The Gnawing Nomad

From the Gnawing Nomad—

For the last nine years I have been working on this bewildering family history….bewildering and painful as it has been, I plodded along incited by chronic, wild coincidence. I became the biographer of my parents and our family. Things have not been easy for many years as the template of mental illness, family abuse and dysfunction kept its roots, bolts, screws, and toothed iron collars firmly in place. I come from or more like; spit forth from a long line of schizophrenics, mental illness, alcoholism and just plain granite statues….loveless connections ad infinitum…freakin’ nada.. Mother, father, brother, kids, ex-wives, grandparents, aunts and uncles, no one ever stayed anywhere and made a home of LOVE. It was always…and I mean always move here to there to here…deny and abuse and destroy who you can….and die. So my effort to get my kids back and try to build a life….raising them and being there for them with any kind of stability certainly was not in the genes….did not come natural. I had not a clue nor a template…..this coupled with my own inherited deficiencies; mercurial self loathing…that has yet to go far away…gnaws at me. Maybe…..subsiding with the tools I have developed to keep at bay; spiritual, mental, physical tools…but they never go away, they constantly gnaw on the hill of refuse of generations of sadness and pain.

Escape from L.A. (the land of vast mythical proportion).

The 12-step definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.I was insane. Would dive into it like it was a cool, fresh, familiar…and safe…all-embracing padded cell.

Yes, 'Sally' and Eric and me were now a family again, Susanna would wiggle her way onto our couch with pitbull and copious prescription ....delusions do come true.

We found a place behind the Chinese Theatre, on Franklin ave...the top floor, a very seedy place:

This crumbling cinder block of an apartment building was a typical Los Angeles cookie cutter to stuff the masses, more like a small cell-block, four tiers of apartment-lined walkways surrounding a yellow green dumpster-size ‘pool’ shaded by a lone, asphyxiated palm tree. The building was filled with drug dealers and loons. Directly across our 'tier' lived a fellow and his girlfriend; ‘Merlin’ and Tabitha. Merlin, a smug-filled pretender with an arrow-shaped goatee, and a receding dyed black hairline had all the Hollywood Blvd. teenager transients eating out of his hand with phony ‘aura’ readings. They paid premium for his weed too. A typical Hollywood cardboard charlatan. I didn’t like Merlin and he new it, he would soon pay me back for my disdain.

One late night we get heavy knocks on the door (it’s 2am). I go to the peephole in my underwear, “who is it?” I ask. “Police!” boomed the voice. Opened the door and was straightaway yanked onto the walkway finding a twelve-gauge shotgun pressed to my neck. It was the police all right, the LA Gestapo, as they were known. LA citizenry were terrified of them especially the downtrodden. Jaywalking? Fuhgeddabodit. I had friends who were surrounded, handcuffed. Disappeared for days.

Five of them yanked me out with varying displays of weaponry. Especially the one I’ll never forget, icy cool jammed under my chin.

But I guess LA Gestapo had good reason this time. Someone had called the police reporting they heard gun- shots coming from our apartment. I later learned it was Merlin who made that call. The insanity swelled pus-like for more months.

My attempt at lancing this terminal insanity was like a surgeon seeking to remove a brain lesion with a fishing hook. Futile and clueless.

All the while that my mother was on another verge of a many a comeback, she would barely leave her couch and her pitbull 'Chica.' I finally lost my patience with the woman who begged me for a shiner six months prior. I threw my mother out. At wit’s end, frantic …relegating her to the Opel-Kadette and her beloved Chica. I was left to peer ridicule, “You threw your own mother out?!” A friend from Eighty Deuce showed up and readily took Susanna’s place on the couch. Not to worry, I could still make the rent.

Much to my chagrin I wasn’t through with the police. One morning (daylight) we get another foreboding knock on the door. Sally answers it. It was two LAPD detectives looking for Michael Evans. They were looking for me and I was standing right there. “Yes officer that’s me.” I firmly said, trying to sound responsible. They had a warrant for my arrest, triggered by the unpaid penalty of $658.53 that I ‘forgot about’ for child stealing ('child stealing' my *own* son. I was handcuffed and led back to a now familiar place, L.A. County Jail.

My gold chain and a spiritual-cross were stolen in the TV room the second day…. I wept; shaking while the guards searched the culprits. Never found. I was sick of jail and wanted an easier, softer way. I had mentioned to one of my cellmates “at least I wasn’t kicking any serious dru habit," He unknowingly gave me a good ‘get-over’ idea that was right in-line with my old Eighty Deuce philosophy, and my ticket to the ‘easier, softer way’. He said that the jail hospital was a ‘picnic’, rooms to your self with a comfortable bed. Saying you had to be really sick; like convulsions, seizures to be admitted.

I began to devise my plan. I was going to ‘get-over.’

That early evening in a sea of men in blue jump suits we filed into the cavernous, metal-clattering, noisy mess hall. A looked forward to daily event. Hundreds of guys, out of their cells at once, was a raucous and dangerous affair.

The queue began way down the green hall, in-line for the pick-up of the cookie cutter metal tray and mystery slop. I was sweating, nervous. Knowing what I had to do. Had to pull this off. Had to be award winning.

