The Third Ticket

In 1978, at the age of 15 going on 21, I was “innocently wild.” My parents were trusting and let me navigate the waters of Orange County California as a new kid, transplant from North Carolina with little steerage. They were trying to establish themselves as well coming from a military town in North Carolina to sunny Huntington Beach.  It was a different world.

My new SoCal friends were many. I think I was some sort of an anomaly, especially the way I talked.  The Southern Drawl was undeniable and posed the question, “Are you from Texas?” whereas I’d quickly laugh and say, “Oh no!  North Carolina Ya’ll!”

The common denominator for coolness was still the same…your clothes, where you hung out at school, what music you were into. The fact that I played guitar and had Farah Faucett hair helped my cool ranking fer sure dude, totally bitchin’! even though I was a brunette and not some blonde beachy surfer girl.  But I tried very hard to fit in…from the Vans to Ocean Pacific clothes and Lightning Bolt necklace (that I sure wish I still had), to hanging out at the “cool” spot south of the Huntington Beach Pier at Lifeguard Station 3 with the other cool kids from school.

I made friends pretty fast.  Like I said, I was shiny and new. We would meet at Murdy Park near our first place in Huntington.  Journey’s Wheel in the Sky was like our anthem of sorts.  It was always playing!  Someone would bring a boom box with 8-track or cassette.  We always had music.

When we got a great house off Beach and Hiel, I landed the coolest teen suite.  The bonus room above the garage I turned into a total hang out complete with black light posters, a water bed, foosball table, and this brown, yellow and black plaid corner studio couch.  God I still remember that couch! How I ended up with all this killer stuff, I’m not sure.  I guess I was pretty spoiled.

My new friends and I would listen to records, play guitar or foosball and smoke cigarettes or joints without a care.  All the while my parents were working really hard to try to support this new Cali lifestyle.

It was all pretty innocent really.  Thinking back to my attitude at the time…what does a 15 year old know?  Not as much as she thinks she does!  Right?  The music was really the main thing.  It was before I made it West.

I have a scrap book with literally every ticket-stub from every concert and/or event I have ever attended.  It's pretty amazing that I have been able to save all these little pieces of paper…fragments of a life lived documented by ticket stubs.  I now cherish these moments in time collected stubs within those pages.

My first concert was America in 1975 (I was 12) at the Cumberland County Arena in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Poco opened. My older sister somehow got stuck taking me, I guess because she could drive.  I do remember it.  I remember being mesmerized by the performance and, Gary Beckley in particular.  We had pretty good seats too from what I recall.  General admission, of course, but they had seats on the floor and we were in the center, not too many rows back.  It was incredible!

This would start my live music love affair.  The albums I got at Peaches or Tower Records and played concerts in my room over and over, would come to life!  The concert-going continued with the mega event of KISS coming through town that same year.  I was already a member of the KISS Army.  This would be epic.  I begged my Mom, a single working mother with a pretty good job on Base as an illustrator, trying to make ends meet and make her girls happy.  She was the coolest. Still a Roller Rink Mom, chauffeuring me to the skating rink every weekend, but that was replaced when a concert was in town.

She would wait patiently in the parking lot for me and whichever Bestie was with me, with strict instructions to come straight out of the Auditorium to the car at our designated spot.  This seems crazy to let 11 or 12 year olds loose at a concert, but those were different times to be sure and we knew better than to talk to strangers, especially G.I.s   I don’t remember any trouble.  Any body trying to talk to us.  We were so young, it was obvious.

I was raised with the “Burden of Trust,” as my Mom would call it.  I now know she knew she could not control me and did the best she could. The Burden of Trust did make me think twice most of the time, but not always. Knowing that she trusted me and that I could call her for any reason, no questions asked, if I needed rescuing, if I had a misstep. I was raised to be cautious and play it safe. I was raised with common sense, better judgement, some street smarts, although I didn't always use them, as you’ll find later.

