Angelyne was the stuff of Hollywood legend, a buxom blonde goddess sprung to life from an enchanted mud flap. I'd seen the old billboards from the ’80s: Her ample breasts floating high above puny human traffic. Everything about her was pink, hot pink. Her very being seemed to scoff at the notion of gravity.

Without much thought, I had dropped my business card into a pink box at Ozzie Dots thrift store on Hollywood Boulevard. It was a spring day in 2016, and I was struck by the homespun advertisement: “Win a ride with Angelyne!” I was with my friend Natalie (who was hungover) and I was faring only slightly better.

“Hey, think I'll win?” I nibbled on the stem of my cat eye sunglasses, posed suggestively: waist in, bust out.

Natalie cackled, tossing her dark hair like a mischievous pony.

“She would be lucky to win a ride with you!”

My business card said “freelance writer” after my name. It was powder pink with a typewriter on it. Natalie's card (all white, very grown up) said “D.O.” for doctor of osteopathic medicine.

As I plunged my hands into a bin of $3 vintage scarves, a warm, knowing feeling inside my chest told me I just might really win. Someone like Angylene would rig the contest to help promote her own image, I thought. I believe in luck, but I also believe in meeting the world halfway.

Natalie and I soon returned to the day's mission: scouring Hollywood for a red petticoat she could wear under her teal wedding dress. By the time we discarded the tinfoil husks of our burrito lunch, the pink box was a distant memory.

+++

A few weeks after my trip to Ozzie Dots, I received a text. It was from Angelyne's manager, let's call him Sam. “CONGRATS HAYLEY! YOU'VE WON A RIDE WITH ANGELYNE!.” Before I could respond, Sam called me. To my delight, he had the demeanor of a sassy housewife dishing over coffee.

“I prefer phone calls too,” I said, as if I weren't a millennial at all. “I know that's very retro now.”

Sam delivered a good hearted natural laugh. I soon found that he loved talking about Angelyne (and would do so for long stretches, if prompted). Perhaps he just liked having someone to talk to.

“She's done hundreds of T.V. appearances: Entertainment Tonight six times, Access Hollywood and Extra, you name it,” Sam said during one of our gab sessions. He was trying to tell me about her upcoming appearance in a James Franco movie when I finally asked how they'd met.

Sam said he'd moved to L.A. in the ’80s, emboldened by his childhood love of the band (and T.V. show) The Monkees. At the time he was a struggling portrait artist. That's when he fell in love with Angelyne's strange billboards. Of course, he was itching to create a portrait of this miraculous plastic beauty.

“I spotted her car outside of Fredrick's of Hollywood, actually,” he said, the embarrassment rushing back into his memory.“I bravely went in there and I gave her one of my business cards and talked to her a little bit.”

He paused and sighed happily, as if remembering his wedding day.

“That is brave of you,” I said, meaning it. “To just go say 'hi' to her. And it all worked out.”

“Yes it did. I've been doing this for 30 years. When you're with someone for 30 years, it just has to work out!”

With Angelyne. For 30 years. I was dumbstruck. He said I'd understand when I met her for my ride. I'd see what a sweetheart she is. How professional she is.

I asked Sam if Angelyne was his only client. He said he wasn't really an agent or even a manager.

“She's the boss. I'm just the main guy that follows up on the various calls.”

“You're a good friend,” I corrected.

“Best friend.”

At that moment, I wanted to gaze at the portrait that must have sparked the beginning of their obviously intense relationship. I asked Sam if he had a website for his art. He didn't.

“I don't want to leave any kind of digital fingerprint on this planet,” he said, matter of factly. It was a source of pride, he added, that he and Angelyne had no Facebook, Twitter, Instagram.

“To preserve the mystery,” I offered.

Sam howled. “Oh yeah! Some of these people, when they blow their nose, they have to update their Facebook account. They'll say, 'Sneezing all day long. Hashtag sneezing mania.”

For someone completely off the internet, Sam was pretty good at making fun of it.