After gathering up my tray and then its slop. I head for my bench and table; begin to swish and froth my spit, working my salivaries overtime. Sit down with my tray, scan the fifty guys at my table and let the show begin. Commenced to spew homogenized slobber from the mouth, rolling the eyes up into the head and falling straight back to the floor, shaking and contorting seizure-like as much possible. “Man down, man down!!” the men at my table yelled. “Man down, man down!!” as they admonished the guards, pointing to the spit-soaked face writhing on the cement floor.

Guards surrounded me and very soon a stretcher appeared. I was taken to the infirmary. Rapidly diagnosed with ‘withdrawal symptoms’ and whisked to the hospital floor, feeling very pleased with my performance. Given a room with no view. And that’s not all.

A room with a bed all right, a metal bed with a flimsy plastic, grueling, tattered mattress with a conjoined bulge at the head that mimicked a pillow, a toilet that constantly covered the floor with water and its contents, a rat that would visit at his pleasure and a chunky metal door that featured a thick window as big as my face and a slot where I received my three dailies. A lone Advil-like pill every 12 hours added to the excitement. Never left that room for 14 days, I wasn’t well. But I got-over!

Released on a hot sunny afternoon with a bus token. But walked the seven miles back to Hollywood…I was free and let the Sun know it. Although was soon re-awakened to my plight when the dumpster-sized yellow pool greeted me with its asphyxiated palm tree. Rock Bottom was not a mirage.

August came; I was trapped, suffocating like a bug in a jar.

I scrambled and began to drive a cab…leasing it for 12-18 hour shifts for two weeks non-stop. One thing on my mind. I told Sally that I was leaving with Eric.

Bought a $99 Greyhound ticket. And for three days and three nights; sitting, curled, crimped, cramped and twisted, my three and half year-old son and I, my treasured tape player/boom box, guitar and a suitcase, fled LA.

Leaving Sally behind. But not very far.

Sometimes a ‘geographic’ isn’t the remedy. ‘Wherever you go, there you are.’

Tom Weaver

I found this comment by Tom Weaver on a related blog. He apparently had met my mother.
I found his words illuminating and to the point and worth posting here. Thanks Tom.

"In the latter-day bio of Susanna Foster, there's not a lot to be happy about but I AM happy to report that the "elder abuse" rumor was wrong wrong wrong -- fuhgeddabout.

All the lurkers come to me at times like this -- again from my e-mailbox:

Susanna did not qualify for the Motion Picture Home -- she didn't have enough "work days" by their definitions. Believe me, it was tried. And every time friends tried to get her SAG work days that would help her qualify (such as a sure-thing guest shot on MURDER SHE WROTE) she deliberately sabotaged them...that was in her quixotic nature.

The NJ Home came about only through the great kindness of Kitty Carlisle Hart, who had appeared with Wilbur Evans (Susanna's ex, the famous baritone) and out of the goodness of her heart bent rules and "made it happen". Mrs. Hart was in charge of the charity in later years... bless her.

Susanna had a tremendous gift. She also had a fiery personality and was her own worst enemy. And especially in later years, a tremendous -- madness took possession of her. It seemed to intensify after her son Philip died in her arms, a sick broken shell of a human at age 33.... but go look at the You Tube videos (www.YouTube.com/MicahVita), and the story they tell, and you will learn that Susanna was a victim -- and then in her own way, victimizer, the keeper of the flame who passed on her family's madness and broken dreams ..... and on, and on.

When I knew her she had been asked to read for a few things and always had a reason for not doing them, so I don't doubt it. I was told they wanted her to come down and read for the Gloria Stuart character in Titanic and she was totally against it. This had gone on as far back as her Universal days, truth be told, from all I was able to gather. She had a lot of fear it seemed. She was an amazing person, well read, eccentric in an artistic (good) way, giving, and all of the other superlatives, but she never scratched the surface of what she could do talent wise, and probably in her personal life as well. Still, she's certainly missed on this part of the orb."

Further pleas to The Father-figment......twisted half- truths and bed rock denial.

Eighty Duece-Philip clowning in much healthier times.

9-30-81 Dear Dad,

I’m very sorry for the long delay but my wife Sally has put me through hell. As I remember the last I told you Sally was stealing from tenants in the building we worked so hard to get, of course we were fired and I lost BOTH jobs because of it (12-80). Sally agreed to leave Eric with me and to move in with her parents (Orange County) and seek psychiatric care. Mom moved in with us to help out. In the course of about three months Sally would come to visit every two or three weeks. I desperately tried to maintain a family for my boy. On the night of 3/3/81 we were expecting Sally for a visit, I had to go to work. Mom was home alone with Eric. Mom was expecting Sally for her regular visit. The bell rang, mom opened the door and there stood Sally and two thugs. They proceeded to give mom a black eye (I have police lab photos) and Sally took Eric out of bed and made off with him. Mom managed to call me at work. And I was home in three minutes. I managed to catch the two thugs as they were trying to serve court papers on mom. A shouting match ensued me and the two thugs I told them all the things Sally had done to me (stealing and lying etc.) Their expressions changed completely, I then realized that Sally had lied to them too!! Still they were intent on doing what they set out to do; court papers suing me for divorce and suing me for custody of my son and a restraining order keeping me away from her parents house. I was verbally able to make one of them attack me. I defended myself and was not hurt. At the beginning mom called the police, they came long after they had all gone including Eric! This is all so very hard to put down on paper but I’m trying to give you an idea of what happened. The court date was 3/20/81. I obtained much evidence against Sally and her mental fitness. I could not afford a lawyer and Legal Aid cannot help in civil matters is what it came down to. The judge would not look at my evidence because my “legal papers were not in order.” Sally was awarded custody only on the strength of her father paying for everything that day in court. I was awarded a visitation that weekend, I picked him up that night and never brought him back and stayed on the run. Seven months later I got a message from Sally through a mutual friend of ours in essence saying she wanted to work it out with me alone. I finally called and she said basically what she told our friend. She begged me to come and see her at her job so we could work everything out. . We talked for four hours seemingly coming to terms. Threes days later Sally and the Orange County detectives were at my door arresting me and taking my son. I WAS LIED TO AGAIN! I spent 14 days in jail. Mom busted her butt to get me out. The Battle has Just Begun! In the meantime I’m desperately trying to find work, to get a good lawyer. There are also many positive things; the soundtrack of Phantom of the Opera has been released with mom’s voice and pictures all over it but unfortunately it means another legal battle. By a twist of fate I’ve gotten a little involved with the L.A. Viennese Folks-Opera and the head’s name is Derek Scott who says he worked with you at the Pierre Hotel. They are all great fans of yours, he even remembers meeting Philip and I. There is so much more to tell. I can’t call because we don’t have a phone right now. If it’s all right write back and let me know if I can call collect and give you the whole story. Love Michael 1130 Colorado blvd Glendale, Calif. 91205.

