Free High On Arrival by Mackenzie Phillips

night again, then we’d go out and do the same thing the next night.
    In spite of my cautious aunt and somewhat protective cousins, there were some close calls. My old friend Danny Sugarman—who was the manager of the Doors and would become a pop culture icon in his own right—used to tell the story of the night we met. He was riding home from a Slade concert with Rodney Bingenheimer. Danny was in the front seat with Rodney and the driver, and one of the supporting bands was in the backseat. Apparently I too was in the backseat, making out with one of the band members, when they all decided to get in on it. Someone yelled “gang bang,” and amid my protests the backseat became a tangle of arms and legs. Danny didn’t like what he heard. He said, “All right, cut it the fuck out,” and flicked on the overhead light. The band members sheepishly pulled back, the driver pulled over, and I hopped into the front seat to thank my savior.
    Danny was nineteen—five years older than I—but we became partners in crime. He was handsome and fun, extremely bright and full of boundless energy. Between the two of us we had rock ’n’ roll carte blanche. We had our table at the Whisky. We could go backstage at any show. He knew he could count on me to behave myself, so he often brought me out for Chinese food with his father, to show that he was keeping company with a well-brought-up famous movie star. I gave him legitimacy in the eyes of his straitlaced father, who had no idea I was a wild kid.
    My days were almost as busy as my nights. My turn in American Graffiti was a golden ticket. I was a well-known young actress. My ex-stepmother, Michelle, ended up being the one who took me on the auditions that constantly sprang up at inconvenient times. Michelle, who had a very busy and full life and career, stepped up when my mother couldn’t or wouldn’t. She invested herself in my career and my future. It was incredibly generous, but she did it with her typical matter-of-fact manner.
    When she was married to my father, Michelle had been playful and warm, and I was a cute plaything for her. Over the years she’d developed into a cool Hollywood broad. She was also a mother now. She had a better perspective on my questionable upbringing and understood that children need protection and guidance. She did all she could to keep Chynna away from the insanity, and she tried to protect me too, in her own way. As we drove to one of my auditions she said, “Everyone in this town knows how talented you are, but they’re calling you the next Judy Garland, and you’re probably going to die just like her.” Michelle was tough and frank. This was her way of showing love and trying to protect me. Michelle was worried about my safety, but I didn’t take her seriously. The idea that “everyone in this town” even knew I existed was weird and incomprehensible to me. Besides, I didn’t have a real sense that what I was doing was wrong or dangerous. I just thought she was being mean.
    My mother wasn’t completely absent. She must have called during this period, because I remember asking her to drive me to some of my auditions. She declined. And for me that was the last straw. It was more clear than ever that her life and her marriage were more important than I was. From then on, whenever she questioned me in a maternal way, asking what I was doing, where I was going, how late I’d be out, my response was—if not in so many words—“Where do you get off grilling me?” As far as I was concerned, she had given up her rights.
    Thanks to Fred Roos, I auditioned for Taxi Driver and The Exorcist, both parts I didn’t get—though in hindsight Jodie Foster’s off-screen blowjob was a little too much for me, and Linda Blair’s head spinning, well, I had better ways to make my head spin. But I landed plenty of parts. I worked constantly after I got the job in American Graffiti. While it was in production I did an episode of Movin’ On, and a TV