came in very handy when you have to sleep in the back seat of a then, “gynormous” Buick. Comfy.

      By the time I was 15, out if school, not by choice, I found that speaking English, French and Italian, besides Spanish, opened up a number of doors (yes, to “to top it all off”, I was born and raised in Mexico, from mixed French, English and Italian descent.

      Suddenly, I got job offers from everywhere just because of being “quadrilingual” – yes, there is such a word.

      My life started changing, and, upon emigrating to the USA, albeit illegally in the beginning,
      I managed to build a life worth living, not just living for the sake of it. And, yes, I am now a proud American citizen, and, perhaps not in spite of my messy life, but because of it.

      Handsome? Far from it

      Smart? Highly unlikely

      Daring and fearless? You better believe it.

      BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, and let the world itself asunder.

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      • Micha. Good morning or near afternoon. Thank you for reading and your very impressive response and life. While you sing my song
        “cry me a river.” It’s not always the case. Yes. Beverly Hills has long been a bastion of elitism. Children who feel they are ENTITLED because their parents are wealthy or famous. Believe it or not, living in a veritable fishbowl of beautiful homes, lawns, hotels, streets lined with flowers, finest restaurants on an on may sound the piece de resistance. It’s the underbelly of faux that kills the spirit and brains. Children do not have boundaries . Parents are rarely around thus no discipline. Drugs and Booze are plentiful. At least they were in my decades. 60’s and 70’s. The Louie story was a descent into darkness. He was so sweet and not terribly smart. A victim of himself and bad, bad drugs that warped his mind. I am thankful most of my close friends moved on and out of the LA scene. I escaped in 1973. Moved to NYC. Met my husband in Connecticut married 42 years. 3 children. Moved to MidWest 25 years ago. Children now adults , 3 grandkids, one on the way. I was a tough mom and insisted they work from early teens, NO boasting or arrogance! Be kind. I admire you.

        If interested read more of my stories. I have many hidden in my files.. Ready for print.

        Merci Beaucoup

        Jenn

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  9. Impressive is such a stuffy word as is brilliant when it references your heart baring piece. You are gifted with your raw and defining memories made all the more personal by your ability to make your reader feel so deeply without using sappy tricks. How the hell do you make it read so cleanly and punch us in the gut simultaneously? Especially for those of us who met you later on in your life. The world is thirsty for your story. Continue to write Jenn. Your voice is needed and valued.

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    • Ms. KBOYER.. My new wonderful woman friend.. thank you for your generous words of pride for my work.. as I said to another commenter. Brilliant I am not.. nor is my writing.. from the heart and truth.. yes. and from my reality and memory. I have to be fair and keep always in mind others may not like or agree. that will not stop or detract me from my goal. I NEVER expected the response I have received here and on Ray’s FB and my wonderful writer friend Fredde Duke’s FB page. Her’s is where it was ignited. As you well know I did not want anything other than to put my early life on my computer and one day decided upon a blog. ME? A dinosaur with much of the in’s and out’s of WORDPRESS. Thanx to my Erin.. the wonderwoman. I am heard. and now. for my next act.??? NO idea. It will have to come whilst I paddle and listen to oldies.. x as always.. Jenn

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  10. brilliant, sweet remembrance….I remember Louie and some of the kids you mentioned (Brooke,Holly,Ray Brown JR, Sam Kamrass…..I was 2 years ahead..we had a band at BHHS, the Mugwumps, and I think Louie made an attempt at being a musician back then…
    i do remember that during that period, we all thought we were IMMORTAL, and none of our idols or contemporaries had yet fallen to drug overdoses….all you had to do is wait a year….or two

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  11. Beautiful piece. I arrived at Hawthorne in 4th grade, so not a lot of overlap between us, but I remember you well. Everyone remembers you. You were a force of nature. I wasn’t as close to Louie as you and Lon, but we hung out a little around 9th grade. Hitchhiked to the beach. Slept over at his house once and had dinner with him and his mom. Never saw his dad. Around 8th grade, Louie and Mike Sheridan put together a band with Guy Knadel on drums. They sounded great to me! Ran into Louie sometime in the late 70’s. He described the devastating effects of drugs. He specifically blamed LSD for tearing down the walls he had built around his ego (his words). At the same time, he seemed perceptive and self-aware. I didn’t sense how bad it was going to get . . . I saw Mike Sheridan walking a bike through Isla Vista one summer night in ’68. That boy was tripping. Not sure what became of Mike. But I recall you were pretty unhappy about a note you wrote to yourself about him that somebody publicized on the playground way back when. I can even remember what it was supposed to have said. Thanks for writing that piece (and to Fredde for spreading the word).

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    • John.. I am laughing “everyone remembers you” hardly but the usage of force of nature is ringing in my ears. A great friend and amazing art Curator. Benedict Leca. Calls me MAMA Force.. seems to have stuck.. especially with our children. Dudley 33 and Erin 31. Equally dynamic .. There is no question I could put a small book together with over 70 comments… LOUIE .. LOST.. or something akin… I was in and out of Louie’s life.. yet. he stuck. Maybe due to our Catholic b.s. Or that fact that some people in life leave impressions like Manet. especially his face and tenderness.. Why I decided to write of him.. ? Not sure. It was the fourth of my blogs begun two months ago. if you wish go read the other 3.. 90210survivor.wordpress.com I have five sisters all of whom were born and raised in bhills and do not have the same vision as I about our childhood .. I plan to finish a memoir and may blow the Pandora lid off the box.. will see. So.. open up .. what do you think the note said??? Jenn

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  12. John Mayer.. OHHHH that’s all???? “boys to kiss?” Wonder what the note would have said in 1969??? BTW… I normally don’t kiss and tell but Mike was my first kiss.. and… he was quite the romancer..!!

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  14. Stunning.

    Waiting for your next installment. Where to go from here? Ask the heart and feet that kept leading you forward….

    Your memories and insight keep good company.

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    • ACO… my muse.. and most important critic… and woman who wouldn’t let me hide behind a security blanket. you are the company I keep… so.. if I can’t bring it ON.. I fear the retribution of the other evil twin.. what then would I do???

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  15. We don’t know each other in fact childhoods were spent on different continents. After reading this last piece years came flooding. What we have in common is childhood memories carefully hidden away to be taken out only recently as they were to fragile to handle. Thank you writing this Warm and gentle hugs. Bryony

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