Well not exactly. I did get a message from Sally that she would like to meet and discuss reconciliation. I was excited and wanted more than anything to ‘reconcile.’ Oh, that warm, familiar and hopeful haze again. We did meet at a bowling alley down near AL and June’s for several hours…. cozy like. Sally assured me that charges were never filed, that she pressured her father to hold off. If nothing changes, nothing changes. My head was up my ass (an unveiling chronic problem, to say the least).

Two days later Orange County detectives zeroed in on the Bell and took Eric from Susanna. I wasn’t there. Angry? Beyond hopeless? There isn’t a description really.

Several days later, I was coming home from a late night taxi job. Was pulled over by the Glendale police (the Opel-Kadette was missing a couple of tail lights). Cop ran a check and my nasty habit of tossing traffic tickets (moving violations) caught up with me. I was hauled in for several outstanding, multi-town traffic warrants.

That night while awaiting my fate in the holding pen…Police-Man was overjoyed to have found an outstanding felony warrant, computer posted in my name, “Wanted for Child Stealing….”

I was shipped to L.A. County Jail (future residence of O.J.) a place much like my old stomping ground Riker’s Island. But before I could face the music in Santa Anna, the “I hope you can read” place that kept me on the run, I had to first answer half-a-dozen Failure-to-Appear warrants in municipalities spread across Los Angeles County. Here I was… again, 10+ years later, answering the 5am wake up clarion of the cellblock. Daisy-chained to half a dozen other evildoers, bused about to various towns and holding pens, a forced showdown to pay the piper-of-denial.

This went on for 10 days or so. Then it was down to Santa Anna to face the felony rap. Sat in the Orange County Jail for two weeks before the judge would see me. Comparatively, the Orange County Jail was a ‘softer’ place; we had sun and air on the roof and Sara Lee German Chocolate cake (cripes, it sure looked and tasted like it). But I still wept and fretted, jails no fun, roof or cake.

My day in court came; the familiar mom was there. After some heavy negotiations between my legal aide guy and the prosecutor, the charges were reduced to a misdemeanor. A fine with time served. $637.53. Three months to pay.

Still with mom at the Bell, I get a job as a security guard. Doing guard duty for ABC Studios; General Hospital, Barney Miller, Fridays, a take off of Saturday Night Live. Fridays is where I had my failed autograph encounter with Al Jerreau. Kept an eye on Michael Richards cutting his teeth (Kramer on Seinfeld). General Hospital was a fun set; I ate their catered food and met an actor who took voice lessons from my father years ago. The irony was never far.

I wanted so badly to be one of these people, felt so close, knew I had some talent, knew I had the “stuff “ even a technician…just needed a break. But felt so small, clearly less-than, beaten. If I could only get a break.

In the guardhouse, late at night I began to do what I had never done…write. I wrote songs and poems.

Songs that would rail against Sally with titles like “On Empty,” “Fooling Yourself,” “Keep it to Yourself,” “Stealing Love,” and “Till You Meet the Creature One Day.” Songs where I found the spiritual connection; “Position on My Mission,” and “Moon Love.” And my deep sorrow; “A Man Can Cry.” Then the heartstrings of denial and loss would consume me; “Try it Again,” “Looking Lonely,” “Inside of You.” Writing a firm“amen” after every composition. Set out listening to a lot of gospel, Andre Crouch’s “Don’t Give Up,” Playing it over and over. Tears streaking my face…. Don’t Give Up Michael. But sadly, it would be revealed that I was much more of a believer in the delusion of a Sally, Eric and Michael family than what any God could do. My spiritual awakening was an irksome process....until the feigned suicide attempt...much later on.


This piece grabbed my heart from somewhere, I copy it-

‘No man can possibly know what life means, what the world means, what anything means until he has a child and loves it and then the whole universe changes and nothing will ever again seem exactly as it seemed before.’ –Lafeadio Hearn. I write; “To Eric Michael, my light in the fog.” I treasure this notebook today.


