Inside Out(26)

I drove home replaying the events of the night. What just happened? I wondered. Who is this guy? I was trying to add up all the information that had just come at me. (This was before cell phones; it’s not like I could call around asking people about him.) I’d never actually had anyone ask me out on a real date before. I’d met Freddy through the music scene and Emilio on set; the relationships I’d had up to this point had just sort of happened through proximity and flirtation. But this did not feel like a pickup—this was not somebody who was trying to add a notch to his belt.

Bruce was so dynamic. One thing he’s never had a problem with is taking his space. (He’s definitely never asked, Is it okay that I’m here?) I felt a pang of concern for Emilio—even though he had invited me as “his friend” that evening, I was aware that he had hopes of repairing our romance.

Fifteen minutes later, I was cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway toward my new house in Malibu, all the way out past Point Dume. To my right were the mountains and the stars, to my left was the moonlit ocean. Everything was peaceful. I thought about Emilio; I thought about Bruce. And then I could swear I heard my name in the wind. No, it wasn’t my dad visiting from the spirit world: it was a stretch limousine in the next lane, with Bruce Willis and his buddies poking up through the open sunroof, waving and shouting, “Hey, Demi!” (This was before the days of the ever-present black SUVs ferrying celebrities everywhere. When Bruce was partying, he’d hire a limo to take him and his friends out for the night in style.) I couldn’t believe I was looking out my window at the guy I’d just been thinking about. It was like the universe was telling me: pay attention to this one.

Bruce flipped his baseball cap off to salute me when our eyes met, and I guess he’d forgotten he’d stashed a joint behind each ear because they went flying into the night.


HE CALLED ME first thing the next morning. He asked what I was doing that day, and I told him I was driving to Orange County to see George and DeAnna. “I’ll go with you,” he told me, to my surprise. I wasn’t entirely sure this was a good idea. My dad’s sister Mary was visiting them, and she was a true character. “My kooky aunt is going to be there, and it’s a very small house,” I said. “Are you sure?” He was sure.

Again, I was impressed. This was a guy who was going to spend two hours in a car just for the dubious pleasure of meeting my weird relatives. He was willing to put himself out of his comfort zone, and he was doing something that was purely for me. Honestly, I found it shocking.

His house, which was right on the beach, was on the way, so I went by to pick him up. All of his buddies were still there from the night before—they traveled as a pack around Los Angeles, partying, hanging out, and meeting girls. They were like the eighties version of Entourage, but they were good-spirited and fun: they used to call themselves the New Rat Pack. I met John Goodman that morning, and Woody Harrelson, who was on Cheers at the time, both of whom would become good friends. Bruce waved goodbye to his posse, and off we went.

It was a fun ride. It’s hard not to feel good when someone showers you with that much attention. I think Bruce saw me as some kind of angelic savior when we first met, I don’t really know why—maybe partly because I was sober and not a party girl. He hung on my words and didn’t bat an eye once we got to Orange County and he met my nutty aunt. “We’re from Neeeeeew Mexico!” was the first thing out of her mouth. Bruce just rolled with it. George and DeAnna got a kick out of him; he was cut from the same cloth as the men in our family: charismatic, mischievous, with a little twinkle in his eye. A charming ladies’ man with a great sense of humor, like my father and my granddaddy (much more so than I realized at the time).

The next night he took me downtown to see a Shakespeare play that John Goodman was in (if I remember correctly, most of the New Rat Pack were with us on that date). Basically, from that first meeting on, Bruce and I were rarely apart. He made me feel like a princess; he lived large—and soon I did, too. Bruce came from nothing, and now that he’d made it, he wanted the best of everything, and plenty of it. We would go to a restaurant, and he would order three entrées and have a few bites of each, just because he could. He loved to gamble. He relished the power that money has to wipe away obstacles. Years later, at three in the morning, when one of the babies was crying, he would lean over and whisper, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you change that diaper.”

Bruce, having worked in Manhattan at Café Centro, which was a real hot spot at the time, knew all the “in” restaurants and clubs, and he enjoyed exposing me to a world of perks that was totally new. Not long after we met we flew on a private plane to see his band perform at a fairground—it was my first time on a small jet. A girl could get used to this, I thought.

A few weeks later, he took me to London. It was a whirlwind, my first time in Europe. I’d never had jet lag before, and when we went to dinner our first night, I felt like I’d been run over by a truck and didn’t understand what was wrong with me. And the paparazzi in London were on a whole different level—for one thing, they were allowed in the airport. They were waiting for us when we landed, and they didn’t let up the entire time we were in England. I’d never experienced anything like it before. We were stalked, hounded—I remember one time a photographer literally ran down the street after Bruce. He had the ability to just barrel on, but I would have been happier to stay at the hotel. I was totally unprepared for that creepy, besieged feeling. It gets a little easier when you know what to expect, but then? I was shell-shocked. To be honest, when we got on the plane to go home, I was relieved.