I imagined Angelyne's self-proclaimed BFF lounging on a couch somewhere in the Valley, cradling a real rotary phone.

“Other people, you know … the internet is for people that want to make themselves ten times more important than they really are,” he sighed.

Now that everyone has their own virtual billboard, Angelyne has lost her power, I thought.

Instead I just said, “True, true.”

+++

Over the next few days, I texted everyone that I knew. OMG! I WON A RIDE WITH ANGELYNE! Pink heart emoji. Car emoji. Head explosion emoji. This seemed appropriate.

Of course, I texted Natalie first, and she sent back a stream of exclamation marks.

When I casually mentioned the contest to my Dad, a few days before I was to drive down to L.A., I didn't expect much fanfare.

A North Hollywood native, he traded his usual wry sarcasm for a childlike exuberance.

He actually sounded a little jealous.

It was endearing hearing this sensitive, feminist Joni Mitchell-loving NASA nerd so full of joy and giddiness over a hopelessly self absorbed martian like Angelyne. I thought about Julie Brown—looking all the part of Angelyne—singing “'Cause I'm a Blond” in the movie Earth Girls Are Easy. Dad wouldn't even let me watch MTV growing up because it “objectified women.”

Because I'm blonde I don't have to think / I talk like a baby and I never pay for drinks / Don't have to worry about getting a man/  If I keep this blonde, and I keep these tan/ I see people working  it just makes me giggle/ 'Cause I don't have to work  I just have to jiggle/ 'Cause I'm blonde B-L-O-N-D /'Cause I'm a blonde Don't you wish you were me?

“Of course I know who Angelyne is!” Dad lamented. “But when I first saw her, I couldn't figure out what she was.”

I tried to put myself in his shoes. The first few billboards showed up around 1984: Angelyne curled up on the hood of her pink corvette like a sunbathing cat. Then, like gremlins, she multiplied. At one point there were 200 gigantic pinups of her helmet haired likeness all around L.A. She wore skimpy lingerie and New Wave style sunglasses.

One downtown building featured an 87-foot-tall mural of a pouting Angelyne.

“She just appeared one day. Like a wet dream,” Dad went on. “Like an amazing, beautiful new car, but there's no car company behind it.”

We took turns trying to describe her, to no avail.

“She's like Andy Warhol.”

“A geisha. All image, it doesn't matter who she really is.”

“She's like a flower you admire from a distance, but requires no exchange.”

Finally, he got it right: “In L.A., we had the giant donut on top of Randy's Donuts, we had Bob's Big Boy, and we had Angelyne.”

I softened, switching off my reporter's voice.

“She's a relic to me, but she still seems so real to you, huh?”

Dad sighed. I could hear him frown at the world “relic.” Angelyne would never rust in his eyes.

“You have to understand, she was a pioneer. She came before everyone who was famous for being famous. She was like Mae West, the actresses of the ’60s, or those super women before her, the ones who had no public persona but what the studio made for them,” he said. “I only ever knew Angelyne as an icon. Because that's what she presented herself to be.”

+++

As I made the four-hour drive down to L.A. one morning in late April, I thought about fame. Angelyne was a force of nature, a sacred deity, but of what? Sex? That would be too boring. She was too weird. I imagined she must be in her 60s now, yet I had no real way of knowing. Wikipedia was useless. Like Banksy or the Black Dahlia, Angelyne was still a question mark.

Sam was right. In 2016, no one knew anything—literally anything—about the billboard queen's true identity, except maybe where she liked to buy coffee or shop for lingerie. This was before @OfficialAngelyne appeared on Instagram, spilling her cleavage into the forgiving glow of a ring light. Before the 2017 Hollywood Reporter article revealed her real name (Ronia Tamar Goldberg), date of birth (October 2, 1950) and native homeland (the former Polish People's Republic). Yes, this is fascinating—but we'll have to save it for a different story.

