Glamour Ghoul, page 25
It was just what she needed to resuscitate Vampira’s Attic. Jack Simmons provided the wheels and the muscle to load up his car with the goodies that Maila selected from swap meets and then tote them to her house.
She set up a table at Santa Monica and Havenhurst. Shelley Winters was a regular, as were Carol Lynley and Carol Burnett. She saw Joan Crawford and Diahann Carroll stop by. Once, Jeff Donnell—George Gobel’s TV wife and Aldo Ray’s real one—sold at her own booth next to Maila. The Santa Monica street sale was also an art fair. In addition to the junk dealers, the vendors were jewelry makers, potters, painters, and leatherworkers, among other kinds of artists.
Maila dealt in old clothes. She’d set up a table, heap it with her jumble of rags, and sit in the sunshine, drinking in every ebullient moment of the day. When her legs were good, she’d load up a wheelbarrow and push it up and down the street, creating a portable boutique. The other vendors became her surrogate family. To them she was Melrose Rose, the curator of crap with distinction. Laughter and music filled the air. Every weekend at the street sales was like a carnival. Every street musician there was a Mozart, every sale a triumph, and every shopper a temporary friend.
I went into business for myself with 3 cents—yeah, 3 cents. I was broke & paralyzed on my right side.
The swap meets arrived at a glorious time, within walking distance. My sporadic paralysis had been diagnosed, and they were shooting me up thrice weekly with Vit. B 12, “the happy vitamin.”
Happy went with me to the Happy Meets. Early swap meet vibrations were super positive. People buying & selling and others anticipating a miraculous discovery in the next batch of rubble. I met many new friends, as dogs were allowed to attend.
Maila was the happiest she’d been in years. She’d regained enough strength to maneuver with the use of a cane, she was earning money, she was having fun, and perhaps best of all, her crazy stalkers were gone.
Now in “progressive ambulation,” she could walk 15 minutes to the most happening nightclub on the planet, Whisky A Go Go on North Clark Street and Sunset Boulevard, where girls danced in cages suspended from the ceiling. The venue hosted groups like the Byrds, the Doors, the Turtles, and Buffalo Springfield, and its live house band was led by Johnny Rivers. The Whisky was arguably the birthplace of Los Angeles’ rock and roll scene.
But Maila didn’t come for the music or the drugs. She came for the fashion. Bell bottoms, vests, jackets, and hats; rhinestones, feathers, ribbon, faux fur, scarves, chains, and bandanas. The eruption of colors and textures worn by the attendees at the Whisky were a wishful fashion designer’s dream.
I didn’t want to sell old clothes. I wanted to make inspired clothing, so I designed & remodeled rags—funky, like the hippies & kids I saw at the Whisky.
I got only the best rags. The kind rich people threw away after only wearing them once or not at all. I knew the woman who was a good friend of the big shot at our Goodwill. The trucks, when full, would make one secret stop before arriving at the main depot. Pickings were good for those of us who knew the right people in the right places.
The kids from the Whisky came down the hill in groups to check out Maila’s offerings. It was amazing to see how much extra cash she could get from adding a couple of feathers, ribbons, and some beads to a Goodwill find. She specialized in sewing velvet pantaloons, which she sold by the dozen to the musicians and their fans at the Whisky.
I sold these plumed Shakesperian berets to The Grass Roots & for sundry Beatles inspired musicians. They picked through my clothes to find the vanity garments. I did a tie-die [sic] for Grace Slick, a dish cloth bikini for Melanie, and a necklace I crocheted with twine & added some beads for Joan Baez. Frank Zappa, wife & their baby, Moon, came by a few times and bought things. Oh, & Brooke Hayward. She was still married to Dennis Hopper then, I think.
Also, the clothes & backdrop for a 3 Dog Nite [sic] album cover. I won the praise of [costume designer] Thea Van Runkle, who told me I was the most creative person she had ever met. It was rite [sic] at the time she was nominated for the Academy Award for the clothes in Bonnie & Clyde. It helped my business immensely. I raised my prices from a median range of $2.50 to a median of $4.00 for a dress.
