“We could be so good together” is what he would say and I kind of shrugged it off, happily laughing because I didn’t feel safe enough to believe him and open my heart to the full possibility of getting hurt back then.
It was ’64 and New York was in bloom. Midtown and wide parts of Manhattan were crowded with businessmen rushing home to their Families on Long Island to spend Nights and Weekends away from the City Buzz. But there were areas in Brooklyn and the East Side of Manhattan a new era had already begun. The area where I’d dance to all those glorified Rock Stars, wearing flowery dresses, white lace headbands and shaking my strawberry hair.
The area where Jim Morrison would enter a bar, order a whiskey and watch me dance to his Music. He called dibs on me that Night, ordering alcohol for anyone approaching me, so soon they’d be too drunk to make a move and he’d be the last standing man in this cold Brooklyn Night.
Two years later I moved to Hollywood. I told my dad I did it for school, told my Mom I wanted to become an actress, but truth was, I went for Jim.
Another three years later I stood in front of his House, holding him upright. I had to drive him Home after minute long discussions. He won in a way because he managed to convince me to let him drive the few miles away from Malibu onto Highway 1.
“For the Press” he would say, preventing published photos of me driving a very coked-up Jim Morrison in his beloved Shelby Cobra 500, … but then after impossible U-Turns and uncontrolled speeding he agreed on switching seats after all.