When I was finally discharged from the Marine Corps, in San Diego, California; I took a long train ride across this great country of ours and returned home to the peaceful land of Pleasant Valley. Since I still had the God-given talent to work with my hands, I started my new life’s venture by going into business for myself as a remodeling and home-repair contractor. My uncle Vito gave me small projects to do around the bakery shop, and that helped me to get the tools and equipment I needed to expand my business into bigger and better projects. I couldn’t stand to live in the same house as my father, so I rented a room in a boarding house in Poughkeepsie. It was very cozy and peaceful there. And the folks were very hospitable to me. They sympathized with me being a Vietnam veteran, when our country was having a hate-fest towards returning veterans. I was spit at and cursed by even my high school buddies. What made it worse, was the fact that my own brothers, and their wives, had an indignant attitude towards me. It was not a good ol’e time in the USA for soldiers.
The PTSD I was experiencing made life very difficult at times. In my final act of rebellion against a government that (I felt) had let me down, and that was fueled by the daily, negative news reports on the WAR; I smashed all my medals and ribbons on a steel anvil at my father’s house, and I burned all my uniforms in a heap, in the back yard. (Another act that I would come to regret years later.) Some things are not replaceable.
After about a year of trying to fit in and settle in to the country life; I discovered that country living wasn’t doing for me what it once did. After all the action that took place in the Corps; I needed more activity that would satisfy my adrenaline needs. Considering that some of the events that occurred over the previous years, were dramatic enough to be subject material for any academy award movie; it seemed that going to Hollywood was the most likely choice for a character like me. I actually did discuss my options with my father, and his opinion was: “You’re not an actor! You’re a ‘baker’s son’ and the bakery is where you belong! It’s time for you to settle down; like your other brothers.” I didn’t agree. Getting married and settling down could wait! I bought one Sampsonite luggage suitcase and a leather shaving kit, purchased a one-way Greyhound bus ticket to Hollywood, and then boarded the bus for what would turn out to be one very uncomfortable ride to the West Coast and California. I traveled light!
When I arrived in LA, I told the bus driver to take me to Hollywood and Vine. I wanted to be let out in the middle of Hollywood. It was 1966; the hippie generation and anti-war sentiment was in high gear in LA. I registered in a cheap hotel on lower Vine Street (Hotel Brevoort). I was told by one of the guests there that this was the last known residence of the Hollywood actress notoriously known as "The Black Dahlia," whose mutilated body was found lying under the famous HOLLYWOOD sign, back in 1947. This was not a very good welcoming introduction to Hollywood.
Over the next few weeks, I was able to secure a job with a domestic agency on Hollywood Blvd., as a chauffeur and houseman for the rich and famous. While working in this field, I also enrolled in numerous drama classes to study acting. I did manage to join SAG/AFTRA unions and acquired several minor parts in movies and television. Most of the actors and actresses from the “Golden Era” of Hollywood were still around then, and I managed to work for a number of them through the agency. The most notable job I had was working and living on the sprawling estate of the most powerful movie mogul of that time: Jack L. Warner and his wife Ann, in Beverly Hills, at 1801 Angelo Drive. I was hired as the chauffeur, houseman and butler; all three! Jack was a cheap son of a bitch! The parties and events I took part in at that mansion, were legendary—-to say the least. I got into one hell of an argument with Kirk Douglas one day...but that’s another story all together. Over the next five years, what took place in Hollywood, and what I personally experienced; was all the “stuff that movies are made of”--and were made of!
Around the year 1971, with the daily news bombarding the airwaves with the horrors in Vietnam, and the fact that Hollywood (good ol’e Hollywood) was in its death-throes; I decided it was time for plan “B”: Go home, get married and have kids. Hollywood was no longer the kind of business I wanted to be part of (Sex, Drugs, Violence and sensationalism). So, I packed my Sampsonite and bought a one way ticket, by train, to (paradise!) Pleasant Valley. Ironically, a popular song that was played regularly over the radio at that time was: “Do you know the way to San Jose....,” sung by Dion Warwick. The lyrics fit my circumstances so well that it was as-if the composer was “reading my thoughts, at the time.” It was timely. Yes, I did pump gas, and I did park cars.