A small-time reporter, I naively fantasized about blowing the lid off the mystery, like Velma from Scooby Doo. I was teetering at the ledge of my 20s, having fled a smelly, cramped punk house in Long Beach for the calm quiet spaciousness of San Luis Obispo, California seven years prior. I preferred to live close enough to LA to flirt with its edges, but far enough away to stay out of real trouble. I now imagined myself to be a broke superhero, writing for the local paper by day, playing local punk shows by night. Like most writers, I secretly believed that my real job was to gather as many crazy experiences as I could and spin them up, fiber by fiber, into cotton candy.

+++

It was the morning of Saturday April 30, 2016, and I was sitting at the Los Feliz Coffee Bean Sam had suggested. My friends Leslie and Brian had dropped me off that morning with time to spare. Too much, apparently, because I was sucking the dregs of my extra large iced coffee and considering another. Brian, who worked for a skateboard company, had dropped me off in a sweet early ’70s Buick Electra, a prop for a photoshoot. The car was cherry red with a matching red interior. The three of us had cranked the radio with the top down, already feeling like Somebodies.

Leslie and Brian posing with the first car of the day, blissfully unaware of the grotesque turn of evens in store.

Fun fact: This selfie taken by Leslie on the way to drop me off with Angelyne is now the logo image for my podcast, Sparkle and Destroy. The latest episode is an audio version of this story!

The anticipation for my ride ran high. The night before, Leslie and I had watched old ’80s music videos and drank strong cocktails while I painted my toenails pink, in honor of the occasion. We traded Angelyne sightings and then we watched her 1991 appearance on the incredibly cheesy program “Up All Night,” where Angelyne makes a deadpan appearance during a segment that can only be described as a “lingerie fashion show disaster.” Anytime the host—dressed in those unflattering high waisted lace panties and a hideous matching teddy—said, “Welcome back to UP all night,” she twisted the “UP” into a high pitched squeak, like a dolphin. Angelyne, in her jet black sunglasses and frilly getup, made a point to out-squeak the host to the point of comedy. Neither Leslie nor I could tell if she was being truly vapid or subtly genius.

I was prepared to find out. Now, I sat at a small circular table at the Coffee Bean, where I could peer out the window and think about what questions I would ask Angelyne when she had finally entered my orbit. Periodically, I talked into the voice memo app of my phone, narrating the absurdity of the moment. I held a napkin in my hands to mop up the sweat, but it wasn't working (my hands are sweaty during even regular circumstances, which is probably why I break so many guitar strings).

“Waiting for Angelyne to arrive in L.A. is like knowing a bomb is about to go off, but no one else is in on it,” I said into my phone. Then: “I wonder how she'll even be able park in this congested parking lot. I want to pee right now, but am afraid I'll miss her.”

A tan, athletic looking mom and her cluster of good looking children periodically swiveled their heads to look back at me, to see if what I was wearing had changed, I guess. I had chosen to don a metallic teal and silver 1960s style dress with a poofy skirt, big teal clip-on earrings and pink suede platform heels. Oh, and a vintage white stole made from some sort of snowy feathered animal. This was my way of meeting the world halfway. I had dressed the part.

“Should we wait with you?” Leslie had asked, as I stepped out of one ridiculous vehicle, only to wait for another.

“Sam didn't say anything about me bringing anyone,” I answered, feeling like a buzzkill. Honestly, I didn't want Angelyne to flutter away like a rare tropical bird.

When Angelyne finally emerged in the Coffee Bean doorway 20 minutes later, she looked a lot like a rare tropical bird. She was tiny, so much tinier than her billboards. Why this surprised me, I can't say.

She wore a skin-tight black tube dress emblazoned with grapefruit-sized pink, orange, green, yellow and purple polka dots; a lightweight, neon pink windbreaker open at the top to reveal her proud, basketball-sized synthetic breasts; sand-colored panty hose; and open-toed cork-wedge platforms with leopard print trim. Her teased-to-Jesus hair was a shock of white stuffing, standing at military attention. She looked like the lovechild of a ’80s Troll Doll and a modern Bratz Doll.

I hadn't seen the pink corvette pull up, so I was startled by the immediate spotlight that seemed to shine on her (she moved swiftly, with an air of weary importance, like a flight attendant).

