Patty And Me

PATTY AND ME

Boys, boys and boys ‒ what more is there to say? A typical teenager, the sole purpose of my existence at age 13 was the acquisition of a cute guy. I would also include friends, phone calls, tennis, flattering clothes, obsession with weight, avoiding parents, breaking rules, giggling, gossiping, chocolate milkshakes, amusement parks, movie magazines, trading cards, and the conviction we would live forever.

The most telling aspect of this era of temporary insanity was when my very best, best, BEST friend Patty moved from Providence, Rhode Island, where we lived, to Los Angeles. During the pre-teen years prior, we had submerged ourselves into a world of dress-up in Patty’s mother’s discarded costumes: mermaid, princess, and fairy queen ball gowns decorated with blue-green ruffles and sequins and plunging necklines and sundry, gaudy floor length monstrosities. After splattering on her mother’s makeup and gold hairclips, we danced and pirouetted and marched around her driveway for hours in the remote possibility that her next-door hunky, tall and movie star good-looking neighbor would grace us with even a half second glance. Never happened but we persevered in our voyeur induced fantasies.

Years later, when we finally turned age thirteen, her parents decided precipitously to move the family to California. Immediately after the move, an invite arrived for me to fly out to LA and spend the summer with them to

“help Patty adjust.” Sent by her mother, that was the biggest mistake of her life!

I hopped on a plane, hell bound for the Hollywood scene. Trouble was not long in coming. For starters, her father had spent a bundle on building a pool, which he felt he could justify if Patty and I swam daily. Added to that was the expressed wish that we play a lot of tennis as well as befriend Patty’s nerdy, hanging-on-like-velcro brother, Alan.

Swimming and tennis and Alan were not on our radar. But becoming famous Hollywood movie stars became our mission, hands down. At every opportunity, for appearance’s sake to satisfy her mother, we donned swim suits and then tennis gear, which we ceremoniously abandoned at a friend’s house down the street, changed into our “glamorous, gorgeous” outfits (reverting back to our costume days) and took taxis to Hollywood and Vine where we stood on the corner waiting to be “discovered” as up and coming stars. We toured MGM studios, compulsively read movie magazines, went to films almost daily, and constantly searched around for a glimpse of celebrities.

We did manage to see a few stars, but only at expensive restaurants. Spencer Tracy betrayed acute disgust when we all but attacked him, and Robert Ryan seemed indifferent to our vulgarity ‒ as I yelled “Look, it’s Robert Ryan!!!!” to which Patty replied well within earshot, “WHO??? FORGET IT, HE’S NOBODY!” The only guests who didn’t cringe were ourselves.

That summer descended into a series of incidents which made Patty’s parents regret the day I was born. Example: joining somebody called Pip on his expensive yacht, we went deep sea fishing during which I vomited numerous times, and Patty followed suit. Pip reassured us with “No worry, just aim OVERboard PLEASE!” but I remember a fair amount of very near messy misses. AND not one fish was caught.

BUT we did get boyfriends, and that was revolutionary. We compared the number of kisses each of us received, and I won first prize for 18. We figured it was we whom they desired, but actually, I realized even then it was the pool. It was a blessing these guys seemed to ignore our numerous pimples and extra weight, but that very subject brings to mind THE INCIDENT:

We absolutely adored chocolate. Boxes of candy were gobbled up like there was no tomorrow as our fat little faces were increasingly attacked by high numbers of blotchy red, pimply adolescent lumps. The only solution in order to compromise between sacrifice and hedonism – was to not exactly EAT the candy, but to chew it thoroughly, savor the taste, never swallow, then ceremoniously spit it out. We figured to get all the joy without the calories.

After devouring two entire boxes of Sees Chocolate as well as fudge cake and brownies, and ignominiously ignoring the wasted cost, we simply spit everything out into UNTIED plastic or paper bags. AND to hide the evidence, we automatically tossed the entire mess over the divider between Patty’s house and her neighbor’s.

There’s not a lot of land between homes in L.A., so it was an easy throw. Had we been anyone BUT us, we might have been surprised when the neighbor backed out of his garage, as his wheels got stuck in black, gooey guck lining his driveway. Of course, we weren’t aware of anything until a crunchy, screeching noise emanated from the immobilized vehicle whose wheels spun like a whirling dervish. We couldn’t have cared less, but the ensuing phone call changed our indifference.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH THOSE MISERABLE BRATS?” AND ON AND ON… followed by a directive to get over there this second and apologize. Which we did, feeling anything BUT contrite… While in their living room speaking to his wife, Louise, whose left foot kept circling around and around the floor like a celestial orb – threatening to hypnotize both of us. Of course, this sent us into uncontrollable hysterics, thereby negating any semblance of apology we might have attempted. The fact that I sat on and broke through their glass coffee table does sound too unbelievable to fathom, so let’s forget about that little gaffe.

Unfortunately, there ensued other “happenings” – like my inadvertently insulting Patty’s housekeeper whose name was Versa and whom I accidentally kept called Vice (as in vice versa). That went on for a while, till she and her husband quit, and naturally, I got the blame.

Guess who flew home shortly thereafter. Only one problem: I had bleached my dark hair a bright orange, streaked with black and yellow, like a tropical macaw. As I disembarked, and my mother saw the “new me” – overweight, pimply with a mod hairstyle, she freaked and literally rushed me to the beauty parlor to “have me fixed.” At the time, I was enrolled in a stuffy, conservative, New England Quaker school. We wore starched uniforms from another era, and my mother was concerned they would throw me out, by the look of me. I however wasn’t worried as reality wasn’t exactly a major concern.

I never WAS invited back to visit Patty: shocker. However, I believe I did help her to “adjust.” I think that I helped her feel at home in California, and she loved having her buddy back. And she helped me by sharing the sophistication of Los Angeles and Hollywood with a kid from Providence.

However, many years later when we were both married with children, we visited each other in our respective homes. I thought each visit went splendidly – but Patty never contacted me again and I could not discover her reason. I even sent her this piece of writing but never heard back.