Philip and Jimmy

Philip would go back and forth to New York staying with his East Coast young man lover Jimmy LightFoot…Jimmy was an African/American Indian who for many years worked for the Transit Authority and for just as long lived at 75th and Columbus Ave. Did have a gentle soul about him…just liked young guys, although never thought of him as a predator. Loved New York and practiced Puerto Rican “Black” magic, forget it’s name, a spiritual mix of magic, candles, powder formulas, icons and Catholicism. Philip and Susanna were ready recipients of Jimmy’s incantations. Jimmy cared for Philip and could always be depended on for a quick rescue.


Letters from Susanna to Philip and Jimmy, dripping with delusion (and sycophant back scratching)--

We Will Overcome!! Sept. 19, 1981 Glendale, Calif. 91205 Dear Philip—How does this hit you—and do you think you could come up with a really good idea, whether you could script it or not, with Jerry Lewis as a symphonic conductor and me as the soprano leading lady (about 45)? I have noted Jerry Lewis mellowing a great deal lately and I’ve seen him do some things on film lately that are pure genius. The French, you know think he is one. I used to hate him as a performer, but over a period of time (particularly since he’s older) have come to respect his talent. It would have to be funny in a subtle way (and he’s learned subtlety) I have no fundamental idea—just to have a marvelous conductor who is as mad as they all are. But is not the Jerry Lewis of old. He’s capable of moving you and his comedy today is capable of subtly. What my character in this would be? I have no idea except (whether she is funny or not) to be full of love and temperament. And of course the score would be full of beautiful music. Can you come up with something? He made a new movie recently (which I saw clips of on TV) in which he was superb. I don’t know the name of it, but I believe he directed and produced it. I have a strong hunch (and my psychic feelings have been extraordinary lately—as Michael can tell you), there is something here. Philip Castanza can provide you with the info on this recent Jerry Lewis movie and might be able to get it run for you. Please think about this as I know you have the imagination (original) for a true idea. I definitely am writing Russell Johnson and will send him a program of the festival in Beverley Hills, maybe my new record album of “Phantom” if I can get another one given to me, Lots of love to you TELL JIMMY---IF HE RETIRES AND COMES OUT HERE, WE’LL INCORPORATE! (If I hit it, of course—and I know it’s going to be so!) All love Mommy. Don’t forget to try Mickey Rooney, he’s working long and difficult hours—but his road manager don’t give up on. PPPS—Jean Arthur’s brother is a big fan of mine and is begging me to come out and autograph 300 stills of me. Which I will do! You know I love Jean Arthur and know her. She’s teaching acting in Northern Calif. And has my old “Driftwood,” in Carmel.

October 9, 1981 Glendale, Calif.

Dear Philip and Jimmy,

There’s so much to write and there’s so much happening this month I just don’t know where to begin. There have been several letters I’ve started to you and never get sent off because there was always more to come. First of all so many things happening for me to start work and sing again. #1is I must have (minor, I guess) surgery to remove a ‘spur’ on the left (up inside) my nose. I have complete faith in the doctor, which is a miracle for me, as I don’t like doctors in general or lawyers. This will be performed the end of this month or first part of next. He believes and so do I, its impacting the infection in my sinuses and causing the slight huskiness in my voice. Thanks God (and Jimmy) there is nothing wrong with my vocal chords! My hand is shrinking as is my upper arm and there is no reason for me not to sue that doctor for malpractice. The operation that will restore my hand to normal (and this comes from a doctor I really trust, miracle #2!) would cost $5000 and Medi-Cal would not pay for that. So I’m going to sue him to pay for it and ‘damages.’ The pain for 1 ½ years is enough, let alone the fact I cannot play the piano with my left hand. I’ve been extraordinarily psychic lately----so many things that I cannot enumerate. I also feel I can do great things, I don’t mean this in a stupid way—I mean with the help of God and my true friends I can sing more beautifully than ever I did before, be in command of myself as I never was in the past, and make life secure for you, Eric, Jimmy (if he wants it) and perhaps some minimum of happiness to people in the world. Please! I have not gone mad! All I need is my voice and I will do some good in the world before I die. I’m much tougher, in what I believe is the right way. And I will make everything better for us all (we may have to incorporate—after all he (it) doesn’t need money up there but we sure as hell need it down here. How about a remake of Frank Capra’s ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ (Jimmy Stewart) with a woman in that tour-de-force role? Have you ever seen it? I saw it the other night. Capra’s not working and available. This letter is so crazy because I can’t explain the myriad of social engagements I have this month—all leading to my goal—our goal---getting Eric back. And getting you well Philip and helping to make all of us happy! Believe me, my whole soul is in it. All my love to you both, Mommy PS: Philip! An autograph seeker asked me to sign a special post office envelope and stamp w/ Al Jolson in his famous pose as “Mammy”--- I wrote on it “What a love!” and signed my name. Try and get it at the post office.

I cringe with this one....viscerally overwhelmed with 'gag reflex.' I will always be amazed at how 'denial' can turn someone, a decent-soul.... into a malignant mad man.

12/23/81 Dear Dad, Just got your card yesterday and was very glad to hear from you. Well since my bad news letter to you many things have changed, for the better I must say! Sally and I have gotten back together; I think we love each other more now than ever (my prayers were answered). All the events of the past year could fill a small horror book but I feel our determination is equaled in working it out. I do hope that one day that one-day we can spend a holiday season or any season together and you can see your grandson. Who will be four 1/13/82. He’s just beautiful. Mom is attempting a comeback; about two months ago she made an appearance at the National Film Institute Convention in Universal City along with Lana Turner and many others. The response and support has just been incredible along with financial help from local fans. She’s been getting calls from all over the country, Europe and Australia! This just seems to be the tip of the iceberg. I can’t possibly put it in one letter all that’s happened. I’ll try to write once a month and let you know everything. I pray the next year gives health and happiness to you and Masako. Merry Xmas! All my love, Michael My new address: 6871 Franklin Ave. Hollywood, CA. 90028
My father… in red ink…crosses out “my new address” and writes “void.” I guess from when he tried to write back a month or two later.