I waved and stood up, smiling like a clown. She stalked over to my table, a jumble of pink lipstick, cleavage and hair.

It wasn't a wig, but it wasn't all real.

I introduced myself, and she put her dainty hand in my sweaty one. It was like a soft, deflated white balloon. I briefly considered kissing it, because that felt like the right thing to do.

“I get a special coffee,” she said in her high, incredibly breathy voice (half Michael Jackson, half Marilyn Monroe).

I blinked, adjusting my eyes. She carried on, unfazed by my awe.

“Do you want me to show you how they make my special order?”

Angelyne motioned for me to follow her to the Coffee Bean bar. She somehow emerged at the front of the line, just slightly adjacent to it (an imaginary cue for self-made celebrities?), and nodded some code language to the barista. I wondered if this Gen Z fetus had any idea who the lady in the pink car truly was.

She mimed something to the kid, showing him exactly how to pour and pump. It looked like she was milking an imaginary cow.

I stood awkwardly near the bar, wondering what I was supposed to do with my body, dressed as I was. Should I be acting equally as eccentric, or would that just cancel the whole thing out? I wanted something crazy to happen. She turned from her orchestra and eyed the digital recorder peeking out of my purse.

“Are you recording this?”

Her voice was almost inaudible against the buzz and whirr of the espresso machines. She didn't seem mad.

“No?” I said.

Oh shit, I thought.

“Are you going to do a story about me? Aren't you a writer?” She seemed hopeful, yet wary. Rightfully so, I thought.

“Maybe, if I’m lucky, I said,” because I didn't know what to say.

Her attention span, like her hemline, was shorter than I expected.

“Someone will take our table!" she half-wined half-whispered, shoeing me away. A random guy sat down on the chair I had been sitting in. And so I went to the table, ready to defend it with my life. So this is how Angelyne bossed men around. I was already doing her bidding!

It was apparent that the guy sitting in my chair just wanted to know how I knew Angelyne. He wanted to catch a real-life glimpse of the billboard beauty he remembered from the ’80s.

How long had she lingered in his spank bank?

“I won a contest. Dropped a business card in a box at Ozzie Dots…” I started, but he wasn't really listening. “Also, that's our table, if you don't mind.”

He nodded, laughed to himself, and got up. The whole time, he stared directly at Angelyne’s butt, surprisingly taught and perky. From this vantage point, at this distance, she did appear somewhat ageless. Her waist was a blip, her narrow shoulders supporting the giant boobs and teased bobblehead of hair. The tan panty hose gave her the look of a veteran ice skater.

He headed out to the parking lot, probably to ogle her car.

When Angelyne returned to the table, fluffing her round, hair-sprayed bangs into their geometric shape, I was already hallucinating from the caffeine (did I mention I had three cups at Leslie's apartment before this?).

Her skin looked visibly thin, but there were surprisingly few sun spots.

Was she wearing makeup on her hands?

She removed her dark sunglasses, revealing the vivid landscape of color patted, drawn, and stippled across her face. She was very small in the nose, very big in the lips, and huge in the eyes, which were ice blue against the hot pink eyeshadow and black kohl liner. Anything that might have sagged had been pulled back, taut. I didn't count the makeup or even the plastic surgery against her—I was wearing my craziest teal eyeshadow.

Why should a woman feel shameful for wearing a lot of makeup, whatever age she might be? Why should a woman be told she is wrong for altering her body?

She looked deliberately painted, like a madame at an Old West brothel. Her meticulously self-crafted image, however distorted by time, inspired equal parts intrigue and anxiety. I felt that I was in the presence of a very powerful drag queen.

I still didn’t know what to say.

“Your boobs look beautiful today, by the way,” I offered, trying on a self-effacing laugh. “I’d have to wear a padded bra to get an inch of your cleavage.”

She sipped her drink, smiled, and said, “Ooooohthankyou.”

“So what do you drink here that's so special?” I asked, motioning to her cup.

