13 years old, a rum and Coke at a party, and the world finally felt soft. Pat Y. describes a life lived in the wreckage of self-obsession, moving from the beach parties of Newport Beach to the gritty truck-driver bars of Los Angeles.
She lived a double life: a demure secretary by day and a go-go dancer by night, using alcohol to kill the shyness that felt like a cage. The narrative is one of avoidance—slipping out the back door of a marriage, flushing a cruel card sent to a dying brother, and hiding behind pillars in church basements. She recalls the hollow luxury of Beverly Hills fundraisers and the sleaze of Chinatown clubs, eventually retreating into a purple flannel bathrobe and the loop of Ray Charles records.
After years of tormenting her mother and losing her grip on reality, a drunk phone call and a pair of rubber thongs led her to a basement in Santa Monica, where she finally stopped running.
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