When I reached my home town, I was picked up at the train station by (Of all people) my father! I felt like the “prodigal son” of the Bible story. Here, my father, who hated all that I did and everything I stood for, was meeting me half-way on my arrival home from the “hedonistic” lifestyle I led. I suspected that this was his way of saying: “There, you tried it your way, and you failed. Welcome home son.” I felt totally defeated.
Of course I had to humble myself and return to the bakery shop. The sarcasm and biting innuendo I endured there, was not good for my soul. I had to get out of there, and I did. Since my father had wanted me to follow in his footsteps in the bakery business, like his other three sons, who were already working in the bakery shop at the time; this would be the proverbial “last straw.” He and I didn’t speak for years. I eventually went out on my own in the building trade. I did very well working as a carpenter--something that came natural to me. I liked working with my hands and creating. I did very well financially and even bought a blue, convertible Cadillac.
I was living a solitary life in a one-room boarding house, in the city, and there were times when I would get to feeling very low and depressed. The “post-traumatic-stress” was getting the best of me. I started thinking of the prospect of marriage. At that time, I “saw the light” and got interested in religion too. I was introduced to a religion that many considered a “cult” religion (Jehovah’s witnesses). It was a small group that gathered regularly and like the Mormons, peddled their wares (literature) in the so-called ‘field.’ I was feeling good then because their beliefs (doctrines) gave me something to look forward to, and helped to take my mind off Vietnam. It also gave me a degree of peace in my life. Unfortunately, because of my involvement with them, my whole family and some friends disowned me. My father even threatened to shoot me if I ever stepped foot on his property. It was the second time in my life that I stood up to him by saying: “Oh yea! And what makes you think I won’t fire back?”
It wasn’t too long afterward, while I was still living in the boarding house, that I was introduced to a girl whom I would quickly marry. We met at one of those religious conventions that the “organization” sponsored every year. As I recall, it was she who made all the initial, provocative advances. I was overwhelmed by her luring attention...and I gave in. She was eleven years younger than I, and had no formal education. She lived in Vermont in a quaint little village that had a sign posted on the highway: “Welcome to the smallest city in America.” All my friends warned me against this marriage, saying: “She’s too young, and she will never be able to compete with you intellectually because of your background and experiences. You’re asking for trouble if you marry this young girl.” (And trouble is what I got for the next fifteen years!)
In 1974, against all odds, I married the girl. As the years moved on, we had four children and moved around a lot, and a lot happened! I mean a LOT! Ten years later, in 1985, I won the national (Contractor Of The Year Award) for designing and remodeling a huge piano showroom in Poughkeepsie. During those years, there was very little peace and understanding between us. The true colors of her hidden past surfaced from time to time—some of which was disturbingly shocking to say the least--and it was too much for me to handle. We talked divorce often. It had a devastating effect on the children. They didn’t know what side to take. The religion we were part of played a major role in dividing our family too. I personally decided to break away from that “cultish” religious (organization), and pretty much swore off having anything to do with “organized” religions from that point on in my life. Don’t get me wrong though; I always have and always will trust and believe in the “True” God of the Bible, and the redeeming value of Jesus’ sacrifice.
Finally, around the year 1986, I had completed an outline for a mini-series idea I had based on my life’s experiences (The Baker’s Son). I was going to return to Hollywood to see if I could get the networks interested in producing it as a mini-series for television, and also to see if I could salvage the acting career that I had abandoned years earlier. My wife feared that I would not come back; so she convinced me that it would be best if we “all” moved to California and started a new life. She suggested this because of my prior residence there and that maybe it could be a help in some ways in getting us started. (I was against this idea of the whole family moving to Hollywood; but she made it clear: “It’s either this...or divorce.”) I recall telling her: “Hollywood is NOT the place for families...it destroys them!” Nevertheless; we sold everything we owned, except the essentials (which included two motor cycles) and had them shipped to LA, and then the six of us packed into our red, Chevy station wagon to make the promising journey to Hollywood. As we exited the driveway from the country home that we had been evicted from; it snowed that day in October of 1986.
