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Paula
This is my memoir, which includes my marriage to Chuck Negron, of Three Dog Night. My tale, is different from the one he has already told, for it is a voice from a woman's perspective.
1971 Part one.
It was early morning in L.A. The sun was snaking in through the cracks of the shutters, raking havoc on my eyes. My hand raised in protest as I’d grappled for the role of adhesive that sat on my bed stand. Staggering toward the windows, I slapped the tape on the shutters until the rays disappeared. After an hour or so of sleep, the sun shifted and entered anew. This taping procedure of mine would reoccur more than a few times in one morning, but, on this particular morning, sleep was no longer an option. There was to be a concert at The Forum that night. "Damn!" I yelled, as I threw off the quilt and buried my pounding head into my hands. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I wanted to cry. After a few miserable moments of gathering my bearings, I wove into the dressing room. The closet door stood there, staring at me like a victim. With a fury, I kicked it. Silly antic, at best, for I hurt my foot and didn't wake up my husband. Why did I even try? Alas! What was my thinking? Oh yes, cozy bacon and eggs together. When Chuck was home from the road, every aspect of my life became topsy-turvy. There was once a time when I lived only for the moment he’d return home. But, more and more, I found myself resenting his return, because, everything went to hell. My health, my sanity and my schedule, which I carved out for myself and my daughter, went down the proverbial drain. Instead, entered chaos and ever increasing nights of excess, which seemed endless. Chuck lived life past the midnight hour into the early morning. If I wanted to see my husband, those were the hours I kept. Of course, he didn't have to double back and be up all day with the baby. It didn't much matter. The facts remained. But physically, I just couldn't keep up. The penalty for my lack of vigor was that he would just leave and go elsewhere for his pleasure. He would simply disappear. I stood looking at him while he lay spread-eagle, with his mouth spewing forth guttural sounds. Really! His fans should see this. Shaking my head, I reached for a robe in the closet, a cigarette from the dresser and headed for the bathroom. My mirrored reflection was surprisingly kind, considering how horrid I felt. Lifting the lining in my bathroom drawer, I took out my new little secret . . . a small glass vial filled with the cocaine that I took from Chuck's stash. Very carefully, I reached in with my silver spoon, and scooped out a bit of the fluffy stuff. "Ah!” I put head back and felt the rush, as my more human aspects come into play. With a quick brush of my hair and a bit of blush, I felt ready to descend our long staircase. But, before exiting the bedroom, I whirled around, and headed back into the bathroom for a few more little scoops of white powder. Making my way down the endless stairs and through the cavernous entry, I stopped short at the butler's pantry. A twinkling crystal decanter, filled with a fine scotch, beckoned me. Falling under a golden spell, I brought the heavy vessel, to my lips and swallowed. Big, luscious, burning, gulps swirled down my throat, and braced me onward. The wise words of my Uncle Alberto, ran through my mind, "Nothing like a heaver in the morning!" La de da! I skipped into the kitchen and found my daughter, Shaunti, playing with a bowl of sticky cereal. Of course, she was with our trusty housekeeper, Zita, who sat protectively close. "Morning!" I managed to sing out. "My, goodness! Is it nine already?" My shaking hands betrayed me, as I poured a cup of coffee. "Mmmm, this coffee tastes so good!" Just them, a sharp pounding started in my head, as I tried not to wince." "Humph!" Zita scolded. She didn't fall for my animations. "Humph!" she said again, clucking deep in her throat. She was scolding me for yet another night, of debauchery. "I know, I know." I tried to dismiss her. Zita was a tall, lovely woman from Jamaica, with protective, but peculiar ways. I gulped down another cup of coffee, and tried to pretend that she wasn't there. My daughter looked up at me with her large brown eyes and reached out her arms. Her little tulip of a mouth, dimpled into a smile and the beauty of her caught my breath. She looked so much like her father. My heart went out to her, for the poor darling had been born with dislocated hips. The doctor discovered this when she was only four months of age and he said that the only solution was corrective surgery. Now, a month later, she was still in a partial body cast and needed constant care. I flapped around her like a wounded bird, while Zita took charge. If it wasn't for her help . . . well, I just didn't want to think about it. I glanced to the side and saw that Zita was still frowning at me. Sometimes she could be so tedious! Never-the-less, I didn't like pissing her off. She worked in strange ways, placing little portentous bundles of chicken bones, leaves, and hair, all interwoven, in various corners of the house. Unsettling, though they were, there was nothing dark about Zita. She was just concerned. I'm sure those bundles were just good little omens . . . or intended for Chuck’s demise, but still, as I said, I didn't like to piss her off. I picked up Shaunti and positioned her cast on my hips, just so. A timely stroll through the house seemed a grand idea. Zita's eyes bore through my back as I exited the kitchen. She was right, of course, about my burning the candle at both ends. What could I do? I wanted to be with my husband, Vlad Dracula. I took great care that our relationship should not disintegrate. While wandering through the massive rooms of our home, I made mental notes of what needed to be done that day. This was a most ridiculous procedure, given that Zita ran the sprawling Spanish mansion with expertise. Occasionally, I exerted my power, and she would appease me with a feather duster. It was a little game that we played. I will confess that I was a bit excessive with the cleanliness thing. Everyplace, and everything, needed to be perfect. Anyway, I thought, then, that Chuck seemed pleased with how our home looked. Our works by Miro, Dubuffet, Max Ernst and countless other fine artists, needed to be clear of dust and our antiques, buffed to sheen. La de da, walk, walk, through the house. I’m sure, that in home, was the only place in my life where I felt a modicum of control. In trying to please Chuck, I had put my heart and soul into the decor. At first he balked at the prices of things, but then he just let me spend as much as I wanted. Chuck was very conscious of appearances. Since we had a mansion, it shouldn’t be filled with shoddy things. In order to achieve an ambiance for the rock star that he felt he was . . . well, that needed some hard spending cash. The phones started in with their daily ringing. Each perturbing jingle promised a pain-in- the-ass problem of one nature or another. However, very few people got past me, to Chuck. I was the lucky recipient . . . the go-between that kept every agonizing mess and pending urgency away from the star. The phones, like everything and everybody in our lives were becoming much too invasive. I planned to talk to Chuck about getting an answering service. Walk, walk. Suddenly, it had dawned on me, that it being the morning of the group's concert at The Forum, the phones would soon reach frenetic proportions. A Three Dog Night performance in their hometown L.A. was bedlam for days before and days after. It wasn't too bad that time around, since the guys had slipped into town, from a grueling schedule, relatively unnoticed. Although, I was adept at protecting my own privacy, Chuck's was another matter. Hummm, I should talk to him about that also. Maybe he needs a full time valet, and bodyguard. The list just kept on growing. Another thing that kept on growing was our guest lists for concerts. Each member of the group had their own entourage. All was in order for us it seemed, as I had worked all week on the limo arrangements that would transport everyone, guests, family and disciples, to and from the concert. So, feeling quite cocky, I knocked both receivers off their hooks; with one defiant sweep of my arm. I had a headache and was simply not in the mood. If Chuck didn't give a damn, why should I? If management had a problem, they could always send over a messenger or two. Anyway, I had places to go, people to see, and last minute things to do.
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