Abruptly, she got up, returning from the bar with a small cup, the kind you’d drink espresso in. She poured some of her own concoction into the little cup and pushed it towards me.

“Try it. It’s sweet!”

I knew it was a bad idea. But of course, I sipped it and said “Mmmmmm.”

It tasted like what I imagined hummingbird syrup to be like. A black coffee drinker, I detected some sort of vanilla or caramel flavoring going on, too. I produced a faux grin for my faux friend. It was a kind gesture, but my stomach was already starting to rebel.

“So do you live in L.A.?” she asked, her voice so breezy it might be a different language.

“Oh, no. But I used to live down south. I had to leave. My friends...there was too much partying. I was a mess. It's a long story. I grew up in Hermosa Beach, Redondo Beach, moved to Torrance, Long Beach...now I live in San Luis Obispo, where I sort of grew up, too. I'm a writer there. With my husband. He has a comic book store. We play music together and we have five chickens...Dolly, Loretta, Exene and Belinda...” I was suddenly swept up in a wave of self consciousness, caffeine, and sugar. I blew past the check points in my mind like a drunk driver.

She nodded, a bored carnival gypsy.

"Are you very nervous?” she finally asked, peering into my very soul. “Breathe.”

That seemed like wise advice. I tried to relax for a moment, remembering my journalistic mission. I always felt more comfortable as the interviewer.

“Sorry. Actually, can I ask you a few questions?”

Her face nodded, her hair did not.

“Has anyone compared you to Andy Warhol?”

Her pre-loaded answer came quick.

“I’m kind of beyond Andy Warhol. I believe everybody is somebody already, and not just for 15 minutes. Everybody is somebody. Everybody’s a character. Everybody is a star in their own life!”

“My Dad and I … we were saying you're like a flower. Like a flower growing out of the concrete—”

“Oh no,” Angelyne interrupted. “I don't want to be in the concrete. I want to be in the sky.”

The conversation went on like this for a while, me trying to pin down just who she really was behind the billboards, and she, evading. I chased her like a butterfly. When I mentioned my producer friend, someone interested in doing a documentary about her, she brightened up.

“Set up a meeting,” she said. “I’ll only work with people I like, but I don't judge. I'll work with anyone: From the homeless to the White House!”

“You’re so egalitarian,” I replied.

She giggled like a baby doll, then tried to frown. “Egalitarian?”

I tried not to judge. “In Angelyne's eyes, everyone is equal?” I said.

She seemed to like this. Her bracelets jangled as she put down her empty cup.

“Except for the bad people,” she added, her eyes bulging. “And there are a lot of bad ones.” With that, she picked up her phone to answer an urgent text “from the studio.”

This was most certainly the “press version” of Angelyne. At times, she seemed innocent, ethereal, all-knowing. Moments later, she'd throw out bizarre statements that jarred me. Like, that she'd known Andy Warhol at the time of his death. But when I asked if she had been invited to the funeral, she just mumbled something about turning down one million dollars to make an appearance in New York.

“You look amazing,” I tried, instead. “You look like a size zero. How do you stay so trim? What do you do for exercise?”

Jesus. I sound like a zombie from Woman’s Day Magazine, I thought.

She offered her best Woman's Day Magazine smile.

“Oh, I do the splits all the time!”

+++

In the parking lot, the sun was shining just for Angelyne. The Corvette seemed to have its own personality, and I admired it without touching. Frivolous, curvaceous, pinker than pink. Angelyne's noble steed.

Who would she be without it?

“Look how shiny your car is!” I exclaimed, talking to a baby. “It’s even more beautiful close up.”

“You know I have two of them, don’t you?” Angelyne said, like I should be more impressed than I already was.

“You have so many things!” I shrieked.

Why was I talking like this? I was acting so weird I didn't trust myself to open my mouth again.

“I dooooooooooooo,” she cooed in a higher pitch. “What are you into, low cut shirts?”

She popped the trunk, and there, before my eyes, appeared a treasure trove of Angelyne merchandise. Fan club T-shirts, her magazine (entitled “Hot Pink,” with Angelyne on the cover) posters, CDs in shiny jewel cases.

