Back in the 90s, my dad met someone at work. He was single after a short and tumultuous marriage with crazy Nancy, the woman who came after my mom. (I shouldn't be so cavalier with the c-word; she was, but it was "straight up mental illness" as Tracy Jordan would say.) Nothing to laugh at...
Nancy was a real handful and that's a whole other blog post. My dad came out of it battered and humbled, but it wasn't long before he met Pam. Pam was short, beautiful and jovial. She laughed loud and often. She was instantly disarming, even to a constantly off-put 14 year old who was no longer interested in being nice to parents' new partners. Pam was cool, and none of that coolness had burned off as she entered what must have been her early 40s. How did she retain it? She just did, because she was just, cool.
Pam was from LA, a big Mexican family with all of the 70s East LA trimmings - brothers who died young from gang-related shootings, other brothers who bought and sold lowriders, an absentee alcoholic dad, allegedly haunted homes where her mom would yell at the spirits to stop turning the lights on because they were driving up the utility bill, and grandmas who practiced santeria behind closed doors with their girlfriends. She was kind and sympathetic to a silly awkward kid with no allegiances, and she loved David Bowie. I could listen to her talk for the rest of my life. And I wish she was still here.
She and I used to stay up late at my dad's house. Ever the homebody badass, my dad would usually retire to bed before we wanted to on a Saturday night, and Pam and I would sit crosslegged on the couch and watch TCM while she told me about her lively past. Eventually he'd get up and inform us testily, "I can hear you in the bedroom, you know."
Pam's ex-husband had dyed his hair blonde-orange after Bowie in The Man Who Fell to Earth when she met him, but she could never tell her ultra-masculine son about it because he'd be ashamed of his gender-bending dad (it was the 70s! chill, bro). She told me about record stores in her childhood and how she'd take buses all over LA and then Phoenix to find the elusive European b-sides that she needed to complete her collections, T Rex and the New York Dolls and everything else.
I still have LPs that she gave me back then, she had range that went somewhere from 70s punk and Euro pre-goth to Fleetwood Mac, and she gave me Thompson Twins and Culture Club albums during my prolonged 80s phase. She knew something about much of the obscure or "subversive" bands and media I was just discovering and she shared wise or crazy stories with me in a conspiratorial way.
She never acted like my new discoveries were tiring to her, like I probably would now. She was an advocate at a time when both of my parents were criticising my new tastes, my appearance, and whatever they thought that would lead to. She'd roll her eyes and tell me I was fine.
She managed to be a friend and a steadying influence in spite of her quasi-parental status. When I was most critical of my dad, when I was most critical of the world, she always had something thoughtful to say that I hadn't considered before, and was able to remind me of the inherent goodness of my dumb parents without discounting my feelings.
She managed to be a friend and a steadying influence in spite of her quasi-parental status. When I was most critical of my dad, when I was most critical of the world, she always had something thoughtful to say that I hadn't considered before, and was able to remind me of the inherent goodness of my dumb parents without discounting my feelings.
And she didn't deny anything - she was critical of the ways of the world too, and confirmed my frustrated kid feelings while reminding me that all manner of life lay beyond. And she was funny, really funny. Witty, savage yet still essentially kind, forever irreverent. I still use some of her old jokes and references. When my dad tried to make fun of her tastes and life choices, she'd simply say, in a faux deep voice, "Jealous?" I loved her desperately then, and she's still the best person I have ever met. But she and my dad didn't last, and after that breakup, she met Dean.
Dean died this week. That's why I'm writing this.
When I first met Dean, I was a little sad. My dad and Pam had been broken up for a couple years by then, but managed to stay friends as he usually does with the exes. He was already with La Llorona and I couldn't wait to watch Pam watch her to see what she thought of the new woman. I disliked LL at that time (want to say "still do" but she ain't the worst person I've ever heard of after this year). LL was rude and smug and cold, and she didn't want me around. I was evidence of his past life, which was verboten.
Dean died this week. That's why I'm writing this.
When I first met Dean, I was a little sad. My dad and Pam had been broken up for a couple years by then, but managed to stay friends as he usually does with the exes. He was already with La Llorona and I couldn't wait to watch Pam watch her to see what she thought of the new woman. I disliked LL at that time (want to say "still do" but she ain't the worst person I've ever heard of after this year). LL was rude and smug and cold, and she didn't want me around. I was evidence of his past life, which was verboten.
But I didn't live with him anymore, I was 18 then, and I had to make nice because that's what I was taught to do. I just wanted Pam back. What a gracious time his relationship with her seemed after the entrance of the wretched women who followed her. Couldn't they make amends? Who wouldn't kill himself to be with someone like Pam? I would. We met up with Pam at Dean's house, a tidy, dated 60s ranch-style on the edge of Arcadia.