A friend from school, Rhonda, got permission to go with me to see KISS.  We pushed our way through and managed to get right up front.  It was sweaty and so AWESOME as we held on to the barricade trying not to get (too) crushed!  For this show there were no seats on the floor.  Standing room only. Totally rockin’.  She still had her cup in hand from an earlier Coca-cola when Gene Simmons spit out his bloody concoction right there in front of us.  Not sure what it was, but she got a lot of it in her cup and saved it in her freezer for months!  Gross, but hey, rock on Sister!

Although I don’t remember the circumstances of this next show, I have the ticket stub as proof I was there. I wish now I had kept a diary of each show, who I went with, and what happened, if anything, but all I have now is the faded memories, but the ticket stubs are my testament. I saw KISS again in 1976 and then things really ramped up in 1977 with Foghat, Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Eagles, Led Zeppelin, ZZ Top, Black Sabbath, Blue Oyster Cult, Doobie Brothers and Crosby Stills and Nash.  Tickets were around $5.50-$7.50. 

I do remember the ZZ Top show fondly!  Rhonda’s sister and her boyfriend took us.  He had a jeep which I thought was super cool.  It was in a neighboring town.  I was staying overnight at Rhonda’s in their trailer outside of town in Hope Mills.  They had brought along refreshments in Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine.  I drank it down like Kool Aide.  Later at the concert, I remember throwing up all over the place.  I don’t remember the concert, but I do remember feeling so awful.  Tough lesson learned. 

When we moved to California in 1978 it was for a new start for me and my Mom and new retired Army Major Stepdad. My sister was away at college now.  I was coming of age, hit puberty.  The sweet girl now became this rocker rebel.  I was a handful and had transitioned from Honor Student to Truant going into Jr. High School.  Maybe joining the Kiss Army was partially to blame?

I did very well in this new West Coast environment.  Grades came back up.  I loved going to school. I welcomed the opportunity to reinvent myself and learn about this new Cali culture.  Every day was like a fashion show.  Sometimes I was in…sometimes I wasn’t.  But it was always fun to see what everyone else was wearing. I was focusing on playing guitar, which I started in NC (and they offered it as a class in school) and set my sights on being a girl rocker and cool surfer chick with the only real problem was being a brunette!

There was no shortage of friends to be had. I had several BFFs who were able to go to concerts with me with Mom and The Major as drivers in the Cougar XR7!  What a cool car!  Or sometimes I’d go with a friend with a boyfriend who drove.  I remember going to see the Stones Some Girls Tour at Anaheim Stadium, camping out overnight in order to get closest to the stage when the gates opened. I also saw E.L.O. and their big space ship stage there, Pink Floyd Animals Tour with Robin and Eric doing acid, Van Halen's stadium debut opening for Black Sabbath and Boston where they supposedly parachuted in.  It was crazy!  I was there!

All of this backstory leads to a fateful evening at the Huntington Beach Pier.  A new fast friend I was hanging with was Kimmie.  She was a waif of a girl, super cute, pixie hair, my same age or just a year older maybe. Neither of us driving age yet.  She was super cool, I thought.  My new concert buddy.  We had gotten tickets to see Aerosmith with AC/DC opening (OMG!!!) at the Long Beach Arena.  We ended up with three tickets somehow and our mission that evening was to sell the third ticket…probably to use the extra money for joints and cigarettes.

I remember the Huntington Pier that night. Being lit up, the water dark and churning below.  An energy, but more unsavory. Walking tentatively up the slats.  I felt uncomfortable.  It was so different here at night. The bi-polar opposite of daytime, sunny, bright, hanging with my friends at Lifeguard Stand 3.

This was a holiday weekend. The Fourth of July.  There were lots of people walking the Pier…couples on dates, people looking for dates, people actually fishing as you got towards the end.  Some transients, pan handlers, Pier Rats asking for hand-outs, which was typical.  And others just out there for whatever reason…to sell a concert ticket?  It was still relatively early evening…a bit too early for the complete underbelly to surface…and the bad things that happen in the night.  It was just waiting.

