Read Online Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway by Cherie Currie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cherie Currie
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had to do was figure out how to turn what I had on my head into something resembling the style that Bowie wore on the cover of Pin Ups. That freaky round helmet of spiked hair on the top, but long at the back. I had always admired that look, but of course I was too wimpy to do something about it. But not anymore!
The teachers were going to hate me. Good! They’d say, “You might as well shave it all off, Cherie, it would look just as bad!”
“Maybe I will!” I’d spit back, and then I’d turn and walk away. They’d have to learn it, too: you don’t fuck with Cherie Currie. Not anymore.
Soon my hair was going to look just like David Bowie’s. I would BE David Bowie. I would be ugly-beautiful, horrible and handsome. That moment, that electric flash at the Bowie concert when I felt that I was truly invincible—that’s how I wanted to feel all of the time. Not afraid. Not some little square kid from the suburbs. Cherie fucking Currie, the Queen of Hate.
And nobody—NOBODY—would be able to hurt me ever me again.
Chapter 4
Learning Experiences
It was Saturday morning, sometime in the spring, and the damn birds were singing outside of my window. I groaned, turned over, and tried vainly to block it all out. It was no use, though; they kept on chirping and hooting, so I reluctantly opened my eyes. The sunlight was streaking in through the window, turning the bedroom into a furnace. I sat up and looked over to Marie’s empty, unmade bed. The clock told me that it was 10 a.m. I was still hurting pretty bad from the previous night of partying, but I could hear voices coming from the den, so I figured that I’d better get up.
The main voice I could hear belonged to T.Y. He had a booming, theatrical voice that carried throughout the house. T.Y. was short for Tony Young, and he was my sister Sandie’s husband. He was tall and handsome and had the kind of chiseled good looks that belonged on a movie poster. He had thick, dark hair, warm hazel eyes, and—clichéd though it is to say—a million-dollar smile. He was in his midthirties and he was an actor, of course. In those days, he regularly had bit roles in stuff like Mission: Impossible and Star Trek. Back in the early sixties, he’d even had his own TV show called The Gunslinger. As the title suggested, it was a western, in the vein of Gunsmoke or The Lone Ranger.
My sister Sandie was an actress. She had been acting professionally since she was sixteen years old, and I thought she was beautiful: she had long red hair and glacial blue eyes.
Sandie and T.Y. had met on the set of Policewomen, a 1974 feature film that they both starred in. They had been inseparable ever since. Mom had left the States, off to visit Wolfgang in Indonesia for a few weeks, so Sandie and T.Y. were in charge of us kids. That was fine with us, because Marie, Donnie, and I were all crazy about T.Y. He was pretty cool for a grown-up: he seemed to know what was going on, and he was one of the rare adults we could all relate to. Of course, Mom didn’t like T.Y.—at least, she didn’t like him as much as she’d liked Sandie’s previous boyfriend, Ron Honeywell. That was because Ron was handsome, rich, and Mom knew damn well that an actor’s life is unstable at best.
I rubbed my eyes and stretched.
It suddenly hit me what today was: today was the release of David Bowie’s new album: David Live. Rumor had it that it would include songs recorded at the show I saw with Marie and Paul. Paul said that he was going to buy a copy and bring it over this morning . . . I looked at the clock again and groaned. He was due here any minute.
I leaped out of bed and looked at myself in the mirror. Oh Jesus! Last night’s makeup was still smudged all over my face, and my hair was a horror show: it was flattened against my head on one side and sticking straight up in the air on the other. My mascara had smeared down my
The teachers were going to hate me. Good! They’d say, “You might as well shave it all off, Cherie, it would look just as bad!”
“Maybe I will!” I’d spit back, and then I’d turn and walk away. They’d have to learn it, too: you don’t fuck with Cherie Currie. Not anymore.
Soon my hair was going to look just like David Bowie’s. I would BE David Bowie. I would be ugly-beautiful, horrible and handsome. That moment, that electric flash at the Bowie concert when I felt that I was truly invincible—that’s how I wanted to feel all of the time. Not afraid. Not some little square kid from the suburbs. Cherie fucking Currie, the Queen of Hate.
And nobody—NOBODY—would be able to hurt me ever me again.
Chapter 4
Learning Experiences
It was Saturday morning, sometime in the spring, and the damn birds were singing outside of my window. I groaned, turned over, and tried vainly to block it all out. It was no use, though; they kept on chirping and hooting, so I reluctantly opened my eyes. The sunlight was streaking in through the window, turning the bedroom into a furnace. I sat up and looked over to Marie’s empty, unmade bed. The clock told me that it was 10 a.m. I was still hurting pretty bad from the previous night of partying, but I could hear voices coming from the den, so I figured that I’d better get up.
The main voice I could hear belonged to T.Y. He had a booming, theatrical voice that carried throughout the house. T.Y. was short for Tony Young, and he was my sister Sandie’s husband. He was tall and handsome and had the kind of chiseled good looks that belonged on a movie poster. He had thick, dark hair, warm hazel eyes, and—clichéd though it is to say—a million-dollar smile. He was in his midthirties and he was an actor, of course. In those days, he regularly had bit roles in stuff like Mission: Impossible and Star Trek. Back in the early sixties, he’d even had his own TV show called The Gunslinger. As the title suggested, it was a western, in the vein of Gunsmoke or The Lone Ranger.
My sister Sandie was an actress. She had been acting professionally since she was sixteen years old, and I thought she was beautiful: she had long red hair and glacial blue eyes.
Sandie and T.Y. had met on the set of Policewomen, a 1974 feature film that they both starred in. They had been inseparable ever since. Mom had left the States, off to visit Wolfgang in Indonesia for a few weeks, so Sandie and T.Y. were in charge of us kids. That was fine with us, because Marie, Donnie, and I were all crazy about T.Y. He was pretty cool for a grown-up: he seemed to know what was going on, and he was one of the rare adults we could all relate to. Of course, Mom didn’t like T.Y.—at least, she didn’t like him as much as she’d liked Sandie’s previous boyfriend, Ron Honeywell. That was because Ron was handsome, rich, and Mom knew damn well that an actor’s life is unstable at best.
I rubbed my eyes and stretched.
It suddenly hit me what today was: today was the release of David Bowie’s new album: David Live. Rumor had it that it would include songs recorded at the show I saw with Marie and Paul. Paul said that he was going to buy a copy and bring it over this morning . . . I looked at the clock again and groaned. He was due here any minute.
I leaped out of bed and looked at myself in the mirror. Oh Jesus! Last night’s makeup was still smudged all over my face, and my hair was a horror show: it was flattened against my head on one side and sticking straight up in the air on the other. My mascara had smeared down my
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