“All I have is a card,” I said. “But I'm in a band. I sell merch, and I understand this is like your merch. I'd love to support what you do.”

Without a beat, Angelyne moaned, her blue eyes wet and glittering. “I can charge it!”

I jumped up and down a little on my heels to show her I was excited for her to take my money. I really did want a t-shirt. At that moment, I wanted it more than anything.

She rummaged around in the depths of her trunk. Nothing was organized.

“Do you like Divine?” she asked out of nowhere, the front half of her body still inside the trunk. From the pile of stuff, she produced a framed painted portrait of the late great drag queen. “If Divine were a beautiful girl, she’d be you. Don’t you think so?”

This was the first real compliment Angelyne had given me, and I didn't know quite how to take it.

Leslie as a spitting image of Divine for Halloween.

“That’s very sweet,” I replied, wishing Leslie could have heard this (Leslie had sewn own Divine Halloween costume complete with potbelly). I did look like I belonged in a John Waters movie. We both did, standing out in the parking lot, bent over her pink trunk.

“You do know I paint, don’t you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “The little ones are about $150 and the larger ones are $200."

“Yes,” I lied, racking my brain.

How would I know she paints? How would I know she does anything?

I guess I felt that if I said “no” she might take her toys and go home.

"I think I’ll just stick with the T-shirt,” I said.

Her voice took on a sing-song quality then, so jubilant.

“Oh yes! Oh great! The shirts, they're about $50-60. They’re not cheee-aaaap!”

While I contemplated the crazy price of the shirt—even for Los Angeles standards—a random guy appeared out of the woodwork. He had long shaggy hair, an aging stoner out for his daily loiter.

“Heyyyyy. Do you still have your book for sale?” he asked in a monotone drawl, as if asking the Elote guy for an extra lime.

Angelyne’s Magazine. In this issue: Donald Trump, Mel Gibson and Alien Fairy Tales.

“My magazine? Oh, yes,” Angelyne flipped into infomercial mode. “They are $60 each. They aren’t cheee-aaaap! I only have a box left. I take cards. I can charge anything you’d like.”

Man, she was good at the sell.

He asked if she’d charge for a photo and asked if I wouldn't mind taking it. I raised his iPhone at the two of them, backlit. Angelyne a flamingo leg, like she was about to do the can-can (this is the pose her statue will strike if she's ever immortalized in bronze). In her hand she held her pink fan, which said “Angelyne” on it in cursive. She raised it to cover her lower face; everything except those heavily lined eyes.

As I snapped the picture, I snapped out of my trance. I had been under Angelyne's spell again.

The prized shirt from Angelyne’s trunk. I wore this shirt in my Hot Shot music video as an homage to the biggest self-made hot shot out there, Angelyne.

“What about this one?” She asked, after the guy had left. The XXL shirt she held up showed an image of her face, cocked backward like Marilyn, exposing her neck. She wore pink arm-length gloves and her hair had been colored a bright yellow. Underneath it said, “Angelyne Fan Club: Send $20 to join. 6269 Selma Ave. #9 L.A., CA 90028. (310) 289-4469.” I wore a Small, but figured I could slash it and sew it up the way I liked it.

“I could do $30, I said, as firmly as I could muster. “I’m a writer, you know. And a punk musician. I don't have a ton of money!”

“Punk? Have you heard my song, Kiss Me L.A.?” she asked, swiping my card through her Square Reader casually.

“Oh yes,” I said. “I like your punky stuff.”

She handed me the shirt and my debit card.

“Do you want to listen to punk rock music in my car?”

+++

When I slipped into Angelyne's pink corvette—sunk into it really, like one sinks, nude, into a steaming Japanese-style bathtub—I finally understood why people buy corvettes. Each acceleration tickled the region between my crotch and belly button. It felt invasive, that a car could do that to you without even asking.