We arrived there haggard but hopeful (two adults, two adolescents, and twin baby girls) and proceeded to find a house to rent in Burbank, which is just over the hillside from Hollywood, and a much safer place for a family. In a short time we moved into a house near the NBC studios on Alameda Ave. I found work as a carpenter and eventually got involved in the movie business again, as an actor and also producing and writing. I got so involved with days at work doing remodeling for movie stars, and taking drama classes at night with Susan Strasberg in Beverly Hills that the strain on our marriage was too much for my wife to handle. Those issues, coupled with her insane jealousy, brought her to the breaking point, when during an argument, she said: “Yea...John. You know where the door is. Get out of my life!” I did as I was told: I moved out! I got so tired of hearing her say: “You know where the door is...” She never believed or accepted the fact that I was doing the things I was doing, because I wanted a better and more secure life for us and the children.
We eventually separated...formally. The stress of being separated from my kids was taking a toll on me. I was drinking and smoking more than usual and not getting enough rest. Still, I continued to work on major remodeling projects in the Hollywood hills and going to drama and screen-writing classes at nights and on weekends. I even started my own production company and co-produced a documentary on the Vietnam War. At this time also, I was hired to be the host of a new talk show on Fox TV (LA THIS WEEK), and was given the position as executive producer too. I was about to become a very wealthy and famous figure on late-night TV—-according to my agent.
However, the timing wasn’t right. My wife was involved with other men in her life and she proceeded to hire a lawyer to file the divorce papers, because I wouldn’t take that action myself for the sake of the kids. I was so devastated with the idea of not having a family life with my kids in the future, that I went on a drinking binge to numb my feelings. In spite of all this, I maintained my day and night routines of work in the day, and classes at nights and weekends. Because of the divorce, I didn’t show up to sign the million dollar television contract with Fox television, and I was black-listed by the production company. (So much for the “brass ring”). Opportunity knocks but once? No! At that same time period, I received an early morning phone call, while having the company of my daughter Lydia, who was with me during the night, to help me deal with a major anxiety attack. The call went something like this:
“Hello...John Gasparro?”
“Yes...speaking.”
“This is Mark at Triad Artist. Good news! Ted Turner is
interested in optioning to buy your script for the Baker’s
Son; as a mini-series. I need to have it on my desk ASAP.”
“I...I’ll need a little more time!” I said.
There was a moment of silence, and then:
“How much time?”
“A couple of weeks...maybe?” I asked.
“Get it over here ASAP!”
He hung up. Brevity within the ranks of the power-brokers in Hollywood is the essence of their deal making temperament.
After class one night, in Beverly Hills, one of the newcomers in Strasberg’s class asked if I would be her partner in rehearsing a scene from (Days of Wine and Roses). Michelle was a former Las Vegas performer who wanted to transition into acting. She was well tanned and physically attractive. I agreed to be her scene partner and we met the following night at her apartment in the “flats” of Beverly Hills. We got acquainted with each other over a few drinks. I had Gin and Tonic and she drank Jack Daniel’s. As we exchanged some talk about our backgrounds, she kept refreshing my drink. She told me about her divorce and I told her about my pending divorce. After about an hour or so, she decided it was time to rehearse the scene. We got the play-books out and began to rehearse the scene between Lee Remic and Jack Lemon when he was trying to get her to stop drinking. We continued to drink, and I switched to drinking the Jack Daniel’s until we ran out. Michelle suggested we go to Turner’s on Sunset Strip and buy more booze. We climbed into my convertible Alpha Romeo and went to Turner’s (open all night) liquor store. She picked out two bottles of whiskey (Jack Daniel’s) and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes.
When we got back to the apartment; she went into the kitchen and made up two glasses of whiskey for us, on the rocks. She sat on the bed beside me and we were both feeling pretty loose at this point. She handed me the play-book and started to say her lines: “Sober Joe, the milkman’s friend...well you got me. What’ll you do with me?” At that moment, I reached around and grabbed hold of her in a tight embrace. She dropped her glass on the floor and I forced her back onto the bed. I began to kiss her passionately as we rolled around on the bed. She pushed me off, took a deep breath, and said:
“Honey...not so fast!”
I said: “The hell with the script, I want to make love to
you!”
“But... what about the scene?” She said.
“We’ll make our own scene!” I said.