Mom was always just about to re-ignite her career, was always on the verge; offered guest spots on ‘Love Boat,’ soap operas etc.* But would get sick or something when reality got close.
I don’t know about Philip but I always believed her…any day now for years. Accompanied her several times to these functions and the response was impressive. At one, Bob Hope spoke; we sat with Ann Gillian, as Susanna signed autographs. Susanna did garner attention. Countless times I would imagine my new car, my new condo, and my return to Rome. Denial can be so textured, vivid, a wonderful fuel source.

Here’s a short story Philip wrote about three months before he died, Collected among the huge piles of memorabilia and chaos in my mother's apartment. It recalls a distant day on Eighty Duece (I left punctuations/phrasing as they were, Philip and I never did learn the 'correct' way to write):

A Perfect Day-

I woke up earlier than mom and michael one sunday morning when we were living in apt 3A so I guess I was about 8 years old because we lived for two years in each of three seperate apts at 32 w. 82st. The very first thought I had was “I wanna walk Barney to the east end of castle lake, where i could sit on the rock with him and have the sun on my back while I coaxed him to go swimming. It was a beautiful summer’like spring morning so I only wore a short sleeved blue and white patterned shirt, blue jeans and sneekers. Mommy always said once I got somthing in my head-somthing I desired-I either achieved or got it (or died as children often do in their imaginations). So anyway I quietly got up and asked Barney if he wanted to go bye’bye. He said “sure” the way only Barney could. So we softly left. We did exactly what I wanted to do. Boy, it was a beautiful day. And mom, to this day doesn’t know that Barney went swimming unless she reads this or you tell her or both. I don’t snitch myself. For me, at that time, this kinda thing was MY own paradise. Just a few blocks from home and I WAS home. and viceversa. when I got back we didn’t see anybody except a few kids I knew ftom accross the street. I began talking to one of them who was a year or so older than I and he had a pretty big plastic toy truck. It was about the size of Barney’s head. He asked me if I would trade Barney for the truck. I said no. BARNEY LOOKED INDIGNANT. He was though, glad to be home when we got upstairs ‘cause mom and michael were awake and he (barney) was dry and naturally sniffing in the kitchen. I don’t remember the rest of the day but I do remember the night.

Michael and I had pushed our beds together and seeing how we had the television in our room and the next day was school my brother and I got under our quilt and sheet covers and mom and Barney lay in between and we watched The Late Show movie about a British highwayman with all the lights off. Boy, that was a great day.The TV was like a fire’place telling a story. It was love it was home it was peace. and I’ll never forget it if I lived to be 200 years old. Just the four of us. it was home. The Result?

Thirty two pointless failure laden years.

My dear Philip, Pointless? Not at all.

Search and seizure and the Stepford Son.....

REVIEW:

September 1980--

Out of no-where while getting ready to move from our Van Nuys apartment, not knowing where we were going, Eric G. recommended us (naively) for a 60 unit complex in West L.A. a couple of blocks west of La Cienega, a pleasant neighborhood. We interviewed with the owners of the building; Mr. and Mrs. Carlos Chong, a soft-spoken duo that took to us right away (there you go, that first impression).

Got the job, which included a roomy two-bedroom apartment with a private garden/courtyard. A nice place.

It seemed that my vague hopes were answered. This was our opportunity. A golden opportunity to finally get things right. Sally and I were finding God; acquaintances would visit with Jesus lessons. Simultaneously, I’d drag our little family down to the Crenshaw district for rousing gospel services with Reverend Fred Price. I started to pay attention. I was still driving the cab, an occasional gig on the weekend and learning my new duties as a ‘premier’ apartment manager. I was charged and filled with hope.

Al and June---The Cave Snake and the Lemming:

Sally’s parents; Al and June, moved to Fullerton, California (near Disneyland) from Connecticut a couple of years after Sally and I. Al who loved his Manhattans, preferred leaving a smile up to the other fellow and where a smirk could break his face. Showing as much emotion as a German Cave Snake (Lampropelitis pyromelana Germana) laying eggs. A difficult man to be around. And June; a sniveling, persistently giggling-nervous lap-woman who treasured drinking her Vodka Martini’s in Al’s cave.

Al never liked me, feeling all our previous problems were of my making. Al would ignore all whispered-entreaties by me on his once troubled daughter.

December 1980—

8560 Olympic Blvd. is an address that’s hard to forget, insanity extraordinaire took place there.

A typical West L.A. apartment building. Only a few years old, spanning all of the Olympic Blvd block with terraced balconies and a ground level garage. I was proud of our new position, determined to make it work.

One afternoon I was changing a lock in an upstairs unit when suddenly I heard yelling coming from the first floor. Running down the stairs to investigate, I found the door to our apartment opened, the yelling coming from within. I found Sally cornered in the living room by two of our tenants. One of the tenants crying and yelling at Sally, “That’s my blouse, and my gold cross!” Sally was balling as well. A horrific scene, what the hell was going on?!