I couldn't wrap my mind around this moment. I was actually inside her pink corvette! The one I'd spied revving down the freeway for as long as I knew to look out for it. People in other, less exciting cars would soon be pointing out the famous “ANGLYNE” vanity plate; snapping blurry photos they'd share on the internet later.

As we puttered out of the parking lot, I was as alive as the hot pink wax job, so slick it appeared liquid, like the glowing stuff inside lava lamps. I felt bright, light, and lucky, like a contest winner should. Palm trees passed like paparazzi. We owned Fairfax, Melrose. This was the closest I'd probably ever get to miniaturizing myself and hopping inside my old Barbie corvette, the one my Dad threw out back in 1993. I never fully forgave him for that.

Sitting next to me in the driver's seat, in the flesh, was Angelyne (looking not unlike the creepy My Size Barbie I played with as a child). Growing up, both my parents worked for Mattel, headquartered in El Segundo. Angelyne was the ultimate prize!

My famous driver tapped the accelerator impatiently, as if we had places to be.

We made a funny pair, soaring past hipster boutiques and taco trucks. As a teen, my friends and I had shared post-show beers in many of these alleys. We passed Headline Records, where I'd bought some of my first British punk imports.

Music was blaring from the stereo, but it was not the punk I was promised. I doubted Angelyne would put on her short-lived project Baby Blue, the stuff she had played when she opened for the Screamers at the Whiskey-a-Go-Go back in 1978. But this—probably something off her 2000 pop album Beauty and the Pink—well, it was mall music. I felt embarrassed for having given her a copy of my new EP, on cassette, only an hour earlier.

Angelyne’s short-lived punk band, Baby Blue, circa 1978.

For a while, I had been trying to get her to tell me about her legendary life in L.A. But I'd probably committed a cardinal sin, first: to seem more interested in other people. I had asked if she ever met Joan Jett and the rest of the Runaways, Darby Crash and the rest of the early L.A. punk rockers—you know, back in the day?

I asked about Rodney Bingenheimer's English Disco, The Go-Gos, and Josie Cotton. Surely she had stories to tell? She just turned up the music.

To my surprise, she'd asked about a homeless day center in San Luis Obispo. She wanted to know if I would deliver a package there. When I asked what the package was for, she changed the subject.

I felt like I was on a blind date, wandering around in the dark.

Somewhere between telling Angelyne about my latest chicken death (by raccoon) and her vaguely telling me, in her best adult film star baby doll voice, about her latest impressive video project, I realized that I was beginning to feel nauseous.

Hot hairspray pulsed at my temples. I was suddenly aware that the car smelled of chemical strawberry, like a wine cooler you'd suck down gleefully at a slumber party. Was I smelling Angelyne's deodorant? Her perfume? I thought of a shapely, old time Coke-a-Cola bottle, only pink.

“The new fragrance for women: Angelyne by Angelyne.”

If she ever had a signature scent, it would smell too sweet and too musky, like premium gasoline dumped over a mound of fake scented roses. My head throbbed and my mouth watered, cruelly anticipating the return of the egg sandwich I'd eaten for breakfast. I wasn't sure I could take any more stopping, going, or low-to-the-ground engine purring.

Now, her audience of one had gone completely quiet, sullen. She didn't like this.

“We'll be there super sooooooon,” she cooed, so full of Splenda it made me shudder. She turned back to the traffic, her boobs pointing the way. Her pout was as round and shiny and pink as a frosted donut from Randy's.

It was at this point that I realized, to my own astonishment, I really had no idea where Angelyne was taking me. When I found out I'd won “a ride” with Angelyne, I hadn't thought past the parking lot.

I pressed a button, and the passenger window slurped open.

“I'm sorry. I sometimes get car sick,” I croaked, the hot, floral air slapping me in the face.

“Oooh?” she said, giving me a sideways look, her tall, fried poodle hair as white and unreal as the sand advertised at an all inclusive resort.

The light turned green and we bolted forward again, only to stop a few inches from a beige sedan. My stomach dropped and did a backflip. I imagined the guy who must be gawking through his rear view mirror. What would he see? An enchanted blow up doll and a red-headed mini-Divine trying not to vomit into her own purse.