Kimmie started talking to a guy. She wasn't shy. She probably asked him for a light for her Virginia Slim cigarette. I can't remember his name, but I remember his hair and face shape. He wasn’t gross.  He was ok looking and seemed nice, I guess.  They talked and she told him about the Aerosmith ticket.  It was 5th row…a totally primo seat! He said he was going to this party in Riverside and had a friend there that would be interested to buy the ticket.  

I remember not feeling good about going with this guy. I remembered the warnings from my mother about “strangers” and being cautious and smart.  But I was quickly convinced by Kimmie as we side-barred that he was cool, it would be fun, it was a party, blah, blah, blah.  I didn’t want her to go alone, which she probably would have. So, I went along and broke the main rule of getting into a car with a stranger.  Young and dumb.  Peer pressure is still alive and well.

And now this part of the story takes some digging.  These are suppressed memories of 40 years.  Something I never wanted to think of again.

Rethinking it, piecing it together, this was a weekend night before July 4th in 1978. So, a party scenario wasn't out of the question. But why did we agree to go to Riverside of all places?

Picture this...two young, dumb, 15 year olds, trying to look and act older, sassy, probably stoned. I was new to the area. I didn't have a clue where or how far Riverside was.  It could have been San Bernandino!  He could have driven us to Tijuana!

Kimmie rode with him in the front seat of a big, Impala-like car.  I sat in the back. There was music playing. Air streamed in. I can still feel it on my face and blowing my hair back. I close my eyes. It was a cool, clear night.  After some time passed I asked in front how much longer?  We're almost there he assured us.  Things seemed up beat, but I still didn't feel right about it.

He pulled off the Freeway...don't ask me which one! And ended up on a deserted dirt road.  Again, I had no clue where we were at all.  He stopped the car and we ask innocently where is his friend’s place and this party. 

Ha!  No party.  He pulls out a large knife, announces his plans and warns us not to try anything or we will be hurt.  He proceeds to sexually assault Kimmie and then me. Unfortunately for her, but fortunately for me, he preferred her. I'm sure for her childlike body.  I don't remember any physical abuse as far as hitting or grabbing or slapping.  I have a vague recollection of standing outside the car. I don’t know if I had enough sense to get the tag number. I don’t know what I did!

I may have been too stoned to be as scared as I should have been.  He was wielding a very large knife and seemed very off balance.  I definitely did not want to say or do anything that would set him off.  We were in the middle of nowhere.  No one knew where we were.  We could have been easily killed and left for dead.

Instead of killed, we are both left standing naked in the middle of a dirt road, up the side of a small mountain in Riverside or San Bernardino.  He throws our clothes out the car window as he takes off leaving a plume of dust in his wake.

I remember the dress I had on.  It was this prairie type skirt and matching peasant blouse. I probably had on these totally Stevie Nicks tan lace up boots with it.  Wow!  That was an outfit I brought from Fayetteville. I loved it. I was upset that the authorities kept it for evidence.  I guess it had semen on it.

Thinking back, I can see myself putting on the skirt.  Stepping into it in the dirt.  I was so thankful to have my clothes back.  I was so thankful that he was gone!  Kimmie and I hugged each other, shaking and crying.  Then we see headlights cutting through the pitch black darkness. Was he coming back to finish us off?

It was a pick-up truck with an older Spanish couple.  They looked like farmers or crop workers.  I don’t know how much they understood, but as we sobbed and begged trying to explain what had happened, why we were here, they took us to the authorities and a nearby  Hospital. We were examined and rape kits collected. Our parents were called and in a panic they come to retrieve their violated (stupid) daughters somewhere out there in the middle of the night.

