2 Which Man Do I Ride To The Hollywood Sign?

Finally, my son and soon-to-be ex arrived in Los Angeles on Sunday night. I had not been back since leaving as a baby in 1962, but I wasn’t going to South Central or the Watts area this time. I headed toward the Hollywood sign!

Jai, Johnny, and I got a motel room on the Sunset Strip, and from what I remember, so much has changed. Wichita Falls represented the land of serenity, a place to raise your family and enjoy cookouts, but tonight, in Hollywood, all we heard were sirens and prostitutes lining the boulevard. I thought, “Where are all the entertainers?”

Johnny’s flight departs tomorrow morning, returning to Houston. I was fearful but determined to be a star.

Before coming, I contacted the city for approved babysitters. The day after Johnny got on the plane, I left Jai with a lovely Mexican woman and began looking for work. Wearing my finest church dress down to my knees, old lady shoes from my grandmother’s closet, and a wool scarf around my neck in sunny L.A.,

Walking down Sunset Blvd, a brown convertible Rolls Royce pulled beside me. The bald man inside, dressed to kill, referred to my bow legs with a holler, “Lady, I could roll a barrel between your legs.” I looked at the man closely; he seemed familiar; it was Red Foxx!

On NBC, his number one show, Sanford and Son, has been smoking hot for years. I thought, “This man is a superstar.” Red was parking in front of the beauty salon he owned on the Sunset Strip called Nap Snapper. He beckoned me over to his car and said,

“You look like a beautiful California woman, but you’re dressed straight out of the country. Come on in here,” referring to his beauty shop.

“What’s In there?” I questioned, “Why do I need to go.” Mesmerized by his fame, I followed anyway.

His beauty salon had a large, square space in the center, enclosed by a glass wall. Inside was a beautiful flower garden with exotic birds flying around. I had never seen anything like it. Red Fox placed a hundred-dollar bill on the table and told an operator,

“Give her the works.”

Then he turned toward me and said, in a Sanford-like way, “I will see the results later.”

Californians refer to beauty shops as salons and beauticians as hairstylists. Three hours later, my blown-dry hair, curled and full of body, bounced as I walked; the esthetician gave me a facial, then the polishing lady sculptured my nails and painted my toes. I looked in the mirror and realized my full potential; this Bonnie was unbelievable. I walked out of that salon, looking like I had stepped out of a magazine.

Back home, they considered me a natural country beauty, but now, I looked the part of a star, and my new mission was to become one.

As promised, Redd returned to pick me up and take me for a ride. That was the first time I had ever been in a Rolls Royce. The car, the hair, and the wealthy man set the standard for all my future male endeavors, and it became my new normal.

Coming out of the parking lot, Redd drove off the curb. When he apologized, I asked.

“What curb?” I didn’t feel anything but heaven.

First, he took me up a hill called Beachwood Drive to show me the famous Hollywood sign I had seen many times on my television set. Mr. Foxx entered and drove onto the Ventura 101 freeway, northbound. As we passed the Hollywood hills towards the valley, my long, flowing hair blew in the wind.

It was natural for us to laugh, and Red mentioned his recent divorce during our conversation. I told him a few things about me; he appeared impressed with my accomplishments. While riding, I wondered, “Why is this famous man spending so much time with me? What does he want?” For a minute, I thought, “Sex? There were plenty of beautiful women in Hollywood, so that couldn’t be it.”

We exited the 405 freeway off Mulholland Drive; then, he drove around a narrow, two-lane road circling the mountains. I became dizzy but didn’t complain. Arriving at the top of the hill, we couldn’t drive any further, and the car stopped at a security gate. Red Fox drove to a small box, pushed a few buttons, and opened the gate. “What kind of shit is this?” I thought. Once we passed the electric fence, it closed behind us, and a long driveway led to a house.

Redd Foxx parked and said, “Come on in; this is my home.”

I witnessed an enormous, beautiful house. Once entered, the interior and every single item inside was blue or white, and I mean everything; there were also birds in cages. Redd Foxx pulled out a folded hundred-dollar bill, opened it, took a tiny spoon from a chain around his neck, dipped it into the fold and put it to his nose, then asked me,

“Want some?”

“What is that?” I asked with the innocence of a country girl.

Red Fox replied, “Cocaine.”

“No, Sir.” I quickly stated.

And with a quick wit, he is known for saying, “Good, that’s more for me.”

After the contents of the one-hundred-dollar bill had gone up his nostrils, he guided me to his luxurious bedroom. A monkey in a large glass cage next to the sliding door jumped onto a branch on the way in. Redd took out another hundred-dollar bill and unfolded it as he handed it to me.

I asked, “What is this for?”

Even the monkey laughed.

Afterward, Redd and I arrived back in the city; he gave me his producer’s contact information, told me to call him, and say, “Redd Foxx sent you.”

