Homeless, I was. Not on the street, in my car. Clothes, makeup, favorite books, old photos and three ounces of Chanel No. 5 cologne stuffed in the back seat.

Just a few years before, I had escaped Beverly Hills for Manhattan’s big city lights. Young, ballsy, and boiling over with enthusiasm. Did I mention naive? Very. I had no college degree and unrealistic dreams of on-air broadcasting. But I had the voice, the look, and the guts to get in the doors at every network, including the vaunted CBS. My interview with Mike Wallace did not go as planned. He put me to shame, the glorious bastard. So, off to a temp agency I went with dejected pride.  

I lived right in the heart of the Upper East Side. 783 Madison Ave. A five floor walkup. Two bedrooms, furnished tip to top with Knoll furniture.  My portion of rent came to just $175. How did I win the apartment lottery? A man. A handsome man. A married man. An older man. He lived in Greenwich, commuted into the city and insisted he kept the pied a terre for when he stayed late. Well he stayed late – and then some. He promised me he’d divorce his wife and live with me. But summer turned to another and then another. I fled. Back to LA with childish hopes he would follow. 

A friend had kept my car while I was out east. A 1969 red Audi four door. My father’s. The one he loudly insisted I was never allowed to drive. But he travelled for months with his film crew, and I knew where he hid the keys. During one of his directorial trips, I sideswiped the passenger side and had just enough time to take it to Hans Ort, a local car wizard. Just like that, it was fixed, better than new. When he returned home, I held my breath. He walked around our half circular drive inspecting for anything fishy. “Hey the car looks great.” Whew.

My little suitcase

Three years later, the car would become mine. I drove it to my father’s burial in Ventura. The impossible man insisted he would not leave his daughters a dime. He never lied. Unbeknownst to my father, he willed me something more bankable than money – a moveable suitcase.

I became the West Side vagabond, always on the hunt for a bed comfier than a reclined front seat. I hung out with an old boyfriend’s couch in Brentwood. Then to the Valley to take care of a woman’s cats. I don’t do felines, but any port in a storm – and the gig came with a pool. And then Fredde Duke and Kimberly Beck, great friends and aspiring actresses, invited me to live with them in a funky three bedroom outside the Malibu Colony. My room was upstairs, and the only thing separating me from a speeding car on the Pacific Coast Highway was a paper thin wall. Was I appreciative? Oh, you bet. Tiny, foxy, bawdy mouthed Fredde and too pretty, gloriously smiling Kim made me feel alive. Especially when Kim flashed her sizable breasts at us while she giggled. A parade of their friends filled our home. Most, if not all, were in the film or music business. I joined in getting high in the living room overlooking the Pacific Ocean. 

All the while, I mourned my boyfriend, who still insisted his divorce was around the corner.

Me just before meeting Mr. Married Man

Fredde and Kim

The answer for a place of my own came in a phone call from one of my sisters. She owned a home on Beverly Drive in Franklin Canyon. Her voice, and the news, was more than just music. It was a symphony,  

“The house next door to mine has a small garage apartment. Here is their number. Give them a call.”

To call the apartment “small” was an understatement at best. The unit sat inside a carport with bars on the windows. The front door shone resplendent with sticker decals. I turned the knob to find a dank space with a small fridge to the right, a Bunsen two-burner, and a twin bed to the left.  A wooden rod stood where the closet should have been. There was no dresser, but light poured from the bathroom. Oh joy! One small window above the tub/shower combo let in glorious rays, and a giant mirror lined with white makeup bulbs ran the length of the room. What a deal! I signed on because, if you have to live in a shoebox, it better have the best address in town. At least according to Aristotle Onassis. Or my father. Either way, I was there.

All moved in, I secured a full-time position as a media consultant/press aide for U.S. Senator John Tunney. A quick commute got me to our re-election offices in Santa Monica. I spent 21 hours a day in the office, which kept my mind off Mr. Married Man and my body far from my very humble home. Working in the fury of a campaign left me only enough time to lay my head on the pillow in my single bed where, most nights, my landlords had herculean screaming matches. Bob and Connie didn’t fight. They went to war. The pillow became my headphones to drown out their screams. Why didn’t I call the cops?  They were out to lunch, and if I did call, I would be back on the street without one. 

Across the street, my sister rented her home to a man named Harry. He was also Jack Nicholson’s best friend and dated another of my sisters off and on. He was short and not overtly handsome. But he made up for it with his sense of style, complete with moniker black and white saddle shoes, not to mention his humor and lightening wit. We had an unwritten contract. I was to stay on my side of the fence.  

 I never intruded, until one early evening. I was getting ready to attend our biggest political fundraiser. Toweling off after another lukewarm shower, I pulled out the blow dryer, plugged it in, and boom. The thing exploded. Hot flames licked my fingers. Shit. I couldn’t go out without drying my hair. I was in a tizzy. I had no choice. I had to call Harry. He was so close I could hear his landline ringing.

 “HARRY YOU HAVE TO HELP! I NEED TO COME OVER TO DRY MY HAIR FOR FIVE MINUTES! MY BLOW DRYER BLEW UP!” 

“NO! I HAVE COMPANY!” he shouted, without hesitation. I managed to pull my hair, and my pissed feelings, together and show up at the gala with a wet head.

Life went on, as it does. I moved out of the garage and eventually ended up back on the East Coast. Mr. Married Man even got that divorce. He called to let me know a week before my wedding.

Harry packed his things for married life. He settled down with a lovely girl from my high school. I never revealed what I saw through my small window.  

I hear Connie continued screaming at Bob for years after I vacated their carport. He died not long ago. 

And, of course, the Audi died too, just a year after I returned to L.A. It sputtered to a stop at the corner of Wilshire Blvd and Rodeo Drive, right down the street from my father’s film company. As the tow truck pulled my two-ton red suitcase onto the flat bed, the last thing I saw was the license plate. 1DUKE, my father’s nickname. I had to lose him to gain one sweet, bittersweet car

Still, his voice echoes.  “JENNIFER DO NOT TOUCH MY CAR.”