Free Read My Lips by Sally Kellerman

Burt Shonberg, the painter, was always so friendly no matter what anyone said. He was never one to go along with the crowd.
    It was an incredibly painful time for me. Tom’s death epitomized those “rebel” years in Hollywood: the disdain the straight culture had for drugs, sex, and what so many of our parents and authority figures considered the so-called “fast” life. Not only had I lost one of my best friends, but I had become persona non grata in many people’s eyes. I hated that people saw me as some sort of stoolie.
    “He told me to take care of you,” Bob had said that day we met. I didn’t want to be taken care of—at least not by Bob, whom I soon learned was an actor, just like the rest of us. The next time I saw him was as a bus driver in a Greyhound commercial. What his relationship with Tommy really was, I’ll never know.

    T OM’S DEATH INDIRECTLY BROUGHT ON ANOTHER DIFFICULT loss. My friend Luana had been my heart and soul. I used to tell her that I loved her so much that I worried I was a lesbian and questioned whether she loved me as much as I loved her.
    “It took you until Tommy died for you to realize how much he loved you,” she told me. “Are you going to take that long to know that I love you?”
    She left a note on my apartment door, the same apartment where we would hide in the closet to rehash the day’s adventures: I don’t know how many other ways to prove I love you, so I’m going away.
    I thought my little heart would break.
    She wasn’t gone altogether; she had work in other parts of the country and was leaving town. I knew we were still dear friends. But everything was different when Luana wasn’t there. She was my confidante, my best friend.
    Losing first Tom and then Luana—I was heartbroken. Thank God for the friends who kept me entertained and dragged me out of bed to auditions. Therapy would not have been enough to keep depression at bay. I went to class, where I felt safe. Even when other actors moved on from Jeff’s, I stayed.
    Tom was so young, so lovely, and his career was just taking off. Not since Vicky died had the death of someone close to me been so shocking and devastating, something that made me question the order of things in the world. Wasn’t he God’s perfect child? I certainly thought so.
    Back at home my father seemed to ignore the tragic aspects of the news story featuring my testimony in court. He cut my picture out of the local paper, framing it and placing it on his dresser. One day, not long after the picture ran, I was walking into my parents’ house as the housekeeper was leaving. She ran up to me, beaming and very excited.
    “Oh! I saw your picture in the paper!” she said. “What were you singing?”

CHAPTER 5
Pushing the Limits
    G OING TO AUDITIONS FINALLY STARTED TO PAY OFF. I SCORED a bit part in a film as a corpse and another as a prostitute in Machine Gun Kelly, directed by my friend Roger Corman. It became clear to me that, to feel less depressed, I needed better jobs and I needed to get laid. Both started to happen in the 1960s. In both realms the results were mixed.
    Bob Sampson was one of the guys who kept me from sleeping all day. I adored Bob, and he always knew how to enjoy himself. He went on to do a ton of television, including Twilight Zone and movies like Dark Side of the Moon. To me, he was not only a partner in crime but also my first accompanist outside of high school. I still sang every chance I got and would occasionally get up the chutzpah to sing a tune in a piano bar during an open mic. But I wasn’t ready to venture out as a solo act. I liked my acting cocoon, where I could practice my work in front of other performers. Still, I loved when Bob would come over and play the piano for me. He played everything in the key of C and never fussed if I kept him waiting for two hours while I combed my hair. We would sing and play a while, and then we would head out for adventure.
    Music was in the clubs, acting was in