The following day, I went to Saul Turteltaub’s office. Saul, the writer/producer of Redd’s hit show Sanford & Son, also worked on the “Carol Burnett Show,” “The New Dick Van Dyke Show,” and numerous other productions. His dossier was endless, and his connections in Hollywood have always run deep.

Saul, a tall, white, and handsome man, was strictly business. He gave me the date to arrive at NBC Studios in Burbank. On that day, I arrived as planned, and after being in L.A. for only three weeks, I was on Sanford and Son, portraying a server in a Japanese restaurant.

The cash I made allowed me to move to a better motel. When my money got low, and I couldn’t pay for the room, Jai and I, with no place to go, moved into my car. I told myself that if we had to live in my car, I would park it where I wanted to live, ‘Beverly Hills.’ Redd Foxx continued to keep his word, and Saul booked me for many acting parts. With my next big check from NBC, I moved out of my car and into a Beverly Hills apartment.

Many agents and producers admired and complimented my looks. However, most complained about my southern drawl. They referred me to a speech therapist, hoping to help with my lazy tongue, even though I realized the process would take time to correct. As an option, I pursued modeling.

I booked photo shoots with quite a few photographers to develop my portfolio. Soon, I met Lamonte McLemore of the singing group The 5th Dimension. Lamont, also a photographer, wanted to arrange a photo session for the following week. In exchange, he receives updated pictures for his book. Bartering was how I built my portfolio. The day of my shoot could not come fast enough.

I left my son Jai with a reliable government babysitter, explaining to him in the simplest way possible.

“Mommy has to go hustle.”

He learned the word ‘hustle’ and understood the meaning of a ‘hustler’ at an early age. Unfortunately, he later morphed into one. The tragic tale was soon told.

Once again, I found myself driving up a narrow, winding road, finally approaching Lamont’s home at the top of the Hollywood hills. My mind couldn’t imagine the endless rows of houses and palm trees. His house was decorated with beautiful, modern furniture; I witnessed my first meditation room, and the gentleman expected nothing sexual in return. Lamont spent three hours shooting me, and we had a lovely time talking. The results were so fabulous that I selected ten 11×14 black and white photos. One of his pictures on my composite got me lots of work.

My portfolio now looked professional. I am prepared to find a modeling agency to represent me.

In Hollywood, the most popular and thriving modeling agency that represented the top black models was The Nina Blanchard Agency. Nina Blanchard worked closely with the top agency in the world, The Model Ford Agency, headed by Eileen Ford. Eileen represented many famous models, such as Beverly Johnson and Cristina Ferrare. The prestigious Judith Fontaine Agency; Mary Webb Davis, and The Flaire Agency, started by Betty Collins and Valerie Cragin (who once worked for Mary Webb Davis); also represented black models for print, runway, and commercial modeling.

I sent three companies my black and white, 11×14 pictures, and “The Flair Agency” responded. The day after my interview, they offered me a five-year contract, which I accepted. A model’s pay at that time was $60 an hour or $300 per day. My country girl’s dream of being a star was now within reach. I felt like I had hit the jackpot.

Signing with “The Flaire Agency” brought me much success for three of my five years with them. I booked jobs with Revlon and Bill Blass, but my most significant exposure came when I was featured on a ‘More’ cigarette advertisement poster. Cigarette ads back then glamorized smoking, and the ‘More‘ cigarette company was known for promoting white women in their endorsement of the product. However, this era of black pride could not be ignored. They needed an Afro-woman with white features to represent them in the black sections of town. They chose me. My ‘More’ posters hung in many liquor stores, and several magazines ran advertisements with my photo front and center.

Finally, my profession was that of an official model, working in national ads and on television. When hanging with the stars, I had proof to back me up. Now, I am one of them, a celebrity. My days are filled with modeling and acting gigs, while nights are spent mingling with the jet set at expensive restaurants and discos.

The year was 1975. I was earning plenty of money, capable of paying my bills, taking care of my child, and dressing flawlessly. My changed way of life had taken effect, and I was evolving into a glamorous star.

I soon learned that things change fast in Hollywood. The ups and downs were as intense as riding on a rollercoaster at a carnival, which came fast and left, leaving me with unexpected, dreaded joblessness. During the fourth year of my contract with “The Flaire Agency,” bookings became scarce. However, being the survivor that I am and not one to go down with a sinking ship, I acknowledged my smarts and my college degree; I pursued a career in public relations, promoting other stars until my next big gig arrived.

A consummate reader of anything black, especially Ebony and Essence magazines which were popular in the 70s along with Jet magazine; they kept me aware of the happenings with the movers and shakers; and the old and upcoming artists. These popular publications were the only commercial publications celebrating blackness. One day, while reading Jet magazine, I found a photo and an article about a film producer named ‘Sal Watts.’ It was known that Sal Watts was an entrepreneur from Oakland, California, and he owned a movie production company called “Sal Watts Productions” and a record label named “Marcel Records.”