She quietly got up and went into the bathroom to “get more comfortable,” as she put it. I proceeded to take all my clothes off. She came out wearing only a pair of white panties and bra. Then she went into the kitchen to refresh our drinks. She handed me mine and said: “Let’s have another drink first.” She turned out all the lights, lit a candle, and then went over onto the other side of the bed. It was then that she told me that she had put a little “something extra” in my drink. Then I watched her snort this white powder from her fore-hand. She said that she was sorry but that she had a slight drug habit, and hoped I would understand. I nodded. It was then that I understood why she had those burn marks on her flaring nostrils.
With all the drinking and smoking, and not having eaten for a while, I was feeling a little nausea. I ignored the uncomfortable feeling and began to make love to her. She was very reciprocating and we continued to have passionate sex for hours. In the course of our love making, she would drift in and out of consciousness, and uttered moans in French. I had never had such a sexual experience of this duration ever. For reasons unknown to me at the time; I could not stop and I could not close my eyes.
The phone rang and startled us both. She answered: “Hello....” I could hear a woman cursing and screaming on the other end of the line. It sounded like my wife. Michelle held her hand over the Phone and said: “It’s your wife. She knows you’re here! What shall I say?” I took the phone away and spoke: “How did you know I was here! Who told you?” She said that Susan Strasberg gave her the number because she knew I was there with Michelle. Then she started cursing me and threatening me by saying: “You’ll never see these kids again....!” Michelle grabbed the phone out of my hand and laced right in to her:
“Listen to me bitch...you’re just as guilty as he is and it’s
your own fault he’s here with me and not you. John told me
about you. If you had been more of a woman to him, he
wouldn’t need to be here. I’ve had sex with Burt Reynolds,
and I can tell you that ‘John’ can put his shoes under my
bed anytime! Don’t ever call here again!”
She slammed the phone down. Michelle suggested we try to get some sleep. We both fell asleep embracing each other.
I was awakened by the sound of cars moving on the street below and daylight filtering through the sheer drapes of her windows. she was sound asleep. I rolled over and felt this deathly cold and detached feeling in my body. I began to shiver uncontrollably. Although it was the middle of summer, I felt very cold! My guts felt like they were going to explode. I got up and ran to the bathroom. Before I could even get to the ‘porcelain alter’, I let out a vomit that splashed right onto the wall, as if it was jet propelled. The color was a reddish brown. It looked like blood! Something did not want to be in my stomach! At this point, Michelle got up and came into the bathroom. I was kneeling at the toilet bowl and heaving my guts out. Each time I did, it felt as if my head was going to blow from the pressure. It seemed like there was no end to the liquid coming out of my mouth. My head was banging like a jack hammer and I was shaking violently. In between burst of up-chuck, I kept saying to Michelle:
“My lips are so dry, please give me water! I need water!”
“No honey. I can’t give you water because that would only
make it worse. I know. I was a nurse. You’ve had
COCAINE. I put it in your drinks. I’m so sorrrrrrry!”
“Michelle...I’m not going to make it through this one! I’ve
been through many hurts like this, but I don’t think I can
do it this time! I’m going to DIE!
“No honey...you’re not going to die. I’ll help you.
Please hold on honey...PLEASE!”
The next thing I recall is that I was lying on her couch clutching a white bed sheet to my nude body. My heart was beating so fast, that there was hardly a space between beats! I was curling into the fetal position, rocking from side to side and I kept repeating: “Michelle...Michelle...Oh Michelllllllll!” I had experienced sea-sickness in storms at sea, and burning shrapnel wounds during combat actions; but this pain was far more intense than any of that. I wanted to die--to stop the pain. I wanted to die!
Michelle knelt beside me and said: “Honey. Do you think you could make it to the car if I help you?" I said I would try. She wrapped my naked and shaking body in a blanket and walked me down to my Alpha Romeo. I couldn’t drive, so she had to drive the stick shift--which she did not know how. At that point I didn’t give a damn about the car! She ground through the gears all the way. We made it to Cedars Sinai Hospital (emergency room), in West Hollywood. By the time we got there, I was totally dehydrated from all the vomiting, to the point that I had hardly any vital signs registering. I was immediately admitted to the intensive care unit. About a week later, Michelle came to visit me. She signed a form to release me from the hospital. She took me to her apartment, offered me coffee and a cigarette, and asked me to promise her something. She said: “Honey. I want you to promise me something and swear that you will do what I say.” Realizing that she saved me from a painful death, I promised. She said: “I’m going to take you somewhere and introduce you to some people. I want you to promise that you will do what they say and take their advice; it’s going to mean your life!” I agreed, unconditionally.