As it were, Sally was stealing from the apartments and wearing some of these things while collecting rents! Answering the doorbell while modeling stolen property in front of the victims. Not to mention the medicine cabinets that were pilfered. I was staggered, shocked, bewildered…and fucking completely dumbfounded. Cant’ even begin to get the ‘moment’.

We lost the job and with the inherent chaos that ensued, I lost the cab job as well. My taxi boss wanted nothing to do with me when he heard the (I’m sure, the twisted version) story. I went back to him several times asking for a second chance…some ‘maybes’ but ….no dice.

Sally left to go live with her parents, promising to seek psychiatric care and promising to get better! Was emphatic… “I am going to get better Michael…you’ll see!” Mr. Chong saw my anguish and dilemma, feeling sympathy for my toddler son Eric and me. He let us temporarily stay in a one-bedroom unit he had vacant. My mother moved in to help. And I set out to find a job, weak kneed.

Trying again....and again

My mother, Eric and I began to settle into a routine with the promise to Mr. Chong that we’d find a place to live as soon as I could get back on my feet. Sally would visit every couple of weeks; the three of us would make day trips to Disney Land, The zoo, etc. I had the dream (a malignant delusion) that we would all heal and live happily ever after. Sally would write telling me of her progress in therapy and would explain with things like; “ I know I have something wrong with me, I want to get better and I will.”

It was a Friday night, I was at work and we were expecting Sally for a visit Saturday morning.

I suddenly get a frantic call from my mother in the middle of my car parking; “They’ve taken the baby, they’ve taken the baby!!” Screaming, “Come home now!!”

I jump in our beat –up Opel Kadett (a car my mother had been given months before). What the hell was going on, agonizing with every Wilshire stoplight I breached.

Run into the apartment and find my mother in hysterics. She’s frantic, “The intercom rang, I answered…. it was Sally…I buzzed her in…when she came to our door I opened it…she was with two men and a woman, they barged in, shoved me aside, one held me down, while Sally and the others took Eric from his bed!!”

“Hit me, Hit me”, my mother screamed, tears streaming down her face, crouched like a sumo wrestler, hands whirling, pointing to her face….”hit me, hit me…Michael…. HIT ME…they’ve taken the baby!!…They’ve taken the baby!”

I did, I became the Stepford Son; a suddenly hypnotized, wholly limbic robot.

I punched her in the face as hard as I could.

She fell to the floor, gripping her eye, moaning… “Good Michael good!”

Running back outside, I found the two nitwits on the steps trying to hand me papers. Shoving all aside ran down the side street, finding Sally behind the wheel of an idling car with my son in its back. Seeing me, she gunned it… racing past me. As she passed, I ran behind screaming for the police, while Eric looked at me puzzled through the rear window. Eric in the window turned the corner and disappeared.

I rushed back to the front of the building confronting the two…one of which I learned later was her father’s brother and who (allegedly) raped Sally as a young teen. I screamed at him and to the rest of Olympic…as he frantically tried to make me take the papers, “You fucking idiot, she’s a liar and a thief, POLICE, POLICE! You have no idea what you’re doing you fucking ASSHOLE, POLICE, POLICE!!” The nitwit grabbed me and that’s all I needed. I threw him in the bushes and began to Eighty Deuce beat him (mom taught me good…how to get someone’s dumbbell-goat). His friend knocked me from behind, threw the papers at my feet and they both ran. All the while, I’m screaming “POLICE, POLICE!” at the top of my screeching lungs.

By the time I get back to the apartment my mother has a terrific shiner sitting on her left eye. And when the police finally do arrive she tells them in detail and veracity how Eric was abducted and how the “older one” belted her. She was brilliant (in many respects). The Papers? 1) Suing me for divorce, 2) Suing me for custody of my son, 3) Restraining order keeping me away from Al and June’s house. Al had sicked his fellow cave-snake lawyer on me.

December 1980-

ANOTHER desperate letter to the figment-of-dad:

Daddy— Sorry for the long silence but I’ve been through a lot. Sally and I have separated and I have my boy. After three years of marriage I discovered Sally has some very deep mental problems. I hope the holidays have been well to you. There has been so much that has been happening, so hard to explain in a letter. Love Michael and Eric.

My new address 8560 W. Olympic Los Angeles, CA. 90035 (###) ###-####

I was betrayed, so familiar, and so comfortable. A self-fulfilled prophesy. My son was gone. Taken hostage.

The date in Santa Anna family court was March 20^th. I had lees than three weeks to build the case.

I thought it would be open and shut, why… I had the letters from Sally with her self-admitted pathologies and Mr. Chong stating the reason we were fired. But I knew having a lawyer would better my chances. But of course… I had no money.

So I desperately went up into the hills and sought out my new friend Charles Nelson Reilly for help.

Mr. Reilly was aghast at my story, “My God, Michael I’ll do anything to help!” He made several calls while we sat. Talked to a judge friend, talked to his lawyer.

I was revitalized, now confident things would be ok when Mr. Reilly set-up a meeting for me to see his lawyer in Newport Beach.

Borrowing a car from a friend, I headed down to affluent Newport Beach.

The affluent made it more definite that I would be vindicated ( I was convinced).

I had friends in high places. Al certainly didn’t.

Mr. Reilly's lawyer heard the story, took a look at my letters as I wore my heart on my sleeve…. telling all.