I was shocked when I saw him for the first time - tall, robust, like John Wayne if John had been a wall of person. Dean had a craggy, handsome face, Scottish looking, with a shock of graying hair and icy blue eyes. He looked like a movie star. And he was Pam's new boyfriend. I stopped mourning her breakup with my dad so much because hell, who's gonna compete with that guy. Dean was one of a kind. He was old-timey gracious and polite and gentlemanly. It was hard to look at anyone else in a room where Dean was.
At the time, Dean worked for the Wrigley Mansion. He was the primary caretaker, maintaining the property year-round, but especially in the summer months when the house was shuttered and the bar, Jeordie's, was more quiet. The occasion for our gathering was July 4: From the porches of the Wrigley, you could see firework shows from Tempe Town Lake as well as downtown Phoenix. We went there to enjoy the views, and for the adults to have a few drinks. I was surprised and pleased to see bats flapping around the upper patios in the dark, because the house was all surrounded by green space, and wondered aloud if they were considered a nuisance to be got rid of at Wrigley. Dean said they had a place in our ecosystem just like everyone else. Oh, Dean! My dad probably would have tried to poison them.
His access to the home and grounds meant we could wander this historic site as we wished, and Pam walked me through the hallways of the former private residence, taking care to point out golden photos of Clark Gable, Carole Lombard, Bette Davis and my other favorites meeting Wrigley family members over the years. She knew me so well. She took me through the "crooked hallway" in the master suite, where she believed a haunting existed. She was pretty superstitious, and believed a ghost lived in my dad's house too. Well, there was at least one suicide in there, so, yanno maybe.* La Lorona got drunk and jokingly tried to ally with Pam against my dad and Dean, and Pam just laughed and later told me, "What a party girl." It was her benign and generous way of dismissing her even though she wanted my dad to be happy with someone, even if it was someone like LL. Or maybe she just saved her trash talk for other people.
Dean was a good surrogate dad to Pam's sons, mostly grown but still needing something. Her youngest boy definitely benefited his traditional-yet-kind-yet-bemused teachings about life. My dad, by contrast, had challenged them, tried to emasculate them, being jealous of Pam's attention to them. He was so jealous of her affections that he couldn't understand their importance to her, despite having his own children and knowing they were put in the same situation with people other than their parents. I'm sorry, and surprised he didn't learn more from her.
The next night, I drove to her hospice, but instead of going in, I parked by her window and stayed in my car. I was too embarrassed to trouble the people inside, but wanted to be around. She had no idea, but it made me feel better. She was gone soon after, thank god. That still sounds so sick and wrong, ten years later. The shock of loss dulls but can occasionally be sharp after a long time, too.
At the time, Dean worked for the Wrigley Mansion. He was the primary caretaker, maintaining the property year-round, but especially in the summer months when the house was shuttered and the bar, Jeordie's, was more quiet. The occasion for our gathering was July 4: From the porches of the Wrigley, you could see firework shows from Tempe Town Lake as well as downtown Phoenix. We went there to enjoy the views, and for the adults to have a few drinks. I was surprised and pleased to see bats flapping around the upper patios in the dark, because the house was all surrounded by green space, and wondered aloud if they were considered a nuisance to be got rid of at Wrigley. Dean said they had a place in our ecosystem just like everyone else. Oh, Dean! My dad probably would have tried to poison them.
His access to the home and grounds meant we could wander this historic site as we wished, and Pam walked me through the hallways of the former private residence, taking care to point out golden photos of Clark Gable, Carole Lombard, Bette Davis and my other favorites meeting Wrigley family members over the years. She knew me so well. She took me through the "crooked hallway" in the master suite, where she believed a haunting existed. She was pretty superstitious, and believed a ghost lived in my dad's house too. Well, there was at least one suicide in there, so, yanno maybe.* La Lorona got drunk and jokingly tried to ally with Pam against my dad and Dean, and Pam just laughed and later told me, "What a party girl." It was her benign and generous way of dismissing her even though she wanted my dad to be happy with someone, even if it was someone like LL. Or maybe she just saved her trash talk for other people.
Dean was a good surrogate dad to Pam's sons, mostly grown but still needing something. Her youngest boy definitely benefited his traditional-yet-kind-yet-bemused teachings about life. My dad, by contrast, had challenged them, tried to emasculate them, being jealous of Pam's attention to them. He was so jealous of her affections that he couldn't understand their importance to her, despite having his own children and knowing they were put in the same situation with people other than their parents. I'm sorry, and surprised he didn't learn more from her.
Still, even my dad respected Dean, and he still does. Still talks about him as an unimpeachable character and general cool guy. That ain't nothing, as a friend of mine would say.
In later years, when things changed in catastrophic ways, Dean nursed Pam through multiple brutal bouts of cancer. She moved back in with him after a pre-cancer separation, lost her hair, and he tended her attentively. I didn't find out about her illness until near the end, and I was devastated. She was only 50. FIFTY. This is no time for Sally O'Malley. The best person in the world was struck with life-destroying cancer at 50? What the hell makes sense at that point? Or any point forward? We went to her birthday party at her oldest son's house around this time. She was up and about in a headscarf and I tried to get time with her, but I looked around and quickly realized that the house was filled with people as much or more in love her than I was, and that's a lot to say about a love that starts in adolescence. I hung back, not wanting to bother her, and she looked tired.
