Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

Lucille’s funeral was a small family affair in the mainland cemetery just north of her home on Arcady Key. The bereaved were outnumbered four to one by members of the media.

Star was too devastated to notice the hyenas. All she could think of were her mother’s final words.

“Remember, it’s your choice who you are. I’ll be watching, whatever happens.”

The events of the past few months just kept playing over and over in her head. If only she could take them back. If only she could undo it all.

As they made their way to the cars after the graveside service, a photographer who must have slipped past security and hidden in a tree in the cemetery, dropped out of the branches into their path, shouting at them to “look this way,” “give us a wave good-bye to mama.” Blind with rage, Rick went after the man, catching him by the ankles as he tried to make his getaway over the fence, and dragged him facedown across the lawn and down the drive to the main gates.

“Dad, stop, you really need to stop!” Star shouted, trying to bring her father to his senses, but understanding his rage.

“The hell with that,” Richard said, holding the flailing man up by his ankles. “Jimi, come open this goddamned gate and I’ll give them a good-bye picture.”

“I’m with you, Rick,” Jimi said, dragging open the cemetery gates that had been kept closed to prevent just such intrusions.

As the broad metal panels rolled to one side, the press surged forward, stepping back as (to the edification of those present, not to mention newspaper buyers around the world) Star’s father pitched the man down the drive, smashed his camera and tossed what remained of it after him.

“Leave my family alone,” he said, waving an appropriately Neanderthal fist as the gates closed like a great steel curtain on his world debut performance.

Jimi gave him a high five of approval, which the press captured as the gates ground shut. Star was both upset and pleased. She was horrified that her mother’s funeral had come to this, but how else could they react?

Sorry, Mom, but fuck them, she thought. To hell with the consequences.

“Tell me what’s the difference between that man in the tree and anyone else in the world breaking in here?” her father asked, genuinely.

“He had a camera around his neck,” Star shrugged.

“So that’s the only difference between a stalker and a reporter?” her father asked incredulously.

“Apparently,” Star said, patting her father on the shoulder.

“Well, that’s crazy.” Rick wagged his finger. “I’ll tell you, Star, you say the word, I make one phone call, and they just start disappearing.”

Star and Jimi shared a knowing look behind her father’s back.

“Jimi,” Star said as they dragged the heavy-duty garbage bag through darkness.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Jimi said as they emerged in the darkness from the bushes onto the fairway of the unfinished golf course. “But they just won’t leave us alone.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Star sighed.

“Come on,” he urged her. “Our flight leaves in an hour.”

Star wondered if her mom was watching.

“Okay, on three,” Jimi said, picking up one end and directing Star to get the other. “One, two, three.”

The heavy bag splashed into the water, bubbling at the surface for a moment before it sank. There was another splash and then a couple more from the other side of the murky water hazard.

“What’s that?” Star hissed, again horrified that they would be found out.

“The gators will be eating good tonight,” Jimi chuckled as he took Star’s hand and they made their way back to their rental car.

Things were just not the same when they got back to L.A.

The work was the same, the shows were the same, the twenty-four-hour party was the same, but something inside had shifted. It was as if she had been nearsighted and suddenly put on a new pair of glasses. The harsh new clarity made the world ugly and unbearable.

She would sit with Mutley in her room, in his favorite chair. He could stare out to sea for hours at a point beyond the horizon that only he seemed to see.

“What is it, boy?” Star said, snuggling up to him. “What’s out there?”

Mostly, she just missed her mom, their conversations, her slightly cracked advice that always turned out exactly right. But life, flavorless as it had become, did not allow her much time for mourning.

Their personal life was not what it had been, either. Star was tired and exhausted most of the time, and Jimi was more and more frequently drunk to the point of passing out. If they went out, they were hounded by the press, which made him furious, which meant that he’d get so drunk that it didn’t matter anymore. Some nights, he’d just pass out in the car and Star would leave him there to sleep it off. On his not-so-good nights, he’d bring his plans for revenge, belligerence, and anger into the house. The stress of it all was hurting their relationship.

Still, the sex, when it happened, was as fiery as ever, and Star preferred getting him to stay home rather than go out to play. She became quite the provocateur, surprising him wearing only a string of pearls or Gucci lingerie, or showing up in the bedroom with a whip.

One area that they had tried before and which they unsuccessfully tried again brought Star to seek expert advice.

“Missy,” Star said one day when the Fab Four, as the little team called themselves, were alone in the trailer. “Would you go find Sven and tell him that I’d like to run the scene with him, if he has a chance?”

“Okay, sure,” Missy agreed suspiciously, since no one on Lifeguards ever ran scenes. She was technically Billy’s assistant and responsible for on-set makeup continuity, and Star was respectful of that, though occasionally she’d ask her for a favor. Missy gave Billy a questioning look.

“It’s okay,” Billy said, shooting Missy a you-got-me look behind Star’s back. “I’ll be fine. It’s an easy morning.”

“Thanks, Missy,” Star said, “I really appreciate it.”

Missy figured she’d get the dirt from Billy later, so she went with a knowing smile.

“No problem, Star,” she called, leaving the trailer.

“Okay, what was that about?” Skip asked, taking the pins from his mouth.

“Well, I need to get you guys’ advice about something,” Star said tentatively, not sure of how to bring it up.

“Our advice?” Billy questioned, more suspicious still. “We do your hair and makeup.”

“How do you fuck up the ass?” she blurted, unable to think of a more politically correct way to ask. “Give me details.”

“What?” Billy laughed.

“Well,” Skip snorted. “I guess you have come up with one other area where we might have a little insight.”

“A little?” Billy was getting progressively more amused. “I gotta know, what is it that you want to know? Do we?”

“Well, really, how do you?” Star asked sheepishly. “I kinda figured from some of your jokes that… that you do. Jimi wants to, so I figured I’d come to the experts.”

“Then you’ll want to talk to Billy,” Skip said archly.

“Hey!” Billy exclaimed.

“Well, I just figure you’re going to have the experience she’ll need in this arrangement,” Skip said, raising his shoulders practically to his ears. “I could maybe advise Jimi.”

“So, you’re the boy?” Star asked Skip, delighted to talk about someone’s sex life other than her own.

“We’re both boys,” Billy snorted.

“Well, he’s the boy and I’m the man,” Skip said, earning a crack with a wet towel.