he'd gotten into a fight with some random guy in some club on sunset, and, in addition to the eye (which would be totally black by morning), the guy had fucked up his perfect smile.
he came home literally bouncing off the walls with rage, tearing off his shirt in shreds, adrenaline oozing from every pore.
my response was to laugh, grab my camera and call out, "strike a pose, tommy."
and, ever the model, he did as he was told.
* * * * *
i still feel bad about tommy; he came into my life at a time when i had neither the time nor the patience for him, and our relationship ended badly.
ivy league-educated, having modeled in milan and new york, tommy came to LA convinced he'd be the next new singer-songwriter (at which, pretty and talented as he was, he mighta had a reasonable shot had he hit town at 21 instead of 25, but that's another story altogether).
i didn't care about any of that; preoccupied as i was at the time with simultaneously remodeling two houses (neither of which i could afford, and either of which i coulda lost at any time), i just wanted a stable roommate who'd (a) give me some steady cash flow, (b) deal with the primitive under-construction living conditions in exchange for rock-bottom 90210 rent, and (c) shut the fuck up about anything else.
ultimately, i ended up unceremoniously throwing him out, mainly due to his tiresome insistence on such unreasonable amenities as reliable hot water and a working kitchen. hell, in the face of such wild demands, what would you have done?
* * * * *
apologies, tommy--all i can say in my defense is, at the time all that shit happened i was far crazier than you, but i'm better now. if you should find your way across this post, hit me up--i owe you dinner, at the very least.
