Chapter 24: Mixing Queen
Christmas that year sucked. For one, I was still in cast so it was hard for me to walk anywhere. Then, later that day, it started to rain, so I ended up staying inside. My father and Betty had come over the week before and put up some lights but all that did was make me depressed as I watched them blink on and off in the window’s reflection as the rain outside spilled colors like tears made of paint. Screw this, I’m going to bed. I thought to myself, when all of a sudden, the telephone rang.
“Collect call from Chino State Prison do you accept the charges?”
I was too stunned to say anything, so the message repeated itself. Then for some reason I decided against my better judgement not to hang up. But the voice on the other end wasn’t Robin, but his mother instead.
“Pam, my son wants to tell you he’s sorry,” she told me.
“So what now? He’s sorry?” I said, “Tell him it’s too fucking late! Oh, and tell him that I hope he gets butt raped tonight!”
Then I heard some talking going on in the background then his mother’s voice again on the phone.
“He understands how you feel and he’s not asking you to forgive him.” Then came another series of whispers before she continued. “He just wants to wish you a Merry Christmas and he prays each night for God to watch over you.”
“And Merry Christmas to you,” I said to his mom as I put the phone back on the receiver.
At first, I wanted to scream, “How dare him! That bastard! That pile of shit! Damn him to hell! I hope that he’s rotting in there!” Then I walked over and turned on the TV and some children were singing Silent Night somewhere outside of Rockefeller Center. As the rain beat harder against my window, the furnace went on and lifted the chill from out of the room. When I awoke the next morning, the TV was on, but by that time Christmas had come and gone.
All through the winter, the rain never seemed to stop falling. Early one morning, Betty came to take me to the hospital to remove my cast, so it was nice to be able to get out of my apartment. Then one day the telephone rang just as the sun broke in through my window.
“Who the fuck is calling me so early?” I mumbled to myself as I reached over to pick up the phone. But the voice on the other end seemed so excited that I didn’t have the chance to stay angry for long.
“Pam, this is Jeff. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, yes, go ahead,” I muttered.
“Pam, I’ve got some good news and bad news, which do you want?”
“The good news I guess.”
“OK, here goes. KWIZ has leased some time at night to start a new show.”
“Go on.”
“It’s a techno format called Renegade Radio; you know the same kind of stuff that they played when you were at MARS. It’s hosted by Egil and DJ Mike Fright and they wanted to know if you would be interested. You know, doing some mixing and on-air promotions.”
“Hell yeah, I’d be interested!” I said as I sprang out of bed. “When do they want me to start?”
“Next Sunday night, or Monday morning, what have you. The show goes from midnight to six.”
“So, before I start, I can say hi to Chris.”
“Well,” Jeff demurred as he lowered his voice, “that sort of leads me into the bad news.”
“Shit, I forgot there was bad news.”
“Uh yeah, Gay Radio went off the air.”
“Really? When did that happen?”
“A while ago when you were still injured. They didn’t seem to get enough advertising. You know how that works.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked now raising my voice.
“I didn’t want to upset you. Besides,” he said changing the subject, “now you’ll be doing remotes throughout L.A. and Orange County. How cool is that?”
“Okay, I guess. But I’ll still miss Chris and Sega. If you hear from them, can you please tell them to give me a call?”
“I will,” he said with his typical half-assed assurance. “You know the problem with you, Pam, is that you’re too goddamn sentimental!”
“But that’s why you love me,” I told him.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, “that’s one of the reasons. Anyway, I’d better get going. I’ll see you next Sunday. I’m sure you can’t wait to get started!”
So by Easter that year, I was now doing two shows on KWIZ, Renegade Radio Monday through Friday from midnight to six, and a Roots Reggae show that they did on Sunday. When I wasn’t at the studio mixing, I was off in some remote location on Hollywood Blvd. or out in the Valley. No to mention, the money was good since I was able to sell my mixes through the deal that Egil had landed with EMI records. Sometimes, on the weekends, Jeff would set me up in some swanky hotel right off of Sunset and Vine. There was The Hollywood Roosevelt, The Dixie Hotel—even the Downtowner Inn was nice. And before too long, I had a new nickname. Of course, I was still DJ Nonstick Pam, but now I was known by a more royal moniker—The Queen of Mixing.
