Aside from the occasional hamburger that strangers offered me as they gave me rides while I hitch-hiked around Hollywood, from job interview to job interview, I was living on a daily donation of one pint of pineapple yogurt, and one bologna on bread sandwich from some gracious friends. So most of the time I was hungry. and always on the streets looking for jobs, as a 16 year old runaway.
Within the vicinity of Hollywood, a young girl could stop on the curb, throw her thumb out, and pretty much the first car would pull to the curb. You could get around town quite easily, jumping in and out of cars every couple of blocks, because there were stop lights on every block and traffic was slow. It felt safe at the time, and for me it was.
I had to leave the first job in a Hollywood Dry Cleaner’s when the boss chased me around his desk begging for a little kiss.
And I threw away the cards that young men handed me on the street from time to time, with motel room numbers, dates and times. All you had to do was show up and have sex with a lot of strangers for porn films, they’d explain, while forcing the card into your hand.
And then there was the chance to sleep with a rock star who dug young chicks for five hundred bucks that I turned down. There was also a marriage proposal from a rich brat who lived up there in the canyon somewhere and came closer to raping me than anyone else ever did. No boundaries. But that’s another story for another time.
I pored over the daily ads, looking for jobs as a 16 year old runaway in Hollywood, circling every “No Experience Required” ad that I could find. One of the more common jobs, that looked easiest to get, was that of photographer’s assistant. The assistant’s job was to travel with, or work in the studio with the photographer carrying supplies and what not. How hard could that be? I could do that.
In my first interview for this type of job, the man asked if I’d be willing to give him a hug and a kiss every now and then. I declined so that interview ended swiftly.
My hair fluffed out especially nicely the morning that I got ready for my second interview as a photographer’s assistant. I looked pretty sophisticated that day, to my own surprise. The photographer’s studio was on an off street in Hollywood, connecting Hollywood Boulevard and Sunset Strip, which run parallel to each other through the heart of Hollywood.
I walked into the door of the studio and there was a large counter with 3 reception areas. I walked up to one of them and told them I was there to apply for the photographer’s assistant job. Suddenly, from the shadows in the back of the shop, a man stepped up to the desk and said, “You don’t belong behind the camera. You belong in front of the camera.” And he asked me to come back that evening for a photo shoot, to which I agreed.
When I returned for the shoot he gave me a bikini to put on. The bottoms were so large I looked ridiculous. They bagged out like big baby diapers and I stood there feeling embarrassed in front of a large white screen while he put a large spotlight on me and started taking pictures. He asked me to put one leg in front of the other. I hadn’t a clue what he meant so I stuck one leg in front of the other, holding my foot up in the air in a most awkward way. He stopped shooting pictures and began to shake his head, asking again, “Are you sure you’re 18?”
Fortunately for me, this photographer was all about business. He told me to come back with a birth certificate and said he might be able to get me into Playboy for $5000, and if not, he could get me into other swimsuit catalogs. That kind of money to a hungry girl was quite tempting, a lot more tempting than the $500 offer I’d gotten to sleep with a rock star or the proposal from the entitled worm.
So I actually considered it. I thought to myself that maybe I could be one of the lucky girls in Playboy who didn’t have to show all their breasts and none of their you-know-whats. I might be willing to do that. I did consider it. I was certain I could talk them into those terms. But he wanted me to return with a birth certificate or photo ID, neither of which I could produce, so it ended there.
Let me tell you, when you are 70 years old, this is one of the sweeter memories in life.
Oikos 