I thought I was rich.
By the summer of 1973, the increased traffic on Melrose spawned more new businesses: boutiques, restaurants, and antique shops. Subsequently, the rents doubled, and Maila could no longer afford her apartment. Melrose Rose left behind her newfound family of street vendors as well as the not-so-sweet memories: Carleton Carpenter, Chuck Beadles, the La Brea Tar Pits, and the deranged fans who stalked her doorstep.
She moved 43 blocks east to what she called “the heart of the barrio” in East Hollywood. Her new apartment was inside of a tiny, flat-roofed house at 713 North Heliotrope, still just a block from Melrose Avenue. The entire space was about the size of a guest bedroom in a Bel-Air mansion.
A Mexican restaurant stood on the corner. The fact that they served not burgers and fries but instead tortas and frijoles did not concern Maila—it was coffee and conversation she was looking for. The owner, Hilda Álvarez, remembered Maila from the first day she turned up at the Sombrero.
“Then, we have not too many blonde customers, and I’m thinking how it was strange to see the pretty blonde lady sitting alone, just drinking coffee. And then she comes in the next day and every day. Always alone. Never did she order anything to eat, just coffee. So finally, I go to her and introduce myself. And she says her name is Helen Heaven.”
The two ladies hit it off, and soon “Helen” was allowed in the kitchen to clean up at night for a free meal. The Álvarezes soon became her surrogate family.
Hilda and her husband had three young children, and Maila interacted with the kids as if she were their grandmother. She especially enjoyed helping them with their homework. Because English was Hilda’s second language, it was a godsend. Maila was a private tutor for her children. She was so much a part of the family that when the Álvarezes went out of town, Maila took care of the kids.
Even then, “Helen” carefully guarded her past and remained somewhat of a mystery. So when Hilda saw a big white limo pull up to her place and saw a man get out, go up to her door and then quickly leave again, she was curious.
“Marlon Brando was giving Helen money. She showed me his check for three hundred dollars. Mr. Brando, he sent a driver over once a month for a few years, and then no more. It just stopped.”
Marlon could be quite generous to friends in need and was one of only a handful of friends whom Maila trusted to keep her location a secret. His largesse was intended not only to help Maila with living expenses but also, if need be, to hire an attorney to try to stop the release of Vampira, a film starring David Niven and Teresa Graves. But by the time she’d called a lawyer, it was too late. The film was released in the UK and scheduled for its U.S. premiere.
The movie was renamed Old Dracula, however—not because of Maila’s efforts, but to take advantage of the success of Young Frankenstein. However, it retained the name of Graves’ character, Countess Vampira. (In 1975, Niven wrote a memoir of his life during the Golden Age of Hollywood, Bring on the Empty Horses, the title of which was the obvious inspiration behind Maila’s quote, “Bring on the empty hearses,” in the foreword of this book.)
The ’60s and ’70s marked the beginning of the exploitation of Maila’s intellectual property that would continue for the rest of her life. She would never live to see a dime from those who profited from her character.
On the phone with Marlon, Maila railed against those who were “picking her bones.” She claimed ABC’s The Addams Family matriarch, Morticia, was more Vampira than the original drab character that Charles Addams had created. Natasha, the gothic cartoon spy from The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle, essentially was Vampira, while Hanna-Barbera later featured a character actually named “Vampira” on their monster-themed Saturday morning cartoon Drak Pack in 1980. And Disney secured a spot on Maila’s mental hit list with its Cruella de Vil character from 101 Dalmatians.
With Marlon’s financial assistance, Maila was able to have a telephone, which served both parties well. For Maila, it meant security as well as accessibility in the rare circumstance there should be an offer for an interview. For Marlon, it fed his appetite for lengthy, late-night phone calls, since he never physically visited her anymore. As usual, Marlon was prone to ramble on about politics and his personal philosophies, but occasionally, he strayed into a discussion of his love life, which never ceased to irk Maila. When she chided him for “always dating such pointless broads,” she obviously excluded herself.