Of course, what good is having money if you can’t spend it? Ever since I was out on my own, it was Taco Bell or some “hole in the wall” restaurant somewhere in a strip mall. Now it was shopping on Melrose and getting to eat at some of the nicer places in town. One night after work, I found this little Italian joint off of La Brea—Frankie’s—so I sat down inside, ordered a drink, and that was when I met Tony.
“You’re first time here?” he asked as he walked over to greet me.
He was kind of short with thick dark hair that he wore in a bun. He also liked to speak with his hands, so I guessed that he was probably Italian. Then he offered me a glass of wine—Pinot Grigio on the house. “We offer it to our prettiest guests,” he told me.
“So, how long have you worked here?” I asked as I raised the glass to my lips and took a small sip leaving a dark red stain on the rim.
“About five years now,” he answered politely. “The owner Frank is my uncle.”
“So, hence the name Frankie’s!” we both said as we laughed together.
Then he sat down and suggested I get the Sicilian Clams.
“I get it,” I interrupted, “you want me to order an aphrodisiac!”
“You got me!” he said throwing up both of his hands in the air. “Guilty as charged!”
Tony and I started seeing each other on and off when I wasn’t working. Then one night, he brought me home to his parents for dinner.
“We’re gonna show you some real Italian cooking!” he promised. “Like the kind of food we used to have growing up in New York.”
When we sat down to eat, it was just like the dinner scene from Saturday Night Fever. Tony’s dad was also named Tony, and his other children were Peter and Paul, “good Catholic boys,” he told me “unlike that one over there” he said pointing at Tony.
“Come on,” his mother Rose Mary said as she brought in a huge plate of Chicken Parmesan and set it down next the bowl of Pasta Faggioli, “the boy’s brought his girlfriend over for dinner. Let’s show the lady a little respect. What did you say your name was dear, Pameline?”
“Pamela,” I politely corrected her.
“So, Tamela, welcome to our home!” She said as she sat down at the other end of the table. “Who wants to say grace before dinner? How about you, Pamalina?”
“Sure,” I replied. I said a quick prayer thanking God for all this good food, then we all concluded with a resounding “amen.”
Tony Sr. looked toward his son who was already digging into the pasta. “I don’t remember seeing you crossing yourself. Or did you forget after so many years of not going to church?”
“I’m sorry dad, it’s just that I’ve been so busy with school and work.”
His dad cut him off. “And that nice lady over there,” he said waving his hand in my direction, “shouldn’t you be serving her first rather than stuffing your face?”
“It’s all right,” I assured him, but he was still not impressed.
“I taught him better than that. You know Frankie’s boy, uh…”
“Little Frank,” his mother broke in.
“Yeah, little Frank,” he continued. “He’s a priest now back in New Jersey. I always had hopes that that would be Tony. But Tony would never listen to me.”
“Anthony was once an altar boy,” his mother reflected. “Just the sweetest little thing. I mean him handing the bread and the wine to the priest, then wiping off the edge of the chalice. Ah, my little Tony!”
She got up from the table and went back to the kitchen. “Who wants seconds? Come on Paloma, a young girl like you has got to eat!”
“I’d love to Mrs.—”
“Please, call me Rose Mary,” she insisted.
“Well, Rose Mary, I’d love to, but I’m way too full!”
After dinner, she brought out some chocolate cannoli and I somehow found a way to make room. When dinner was finished, I thanked my hosts, then Tony got up and walked me outside.
“You be good to her now!” his father demanded. “And tell her she’s always like family to us, isn’t that right, Mama?”
“That’s right, Patricia, you’re always like family. So, don’t be a stranger you hear?”
For the most part, Tony did treat me well. It was just that we were both way too busy for anything serious. He always mentioned how “Mama wants us to get married someday and start a family and all, but me, I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” I asked him.
“I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if I really want any kids.”
So that was one red flag, I guess. But that still didn’t stop us from seeing each other when I was in town.