A few days went by, Mr. Reilly would never call me back, nor his lawyer.Understandably, they wanted nothing to do with our insanity.

But my mother and I were confident that between the letters and her faux assault and battery charge against the nitwit… we would prevail.

March 20^th was a Friday, Susanna, my friend Eric G. and I sat in the Family Court of Santa Anna waiting hall. Santa Anna was having a heat spell, the air-conditioning barely worked…it was hot and miserable, court sucks in any weather. Al’s appendage and I waited to be called into the judge’s chambers.

We waited.

Al’s Lawyer reminded me of Al Hirsch, remember Al Hirsch the first and only manager for The Sugar Blues Band? The fellow that always seemed dirty with a jaundice-like day-glow that haloed his every move? Who coveted little boys? Remember him? The Susanna Foster Chronicles-Phantom of the Heart: Mom's Sugar Blues Band...and the rock and roll manager.

Sitting in the Judge’s chamber, the judge first scanned the Al- dog’s papers and then asked for mine.

I handed him Sally and Mr. Chong’s letters. It didn’t take long for the judge to say, “Mr. Evans’, your papers are not in order. I’m ordering temporary custody to Mrs. Evans pending a 90 day review.”

I began to cry and plead with the judge, “Can’t you see what she’s done?” “You can’t do this!” “See right here she admits she’s crazy!” He didn’t want to hear it. He ordered that I was to have Eric the first and third weekend of the month pending the ninety-day go over, seeing as though it was the third weekend of the month I could pick Eric up that evening and return him on Sunday. I didn’t hear “temporary,” I didn’t hear “every other weekend.” All I heard was “Custody to Mrs. Evans.”

As Susanna and Eric G. waited in the car, I knocked on Al and June’s door. Al answers holding Eric in one arm and a Manhattan in the other, saying through scrunched lips, he hisses, “I hope you can read.” I grabbed my son as if he was the Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Al was right I couldn’t read. I never looked back.

I was on the run… a soon-to-be- felony child stealing warrant on my head.

Susanna called her sister Vicki (Baby) in Pomona asking if I could stay with her. I did briefly, witnessing first hand her brand of the Larson insanity. An insanity that was repulsive even to me. Her dilapidated house, her non-stop drinking, the sleazy boyfriend whom she’d sit on his lap and uncontrollably urinate across his thigh. Her pretty and lost daughter Suzanne (17). Not knowing that I was witnessing the genesis of her alcoholism and schizophrenia.

And how Vicki would use her pretty daughter, forcing her to sexual favor for the urinated thigh. A horror show.

One of our hide outs wasa room (The Bell Motel) in Glendale with Susanna for many months. The three

of us in two beds. Sorting things out, hand to mouth.

The author of the 'Whatever Became' series (of which Susanna was featured twice) Richard Lamparski came to visit The Bell Motel. Was putting together a new “Whatever Became Of…?” book.

All puffed up, self- righteous and happy and smiley trio in their motel room...with a warrant felony on my head.

I was immortalized again.....'What Ever Became of....Michael?' A Freudian can of worms.

Philip's passing...

Like lemmings flailing themselves on the rocks of the land of Vast Mythical Proportion....

Muhammad Ali- 1980

September 1980--

Out of no-where while getting ready to move from our Van Nuys apartment, not knowing where we were going, Eric G. recommended us (naively) for a 60 unit complex in West L.A. a couple of blocks west of La Cienega, a pleasant neighborhood. We interviewed with the owners of the building; Mr. and Mrs. Carlos Chong, a soft-spoken duo that took to us right away (there you go, that first impression).

Got the job, which included a roomy two-bedroom apartment with a private garden/courtyard. A nice place.

It seemed that my vague hopes were answered. This was our opportunity. A golden opportunity to finally get things right. Sally and I were finding God; acquaintances would visit with Jesus lessons. Simultaneously, I’d drag our little family down to the Crenshaw district for rousing gospel services with Reverend Fred Price. I started to pay attention. I was still driving the cab, an occasional gig on the weekend and learning my new duties as a ‘premier’ apartment manager. I was charged and filled with hope.

Al and June

Sally’s parents; Al and June, moved to Fullerton, California (near Disneyland) from Connecticut a couple of years after Sally and I. Al who loved his Manhattans, preferred leaving a smile up to the other fellow and where a smirk could break his face. Showing as much emotion as a German Cave Snake (Lampropelitis pyromelana Germana) laying eggs. A difficult man to be around. And June; a sniveling, persistently giggling-nervous lap-woman who treasured drinking her Vodka Martini’s in Al’s cave.

Al never liked me, feeling all our previous problems were of my making. Al would ignore all whispered-entreaties by me on his once troubled daughter.

December 1980—

8560 Olympic Blvd. is an address that’s hard to forget. A typical West L.A. apartment building. Only a few years old, spanning all of the Olympic Blvd block with terraced balconies and a ground level garage. I was proud of our new position, determined to make it work.

One afternoon I was changing a lock in an upstairs unit when suddenly I heard yelling coming from the first floor. Running down the stairs to investigate, I found the door to our apartment opened, the yelling coming from within. I found Sally cornered in the living room by two of our tenants. One of the tenants crying and yelling at Sally, “That’s my blouse, and my gold cross!” Sally was balling as well. A horrific scene, what the hell was going on?!