In the early years of her self-imposed exile, Maila was interviewed by screenwriter Venable Herndon for his book James Dean: A Short Life, and in 1976, at age 53, she appeared in the documentary film James Dean: The First American Teenager, talking about Jimmy and their youthful exploits. She was horrified by the way she looked. Seeing the gaping holes left by her missing teeth just shattered her confidence, and she resolved to stop smiling when photographed.
Next came a feature article in Andy Warhol’s Interview magazine and an appearance at a book signing for Richard Lamparski’s book Whatever Became Of…?, which discusses her quiet middle-aged life in East Hollywood. At some point in the mid-’70s, she lectured at a James Dean Fan Club convention in L.A.
For twenty years, I kept myself within five days of being camera-ready. And then I thought, how sad is this? I kinda figured out that nobody was going to call.
By 1976, when Marlon’s financial support ended, the phone was disconnected, and all offers for appearances and interviews ceased. And it wasn’t only that her lifeline to the outside world was severed—she lived without the creature comforts most of us take for granted. She had no bed, no television, no electricity, no furniture save for a couple of plastic patio chairs. In 1977, she poured her heart out in an essay titled “Cat Piss and Tears.”
Elder maiden ladies in the year 1977 often find themselves socially, sexually, & sympaticoically [sic] “high & dry.” The high & dry spinsters are not organized. The hallmarks of the unofficial club are, however, quite evident on each of the sisterhoods.
(1) Facial edema (result of long ‘secret’ hrs. spent teary eyed.)
(2) Mild to dramatic scent of cat urine permeating her clothes.
(3) She seems to be an obsolete personage who shuns both drip dry & dry cleaning. Nor does she subscribe to any of the dazzling new “Wet Looks.” But rather more to the “Dust Bowl Look” of the depression era. The only wet-looking things about her are her psychedelic plastic reticule & her armpits. Baudelaire, were he among us today, could tell us what is in that reticule. Puss N Boots—kitty litter—tea bags—perhaps melba toast. He would know.
It’s indelicate to ask the ladies themselves, we think. Yes, we think. But they would love to be interviewed. They are so very lonely. Nobody much speaks to them anymore except the census taker, the social security re-evaluator, and the Wilshire strangler. So their limited lives are an on-going wet war. Wetting their blankets with tears & drying the cat box with kitty litter. It’s on & on for these anonymous ladies.
Yet, it’s not all that bleak for the old girls. Somewhere between the 1st & the 5th of the month (her extravagant period), she may well wet her whistle with a glass or two of Ripple.
Twice as much for the non fickle few
Ripple is their heaven sent dew;
Trickle, trickle, trickle,
Ripple, ripple, ripple!
(Poor dears, even their drinking song has an obsolete unlovable cadence.)
That same year, 1977, my father died unexpectedly at the age of 55. I called Information in Los Angeles for every name I’d known my aunt to have used: Maila Nurmi, Elizabeth Nurmi, Libbie Niemi. I even tried to contact Dean Riesner. Finally, like my dad did when there was a death in the family 15 years before, I enlisted the help of the Red Cross to find my Aunt Maila. No luck. She had disappeared off the face of the earth.
Maila wouldn’t learn of her brother’s death for nearly 12 more years.
Chapter Twenty-Two
By the late 1970s, the punks had arrived in Los Angeles. Many lived in and around Maila’s neighborhood and she was fascinated by what she saw. Young people with spiked hair, tattoos, and body modifications wearing studded leather jackets and ragged jeans held together by enormous safety pins. Men as well as women with their faces painted in an elaborate theatrical style. A longtime makeup enthusiast, Maila marveled at their creativity and expertise.
One man, Tomata du Plenty, stood out among the rest. Born David Harrigan, he was the frontman for the punk band The Screamers. He and Maila met in a parking lot near her home; she was out for her daily walk and he had just left a rehearsal. His music was anti-establishment and represented the iconoclastic philosophy of the punk subculture, which was very similar to Maila’s own personal ethos. The two shared a common wit and artistic passion and became fast friends.