She drove me back to Cedars Sinai Hospital and she escorted me into an auditorium filled with a weird assortment of men and women. There was a man whom I recognized as an academy-award-winning movie actor standing behind a podium, on the stage, and he was telling his personal story to the whole group that was seated in the room. Michelle sat me down in the back row and told me to listen. He was telling the story about how his life was destroyed by alcohol and drugs, and how his family deserted him. He started to tear up as he told the story. Listening to him, I couldn’t control my own tears. Michelle kissed me and said: “Honey...I have to leave now, but you stay and they will help you...please don’t leave!” I intended to keep my promise, and so I sat there, listening to every emotional word the man struggled to speak.
When the speaker finished, everyone cheered and clapped, then all stood together to hold hands--grabbing mine too--and they all recited the “Our Father” prayer. They finished with: “Keep coming back...it works!” It soon became obvious to me that this was an AA meeting (Alcoholics Anonymous). Many of the meetings I went to afterwards, were attended by notable Hollywood celebrities--many of whom were Oscar winners.
A very pleasant man came up to me and said that he saw Michelle bring me in. He offered to be my “SPONSOR.” After explaining, I agreed to accept. We had a long conversation at the coffee table. He told me that he was Michelle’s “sponsor” at one time. He also wanted to know if I knew that she was a cocaine addict. He called her an “ANGEL.” I asked why. He said: “Because Michelle has saved many lives through the ‘program’ of AA.” After Michelle left me there, I never saw her again, although I did try to find her. She just seemed to VANISH! It was almost as if SHE never existed!
I became a regular at the meetings, there and at home, over the next several years. I got to the point where “I” was the one giving the speeches and telling of my experience. I even became a “sponsor” to others. What a trip!
My divorce became final in 1991, and I ended up returning home to the Hudson Valley, in upstate New York. I resumed my God-given talent for carpentry and building, and I also took a more serious approach to writing. A couple of years later, I won a short-story contest, featured in the (Writer’s Journal) magazine. It was an introspective story about a married man who led a double-life as an aspiring actor. It boosted my alter-ego as a writer/journalist and I went on to writing numerous articles and essays for magazines and the local news paper—mostly non-fiction. Considering all the dramatic episodes that had taken place in my life, I had a well of information to draw from—-some of which I have written in detail in this collection of memoirs.
To say this is another fascinating read sounds sacrilegious because "this is your life" which took dramatic turns aside from the reels. In college, I'd taken a sociology course on comparative religions and did an in-depth study of the Jehovah Witnesses, attending many of their services and interviewing several members, so became privy to their thoughts on higher education.
This chapter covers a lot of territory, including your reception as a returning veteran, your connection to Hollywood and to the Jehovah's Witness cult, seemingly direct opposites, as well as your falling out with your father, your struggle with marriage and children, and finally, your near death experience with an overdose of cocaine.
While I was against the war and did talk to people guns ho with joining the service, not to go, I never treated, or knew of anyone who treated, returning veterans with ill will. I'm so sorry that you were treated badly by your family (shame on them) and high school buddies. I remember taking some returning vets in my car to San Francisco for one wild night. One guy had a $3000 reenlistment bonus that he wanted to spend. One of my best friends served in the Navy At the Alameda Air Station and was the commander's driver. He never went overseas. I do recall talking to one of my high school classmates who tried to get my brother and I to join in the buddy system like he did. He and his buddy were separated right after Boot camp and he was very discouraged upon returning as I recall.
I came to Stanford to begin my Masters degree studies at Stanford in 1966. While I met women who were caught up in drugs and alcohol during that period, I was lucky not to run into someone like Michelle. From what I read, was a drug addict and actually was no angel when she overdosed you on cocaine.
It would've been nice to know something about remodeling work. Especially since you said you received the national award for your work. You certainly have led a checkered life that does look like a Hollywood movie material.
The experience of a young adult trying to figure out what they want to do for employment or education can be overwhelming. My book will give them insight to what it means to be a carpenter. And the progress unions have made in discrimination.
Get