As it were, Sally was stealing from the apartments and wearing some of these things while collecting rents! Answering the doorbell while modeling stolen property in front of the victims. Not to mention the medicine cabinets that were pilfered. I was staggered, shocked, bewildered…and fucking completely dumbfounded. Cant’ even begin to get the ‘moment’.

We lost the job and with the inherent chaos that ensued, I lost the cab job as well. My taxi boss wanted nothing to do with me when he heard the (I’m sure, the twisted version) story. I went back to him several times asking for a second chance…some ‘maybes’ but ….no dice.

Sally left to go live with her parents, promising to seek psychiatric care and promising to get better! Was emphatic… “I am going to get better Michael…you’ll see!” Mr. Chong saw my anguish and dilemma, feeling sympathy for my toddler son Eric and me. He let us temporarily stay in a one-bedroom unit he had vacant. My mother moved in to help. And I set out to find a job, weak kneed.

Pause for thought-

In Julia Cameron’s the ‘Artist's Way,’ She speaks of the Artist's Shadow; “'In a twisted version of Darwinian determinism, we tell ourselves that real artists can survive the most hostile environment and yet find their true calling like homing pigeons. That's hogwash. Many real artists bear children too early or have too many. Are poor or too far removed culturally or monetarily from artistic opportunity to become the artists they really are. These artists, shadow artists through no fault of their own, hear the distant piping of the dream but are unable to make their way through the cultural maze to find it.” Not only was my maze cultural (?)....but the pedophilic molestations, the abandonment, the mommy emotional reign and delusion, and not the least the genetic quotient that was embedded with mental illness and alcoholism.

As a young boy growing up on Eighty Deuce, it seemed I was always one of the leaders, throwing ideas around for games (remember ‘Ledging’?), things to do (Stunt Fall), places to hide, and adults to harass. Remember the dummy we made to drag around town, to drop off roofs to scare unsuspecting pedestrians and screeching city buses. The Upper Westside was fertile ground for 'twelve year old artists" on a hot summer evening. The Susanna Foster Chronicles-Phantom of the Heart: Eighty Duece...

When I was about fifteen someone gave me a 8mm camera and I proceeded to ‘create.'

Making several 'shorts'. My friends were the cast and I was the producer, director and my favorite- The Special Effects Man. We had monsters, spies, and watercolor paint blood. Talcum powder stuffed into a toy gun barrel to simulate a silent bang. I remember one 'effect' I was particularly proud of was the spear gun arrow wedged in a paperback that was taped to my friend’s stomach underneath his shirt covered with water color paint blood. This was a gruesome scene to simulate just being shot with a spear gun. These films were lost.

I can go on, the music, the bands, the singing, and the writing...I guess what I'm figuring out is that there has been so much creative energy for so long. But sadly, so much of it was diffused, suppressed and negated by the family milieu, alcohol, drugs, death and so much chaos. I see now that creative energy not well directed can become...a subdued...fermented resentment, and resentments suffocate.... I became the Artist's Shadow, the Artist’s Shadow to survive.

The Susanna Foster Chronicles-Phantom of the Heart: A home was all she wanted...."Michael, mommy tried so hard!"

Finding a job

I got a job parking cars (I had experience) at ‘The Ginger Man’ restaurant in Beverly Hills a swank, trendy place frequented by notables of the time. I was in my element…sort of.

Why, I could say with pride; “I parked Jack Lemmon’s MG,” “Clint Eastwood’s 4x4,” “Carol O’Connor’s beamer.” And one of my heroes Mohammed Ali, I had read his book “The Greatest.” I parked his Rolls.

I loathed asking for autographs but the whole time he and his entourage were in the restaurant I summoned the energy to do just that. Keeping an eye on him the whole time through the window, and making sure that I’d be the one to retrieve the Rolls. They took forever. Paper and pencil getting palm-sweaty.

Back in the Liston vs. Clay era, Muhammad was known as Cassius Clay or sometimes just as ‘The Mouth’. Wasn’t very well liked in some quarters. Loathed for his loud, self-aggrandizing (brilliant) ‘mouth.’ Susanna loved him. When we lived at 250 W. 74^th just down the street from The Ansonia (‘63-‘64) Philip and I would walk these miserable yappy little dogs for a cigar-chomping war-horse that published a boxing magazine (couple of times Philip and I pushed it for him in front of the old Madison Square Garden...in the midst of dozens of other cigar chomping, pot bellied war-horses). Warhorse and cronies were Liston stalwarts, hated Clay. On 74^th and Broadway one night, Susanna raucously argued with warhorse and cronies, championing Clay’s brilliance. Susanna whipped ‘em good.

I get my chance--

Finally Muhammad and entourage were done, as they came out of the restaurant I grabbed his keys and ran for the Rolls, all the while clutching the paper and pencil. “I’m going to do this, I’m going to do this,” repeating to myself. Pulled the car up, holding the driver door open for him (he was driving). As he approached, I forced myself to ask, thrusting the essentials his way. He was kind. I asked him to sign it to my son “To Eric, from Mohammad Ali.” As he got in the car he started to hand me a $10 bill when his buddy intervened, pushing Mohammed’s hand away, “No way Mohammad, I got it.” His buddy handed me a dollar. But I got his autograph. Ali’s autograph for my son. And eventually through the unremitting, swirling cesspool of chaos, it vanished….a developing template….I came to realize, that when a soul chronically self-vanquishes itself things will always, inherently go poof in the night.

The Susanna Foster Chronicles-Phantom of the Heart: My mother the enigma...