Long Gone John was a part of the music scene as well and another of Maila’s friends. He made sure to check in on her, took her on errands, and worried if she was getting enough to eat. John later became the founder of the successful record label Sympathy for the Record Industry.
Aside from the Álvarez family, Tomata, and a few of his acquaintances, Maila rarely cultivated new friendships, but she still hung on to Jack Simmons. Their bond survived because of their mutual abandonment by James Dean. At the beginning of Maila’s self-imposed exile, Jack came around weekly to chauffeur her on errands. But some weeks, depending on Maila’s mood, Jack was turned away when she wouldn’t answer her door. Maila complained that Jack was emotionally abusive. In all probability, Jack, concerned for her welfare, doled out unsolicited advice that she didn’t appreciate. But according to Hilda, Maila was alternately either ambivalent or disdainful of Jack.
By 1979, Hilda was divorced and remarried, and the Sombrero was sold. Her new husband was a French chef, and the couple made plans to open a new restaurant, Heliotrope House, across the street, serving continental cuisine. Maila was offered the chance to decorate the place. In preparation, Maila and Hilda planned entire days together scouring swap meets and yard sales.
As the grand opening of Heliotrope House approached, the dining room was readied in accordance with Maila’s Victorian-inspired vision. Pillows were plumped, furniture arranged, artwork hung, plants poised, and candles lit.
At some point, Hilda took it upon herself to hang three small pictures on a wall. Upon arriving at the restaurant that day, Maila immediately took notice but didn’t say a word.
The next morning, when Hilda came to open up the restaurant, the front door wouldn’t budge. The entrance was blocked. Going around through the back, Maila, who had a key, was already there and stood in the empty dining room, fire in her eyes.
“Helen moved everything in front of the door,” Hilda told me. “And when I saw, I just started crying.”
The dining room was bare to the walls. Every table, every chair, and every plant had been shoved into a massive, tangled heap in front of the door. No small feat for a woman who walked with a cane.
“You destroyed it,” Maila screamed at Hilda. “You destroyed it all! It was my design! How dare you paint on my canvas? How dare you?”
Hilda was furious as well and ordered Maila out of her restaurant, warning her to never return.
Weeks passed, and then Hilda noticed Maila sitting in a chair out on the sidewalk in front of her house. They looked at each other but no words were spoken. The next day, Maila was again out on the sidewalk, and this time, the women exchanged a few words. As the days passed, it became apparent they both missed their friendship.
Hilda invited Maila to come inside for a cup of coffee. It took a few more days for Maila to process the idea before she could bring herself to return to the restaurant. And when she did, the incident was never mentioned again. In that moment, Hilda accepted Maila for who she was, and over the next 30 years, there was never another cross word between them.
In the early ’80s, Jack moved to Long Beach, where he and his partner, Phil, enjoyed some success in real estate. After that, his scheduled visits to Maila became monthly. Because she had no phone, each visit was prearranged via a call to Heliotrope House, whereupon Maila either confirmed it or rejected it. After nearly three decades as friends, Jack was aware that Maila’s confirmation in no way guaranteed she would be available.
Even so, he faithfully made the two-hour round-trip trek from Long Beach to East Hollywood every month. When Maila didn’t answer her door, he would check to see if she was drinking coffee at Heliotrope House. Sometimes she was and sometimes not.
Eventually, her collection of personal memorabilia and unsold items from her shop outgrew the little box apartment on Heliotrope Street, and Maila moved around the corner to 4358 Melrose. She called the new apartment her warehouse.
Using her Vampira’s Attic inventory added to her various yard sale accumulations, Maila set up shop again. The warehouse served as both home and business.
Carla Brown, a 50-pound English Pointer, entered Maila’s life when her owner died. When Maila heard that the dog was destined to be euthanized, she adopted her. Every day, they went for a walk, westbound on Melrose, Carla wearing one of Maila’s thrift-shop scarves around her neck. With Carla beside her, Maila felt more secure in their rough neighborhood. At 3 p.m., there was no whisper of the unrest that would almost certainly erupt in the night.