My sister was coming for a visit the day of my homecoming.  My cousin Bobbie was there too, as she lived up the street.  She was such a doll and so supportive...all the family was.  Being supportive and sympathetic by not talking about it or acknowledging it happened at all.  That was fine by me!  I must have been in major denial or so shell shocked that I joined in on the act and acted like it didn't even happen.  Some bad dream.

My Sister was in college at UNC Chapel Hill when we moved West and wanted to stay in NC.  We hadn't been in California really that long.  I asked her what she remembers from this visit and she mentions a party in Huntington I took her to with a local punk band and kegs and then the police helicopter showing up and the party disbursing and moving to the next house, which was par for the course. She was aware of what happened, but I think the general consensus was everyone was glad I was ok and so sorry that I had to go thru that, but let’s don’t talk about it.

I remember thinking that I lost my virginity to a Senior at my High School a few years later.  I bled and it hurt a lot. He commented on it but I shrugged it off like I wasn't a virgin because I was too cool for that (for whatever reason), and said I must be just starting my period.  I always "thought" I lost my virginity to the kid from school, but then I remember the Rape Kit from 1978.  They wouldn't have done one had I not been raped, would they?  Or as a precaution.  I just don't remember all that happened, but I do remember the Kit.

Another vivid memory is that we were 5th row for the concert.  I was a HUGE Aerosmith /Steven Tyler fan!  And, after all that had happened, we still went to the concert just 2 or 3 weeks after the incident!  We had to for the investigation as the third ticket was left in the guy’s glove box and authorities thought he may show up. 

That was one heck of a show.  Think of it!  AC/DC in 1978!  OPENING for Aerosmith. WTF!  With Bon Scott.  They were electric!  They totally rocked the house!  They were in the audience... Angus on Bon's shoulders, running around right by our seats. They were so close we could touch them and we did!  Aerosmith, on the other hand, were great of course, but so messed up/drugged up or drunk, got totally blown away by the Aussies!  Still love ya Steven T!

Detectives were waiting for whoever took that third seat by us.  Some poor guy had bought the ticket and was questioned. Nothing came of it that I know of.

Fast forward forty years.

With much fanfare and hype, the ads on television were promoting a new docudrama about The Dating Game Killer, Rodney Alcala, a serial killer preying on young girls in the 1970s. The promos continually interrupted my regular tv shows.  Although irritating, it piqued my interest.  Why is the thought of a (relatively) good looking serial rapist and killer, like a Ted Bundy and now Alcala, intriguing?  True crime and the psycho-analysis of the person behind it has always been interesting to me.  Even a grotesque John Wayne Gacey or Hannible-like Jeffrey Dahmer makes you wonder about the inner workings of such deranged minds.  It always makes me think of the saying that a truly crazy person does not know that they are. 

The program debuts and we watch.  I am sitting with my boyfriend that evening and learning about the now-dubbed Dating Game Killer. Images of Rodney Alcala’s good looking face flash and they show footage of the Dating Game show he was on. Why did this face seem hauntingly familiar to me? 

They talked about his movements and locations, from California to New York and back, prison stints and releases.  He was a repeat offender that would not or could not stop.  Under the guise of a photographer, he lured young girls and women in with a modeling spiel. Hundreds of photographs were found in a storage locker of his.  Many of the "subjects" still not identified.  It is not known how many he killed. 

As I watched, an odd feeling welled up in me. Suppressed memories that had not been thought of in over 40 years started to surface. From when I was 15 living in Southern California, Huntington Beach specifically, a location they pinpointed Alcala as being after a prison release in 1977 and prior to the killing of a 12 year old in 1979.  He was in Huntington Beach in 1978 they said.  Oh my God!  My heart sank.

Seeing his face gave me such a strange feeling.  Why was it familiar?  It was him.  In my heart of hearts, I believe it was him.

I also believe I am truly blessed.  I have believed that most of my life.  But now, remembering this incident, it re-frames my life so succinctly.  With that feeling in my chest, with that guttural belief it was him, I can only feel blessed as I wonder why we were spared by the Dating Game Killer?