"instead of perfume, there will be rottenness"
-isiah 3:24
a little before one in the afternoon, on another typical bristling winter day in arcadia, my taxicab drops me a few streets away from 312 skid row - where i am to meet with the owner of the residence, kathleen grace, better known as "the doll". because i am aware of her reputation for being last-minute to just about everything, i purposely post up at a nearby bar, arriving half an hour late. i am still early. as if that weren't bad enough, i have to take a leak.
just as i start to think about going into the alley and taking matters into my own hands, kathleen’s black rolls royce town car - "the gravedigger" - rumbles up the street. headlock doesn't stop for me and goes through the gates and up the driveway to park in the garage. i follow. first, a young looking man gets out, dressed in black pants, a ripped-up sweater and black motorcycle boots; his hair is brown and short. he walks slowly, with a creeping manner - smoking a cigarette. totally cool, it is none other than beau goodman. behind him trails a taller man, but with a mean grimace stretched across his face. it is headlock, the wrangler of the world's most famous doll, who i have come to see.
beau walks up and throws his cigarette on the ground, then spits. headlock disappears. i set about following beau throughout the preeminent property - there seems to be some sort of party going on and the grounds are crawling with people, despite the frigid weather. as i walk by, i notice that the dense crowd is made up of completely conflicting social groups- the city's high society hoity-toities are actually sharing oxygen with the down-and-out. despite their differences, they seem to be getting on quite well. beau takes me through the front door and into the living room, where the bash has spread as well. i start to make my way up the stairs, when sodapop cola, kathleen’s brother, stops me. be pulls me aside and inquires if i will go easy on hounding her about her boyfriend, jimmy kiss. their relationship has been on the rocks ever since beau entered the picture. "she loves him," he says, "and she doesn't want him to get the wrong idea and think she's up to no good while he's away." i agree.
soda walks away and i continue up the stairs. beau is waiting at the top, smoking another cigarette. he laughs when he sees me and says, "don’t let soda scare you. he’s like a big puppy dog, really. no one around here takes him seriously." he opens the door to kathleen’s bedroom and we walk in.
her bedroom is inviting and lush - with dark wooden floors, big bay windows and vaulted ceilings. in the middle of the room, she has two sofa couches and a plush chair - upholstered in pop-art rosebud print - all comfortably gathered near an ancient-looking vanity. it looked like impromptu midnight gab sessions between high school girlfriends have taken place here and will probably take place again in the future. i politely introduce myself and shake kathleen’s hand - even though i’ve met her three times before - and ask if i can use her bathroom. "yeah, sure," she says, "but if you're going in there to do drugs - don't do them without me." she laughs and i stifle out a confused chortle.
every room in her house is lovelier than the last and the same is true for her bathroom. a biblical fresco stretches from the walls to the floor. a glass chandelier hangs above a claw-foot bathtub, complete with golden bath accessories. a sauna lies in another corner - a standing shower stands opposite. midway through my self-guided tour, i notice that her bathtub is filled to the brim with ice and bottle after bottle of upscale vodka. i walk back into her room and quip, "well, kathleen, you have outdone yourself yet again. i do believe you have enough booze in that bathtub to give a whole fleet of sailors alcohol poisoning."
she laughs and tells me it's free from a company gig. "they threw me this big shindig in some ballroom downtown for new year's, but headlock forgot to tell me about it, so i never showed up. they got kind of mad, but never asked for the vodka back."
beau rolls a doobie up and passes it to her. she lights it and moves from her seat in the middle of the room to her vanity and begins applying makeup. she tells me that she will be appearing on a late-night arcadian television show to promote her new book; "even though it hasn't been released yet." she rolls her eyes. "i mean, i hardly just came up with the title - ☺." she sighs.
she gingerly lays down her thick eyeliner in between puffs on a cigarette - downstairs, the walls shake and a loud crash is heard. kathleen doesn't blink. she simply roots through a drawer for her mascara and runs the wand through her eyelashes until they are thick - but not too thick. then, she says without missing a beat, "it's okay, i didn't pay for what they're breaking anyways."
by now, the sun is barely hanging in the sky and it's nearly time for kathleen to head down the road. she stands up and walks to her balcony - below, the party continues - past the gates, photographers are lined up in a pack, waiting. she returns from the balcony and heads downstairs, making her way through the thick of people. as soda opens the backdoor of the gravedigger for her, i ask if she's worried about leaving her home in the incapable hands of this congregation. she cocks her eyebrow and says, "like these creeps will notice if i'm here or not." for all the things she is right about - she couldn't be more wrong.
