The last time I saw Grace was at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
1995.
I knew her from New York We had mutual friends. Arthur Weinstein for one. I was working at a bar in Beverly Hills. The Milk Bar. Our clientele was rich. Their fun began late.
The after party was thrown by a banker later indicted for insider trading. We were seven. He had a bag of blow for twenty. Grace and I grabbed the stash and locked ourselves in the bathroom rather than listening to three zooted investors brag about their millions to coke-glazed starlets.
It was a bad remake of Tony Montana from the last scene of SCARFACE.
Grace and I did our own movie and spoke about friends from New York.
Rock sex and rock and roll
In Hollywood was only the drugs.
The bankers banged on the door. I opened it and told them to fuck off. Grace and I spent a few more minutes in the bathroom, then rejoined the party. At dawn we shared a taxi home. Her to the Marmont. Me to a small bungalow over the Hills in North Hollywood. The sun was harsh. Both of us had sunglasses I didn't get to sleep until noon.
That was in 1995.
Grace is my age.
41.
Maybe my math is bad.
Everyone lies about their age and weight after 30.
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