Inside Out(16)

Chapter 7


Tom took me to see a new band called The Kats; they were a big deal at the time. The star was a guitarist from Minneapolis named Freddy Moore, and he changed my life—or at least my name.

Freddy wrote most of the band’s songs, and played guitar and sang. He was absolutely electric onstage, with his shaggy blond hair, sharp features, and wild blue eyes—a totally magnetic performer. I went back to the Troubadour to see the band again on my own. Watching Freddy, I was blown away: if I could be with someone that captivating, then maybe I would be captivating, too. Between sets I maneuvered Freddy into the bathroom. Within a month, I’d left Tom to move in with him.

Our instant attraction reflected the spontaneity and free-spiritedness you feel when you’re young and your whole life is stretched out in front of you, and you don’t focus on the consequences of your actions. Unfortunately, when I broke up with Tom, I didn’t treat him with anywhere near the consideration he’d shown me, and I glossed over the fact that Freddy was twenty-nine and still married to his high school sweetheart from Minnesota. When he left her for me, I was only sixteen. I was a self-absorbed teenager who hadn’t been raised with a lot of respect for the institution of marriage, and I jumped into life with Freddy without, I’m sorry to say, much concern for his wife. Then again, he was almost twice my age, and he was the one who was married. But age is confusing: throughout my life I’ve been in relationships where power and maturity don’t necessarily lie with whoever is older.

Offstage, Freddy was a different person: quiet and focused and very disciplined, carving out time every day to sit down and write his music. He encouraged me to be creative, too—I wrote a song with him called “Changing,” which he ended up recording with Mark Linett, the engineer who had worked on all of Brian Wilson’s music. The Kats had a small-time manager when Freddy and I first got together, and they used to tour in this really old Chevy Suburban that pulled a trailer with all their equipment in it. I’d go along, either in the Suburban with the musicians and their wives or girlfriends, or I’d drive in the beat-up old Volkswagen I’d bought, with lawn chairs for a back seat, a hole in the floorboard, and a bad paint job. We slept late and went to gigs every night.

I quit school. Obviously, when I left Tom, I’d lost my job working for his mom. Freddy’s manager had warned him that I might just be after his money—which is pretty funny, considering they didn’t make any—so I was eager to prove that I could pay my own way. When a friend I’d met through the music scene told me about a guy she knew who took nude photos and sold them to magazines in Japan, I was curious. “Nobody sees them here, and you can make some money,” she told me. “Just lie about your age.” I went for it.

The shoot took place in a dark, old industrial building in West Hollywood. I was uncomfortable, worried that I would be confronted with a bad situation, but I had committed to doing it. I found my way to a cheesy faux living room, with couches, chairs, and throw pillows. Fortunately, the photographer turned out to be very professional, even as he was encouraging me to strike all sorts of provocative poses. I was comforted when he told me about a Japanese law prohibiting photos showing pubic hair—I could tell myself I was only posing seminude, which seemed much better than the alternative. The session went well, but I felt weird about it. I never did those Japanese nudes again.

They were my ticket into more modeling, though. Soon after my photos began circulating around Japan, I got another offer to do some pictures for Oui magazine. Playboy had originally imported Oui from France to attract a younger readership. It was a legitimate magazine, and I had to sign a proper release that specified that because I was underage, I could be on the cover and show cleavage, but I couldn’t pose nude for the inside of the magazine—which was a total relief from my point of view.

I was very lucky that I happened to get paired with the well-known fashion photographer Philip Dixon for the shoot. Philip asked me to work with him again, modeling for a swimsuit catalog he was shooting. I was anxious because I didn’t think I had a great body—no waist, still carrying some baby fat—but Philip made me look beautiful. I started to think maybe I could make a living as a model instead of having to get a regular job to pay the bills while I was pursuing acting.

I took Philip’s pictures and some headshots to Elite Model Management, and they signed me. I was thrilled, even though at first I didn’t get any major assignments, just little local jobs like newspaper ads for department stores and the poster for the cult horror movie I Spit on Your Grave. I earned just enough to squeak by.

It’s funny: modeling was the first thing in my life that gave me a tiny taste of success, that stirred a sense of pride and professionalism in me, which was empowering. But at the same time, it threw me into a world that seemed tailor-made to lower my self-esteem. I had landed in a profession that focused entirely on how I looked, and what size I wore, which reinforced the idea I’d absorbed that my value lay solely in my attractiveness.

I dropped out of acting class. It was awkward seeing Tom there, and I think on some level I was terrified that they’d tell me, “You’re not good enough; you can’t be an actor.” For most people, auditioning is the scary part. For me, not measuring up in class was more terrifying. The way I was raised, always bailing before I had to follow through, was also a factor—I had no experience with perseverance. Today I would without question tell someone trying to make it as an actor, “Go put yourself in class! Go learn, go boost your confidence, get to know the tools you can use, get to know yourself.”