I saw her again in hospice. Thankfully someone called my dad when she was approaching her last moments, and he called me. I was in my mid-20s and out with friends when I took his urgent call, when he told me she was dying. I went home immediately and slept for a few hours before visiting hours at the facility. When I saw her in her sad hospital bed, it was striking, disturbing, painful and awkward. She looked small in her hospital bed. Her close family was all around and I felt like an interloper despite their friendly inquiries. They had been on watch for hours, days, and finally were bored enough to want to casually engage.
In later years, when things changed in catastrophic ways, Dean nursed Pam through multiple brutal bouts of cancer. She moved back in with him after a pre-cancer separation, lost her hair, and he tended her attentively. I didn't find out about her illness until near the end, and I was devastated. She was only 50. FIFTY. This is no time for Sally O'Malley. The best person in the world was struck with life-destroying cancer at 50? What the hell makes sense at that point? Or any point forward? We went to her birthday party at her oldest son's house around this time. She was up and about in a headscarf and I tried to get time with her, but I looked around and quickly realized that the house was filled with people as much or more in love her than I was, and that's a lot to say about a love that starts in adolescence. I hung back, not wanting to bother her, and she looked tired.
I saw her again in hospice. Thankfully someone called my dad when she was approaching her last moments, and he called me. I was in my mid-20s and out with friends when I took his urgent call, when he told me she was dying. I went home immediately and slept for a few hours before visiting hours at the facility. When I saw her in her sad hospital bed, it was striking, disturbing, painful and awkward. She looked small in her hospital bed. Her close family was all around and I felt like an interloper despite their friendly inquiries. They had been on watch for hours, days, and finally were bored enough to want to casually engage.
They kept asking me how I knew her and my explanation sounded so unimportant in the presence of siblings, her mother, her children and the other close people in her life. I said, "Well, she dated my dad, they met at the city... " Oh, VB's daughter! They tittered among each other. They remembered him, murkily recalled me as a gangly tween, and how large the relationship had loomed for Pam at the time. They teased me about how I turned out so nice (lul) with such a dad, and did he force me to lift weights and do push-ups growing up? I smiled, uncomfortable, while her youngest bantered with her unresponsive body, referring to past personal jokes and massaging her feet. She was asleep on morphine and I never saw her awake again.
The next night, I drove to her hospice, but instead of going in, I parked by her window and stayed in my car. I was too embarrassed to trouble the people inside, but wanted to be around. She had no idea, but it made me feel better. She was gone soon after, thank god. That still sounds so sick and wrong, ten years later. The shock of loss dulls but can occasionally be sharp after a long time, too.
The funeral in central Phoenix was unreal, her sons so adult looking in their formal dress. The inevitable vulgarity and impersonal nature of the funeral program offended me, of course. But despite massive effort, I couldn't stop myself from weeping openly in the pew beside my silent dad and La Llorona while she stared googly on, unmoved at the situation.
The sound of a violent door slam echoed through the church while her brother Manuel spoke at the podium, and he subtly turned his head and said, "Hi Pam," before continuing his speech. I don't go in for cute "They're with us," shit like that, but then Manuel told a story about how Pam's brothers called her "Slam" in her teen years because she was always pissed at them for something, all these rude gross boys around, punching her or sticking their fingers in her ears or nose in their tiny family home, and she'd go to her room and slam the door as hard as she could, cracking the frame, when she was mad. How I love her. How I wish I could have protected her at any stage of her young life. I would have killed someone.
And now Dean's gone to cancer too soon as well, but at least he lived to his full life expectancy. I don't know the details. But I think of his big charming face and smiley light blue eyes, filled with humanity, and I remember what it was like to talk to him.
The sound of a violent door slam echoed through the church while her brother Manuel spoke at the podium, and he subtly turned his head and said, "Hi Pam," before continuing his speech. I don't go in for cute "They're with us," shit like that, but then Manuel told a story about how Pam's brothers called her "Slam" in her teen years because she was always pissed at them for something, all these rude gross boys around, punching her or sticking their fingers in her ears or nose in their tiny family home, and she'd go to her room and slam the door as hard as she could, cracking the frame, when she was mad. How I love her. How I wish I could have protected her at any stage of her young life. I would have killed someone.
And now Dean's gone to cancer too soon as well, but at least he lived to his full life expectancy. I don't know the details. But I think of his big charming face and smiley light blue eyes, filled with humanity, and I remember what it was like to talk to him.
Dramatic as it sounds, I don't think there's anyone alive today who remotely approaches the magnitude of Pam or Dean.
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*I guess I wrote this 10 years ago about the alleged haunting of the house on 10th Ave. Don't even remember writing it. Oh age.
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*I guess I wrote this 10 years ago about the alleged haunting of the house on 10th Ave. Don't even remember writing it. Oh age.
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