Ugh! I was mad at my stomach for making me pay attention to its boring inner workings and not the real life Malibu Barbie fantasy at hand: The unlikely miraculousness of Angelyne, so close I could taste her sadness.

Angelyne didn't say anything for a while. The psychotic, floating face of a smiling Latina real estate agent seemed to wink in solidarity from her own public purgatory—a bus bench. She wore a Sharpie eye patch.

I imagined heaving my entire torso out of the corvette, like a fancy Great Dane on her way to an appointment with the doggy masseuse. As if reading my mind, Angelyne suddenly turned her own mall music down with the flick of a fuchsia talon, pursing her Pepto-lacquered lips into a heart. This was her annoyed face, I realized, with a little shock.

We were just a block or two from Hollywood Forever Cemetery when I spotted it: A glowing, green and orange miracle. I had never been so happy to see a 7-11 in all my life. I could feel the bile rising up.

OhGodOhGodOhGod...

“Pull over here!”

She swerved into the right lane, causing a cascade of honks. There were no parking spaces in the 7-11 parking lot, so she just sort of idled there, unsure of what to do next. I decided for her.

Without another word, I bolted from the car like a baby deer.

There was a long line snaking from the beverage case in the back to the front counter of the 7-11. It seemed like everyone there was either a dead tired construction worker or a fed up single parent with too many bills to pay. The cashier, a tall trunk of a man with a brown mustache, seemed surprised by my audacity.

“Do you...have…a bathroom?” I hugged the counter, wild-eyed. No one objected to my cutting; they had resigned themselves to a life of gridlock. The cashier shook his head no, looking past me.

How many druggies did he have to deal with in one day?

I spun around and wobbled toward the candy aisle, my mouth watering hot and acrid.

OhNoOhNoOh NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In one burning burst of liquid, the entire contents of my stomach—mostly coffee, a little egg—shot forth like an angry brown waterfall. I watched in slow motion as the splatters appeared across my pink suede heels.

Was this happening to someone else?

The puke went everywhere, everywhere. It sloshed across the Payday and Snickers Bars, under the shelving units. I left my body momentarily; turned my head, wiped my mouth, waiting for the next wave to wreck my world. It was then that I realized I was standing next to the exterior window, which was to say, the wall. Let me clarify. I was standing next to a floor-to-ceiling glass wall.

Aside from a few advertisements for half priced hot dogs and ice cold Big Gulps, the world was right there in all of its sunny, SoCal glory. Miraculously, Angelyne's car was also still idling there, parallel to the window. I could see her pink lips from here. The second wave came quickly, producing tears and snot, too.

By the time I'd turned around, the cashier was already on the scene. He seemed capable, sturdy. I fought the urge to hug him. He held a mop and a bucket.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, breathless from the exorcism. “Please, let me do it.”

I didn't know what I was talking about. I'd never seen a customer cleaning up their own puke anywhere.

Shouldn't that be a thing? I thought.

The cashier, even more dead-eyed than before, was already hoisting the ancient mop out of its gray, watery holster. He was better than me and we both knew it.

I apologized again, then left the 7-11. I felt like a piece of gum left under a gas station toilet seat.

As I peeled open the door to Angelyne's pink corvette once more, I checked myself. The puke was mostly on my shoes. By some magic, I'd missed my dress entirely. I slid back into that black leather cradle, trembling.

She looked at me as if I had taken too long picking out a snack or a lottery ticket.

“I'm...I'm ready to go back,” I said. “Thanks for the ride.”

Her heavily powdered, unlined face struggled to convey the mildest flavor of concern. One eyelid twitched. The wobbly jet black doll lashes fluttered, a malfunction.

“So, you still want to get FroYo, right?”

This story is sourced from a zine that comes included with all copies of Hayley and the Crushers’ new 7”, Jacaranda. Get it here The B-side of that release is “Angelyne,” the song I wrote for the mysterious lady in pink.

Listen to Angelyne on Spotify. Hayley and the Crushers · Song · 2020.

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