Oakland, the Bay Area, had a thriving music scene during this time; artists and groups like “Sly Stone,” “Tower of Power,” and later “Graham Central Station.” And Bay area entrepreneurs, like Sal, were eager to do business in Los Angeles. I decided to write him a letter, accompanied by my modeling composite, and request an interview. Sal responded immediately and scheduled our meeting on his calendar. By this time, I realized that savvy and beauty had much to do with scheduling appointments quickly with Hollywood celebrities. My resume and photos deemed me qualified.

I remember it well. On September 18, 1975, we met for the first time at his home on Shenandoah Avenue in the affluent Ladera Heights area of Los Angeles. Sal, in his late thirties, was a gentle, brown-skinned man. We had a very comfortable and cordial connection. I had many questions, including, “Why do you carry a small battery TV with you?”

“Because I don’t want to miss the evening news.” He replied.

Our next discussion centered on his remake of the film Solomon’s King. Sal never wavered from his strictly business attitude nor initiated a physical relationship. This man was all about money.

Captivated by my appearance, Sal immediately booked me for an essential part in his upcoming Blaxploitation film. He also admired my hustle and the way I reached out to him. Sal Watts later retained me as a publicist to work at his record label during movie production breaks. Little did we know we would form a bond that would last a lifetime.

As time passed, I had roles in two of his films, Solomon King, and a part in the movie “Brothers” with Vonetta McGee and Bernie Casey. For me, money flowed, and Western Union delivered cash regularly to my granddaddy.

I was so proud of myself except for one matter: I had several love scenes with the writer and star of the movie, Sal Watts himself. I prayed that my granddaddy would not see me in this film, partially nude, simulating lovemaking. With my luck, out of all the theaters where Solomon King was previewed, it played at the Tower Movie Theater in downtown Wichita Falls, near my granddaddies house.

He called and said, “I was so happy and proud when all of my friends mentioned how beautiful you were in this film. But daring.”

“Thank goodness,” I thought.

I was slowly shedding my uninhibited skin one way or another when the Playboy Bunny called, and I answered. I appeared in their magazine spread. Several black women were offered during these times, but only the daring accepted. The fear of repercussions, the tainting of their careers, and, don’t forget, the shame of their families were important. Even so, I did a layout for the magazine and am proud of it. The generous compensation for a day’s work of bearing it all made it passable.

Again, I prayed that my career and ladder-climbing decisions would not embarrass my granddaddy in any way. Fortunately, he did not BARE witness! You must understand my mindset; I came to Hollywood for two reasons: to take care of my granddaddy and to become a star. Period! End of story! Not much was out of bounds for me to accomplish this.

After Solomon King completed filming, I continued working for Sal’s company “Marcel Records,” named after one of his daughters. He established his record company in the Motown building, 6464 Sunset Blvd. For me, it was not unusual to encounter record executives and celebrities on the elevators, in the hallways, or even in the ladies bathrooms. I was extremely bright, witty, and attractive. Many famous people took notice, and upon learning about my profession, they hired me for freelance public relations assignments. Not being in an exclusive contract with Marcel Records allowed me the freedom to accept other temporary offers for work.

My clients included Richard Pryor and Bill Cherry, his manager, The Temptations, The Tavares, Lakeside, Natalie Cole, The Commodores, and The Jacksons. I finally met and worked with Michael Jackson! However, I had a closer, more personal affiliation with another Jackson. I will tell you more about that later.

Melvin Franklin of “The Temptations” and I became very cool friends. We were running buddies and partied every night he was in town. My lifestyle became active and fast-paced. I met many celebrities and dated them. Thomas McClary, guitarist for The Commodores, and I were becoming quite an item. Thomas, the sweetest of all the men I encountered in Hollywood, treated me with kindness and asked me to marry him. He offered me a life of everlasting love and affection. But he, being from Tuskegee, Alabama, appeared too southern and slow for me. Riding high and star-struck, I foolishly desired a more “city-slick fellow.” I declined his offer. To this day, I regret my decision.

I spent many days and nights hanging out with Thomas and The Commodores at the Motown studios across from Poinsettia Park. However, things changed after I met Jermaine Jackson.

Thomas and I were on our way to the vending machine at the Motown studios when Jermaine Jackson approached us. Thomas introduced me as “his woman.” And without saying a word, Jermaine grabbed and kissed me on my lips in front of Thomas. Being a gentleman and not wanting to offend the boss’s (Berry Gordy) son-in-law, Thomas confronted me later and expressed his anger. Aware of Jermaine’s method of operation, he gave me an ultimatum to choose either him or Jermaine Jackson’s womanizing.

I told Thomas, “I have absolutely no intentions of hooking up with Jermaine. I love you, honey.” Although, I had already slipped Jermaine my telephone number.

Jermaine had just begun his solo career at “Motown,” opting not to follow his brothers to “CBS Records.” A few years before, he married the richest black man in America’s daughter, Hazel Gordy. They had a lavish $200,000 wedding (equivalent to a million-dollar wedding these days) with white doves, closed-circuit TVs, and a who’s who in Hollywood guest list.

The honeymoon between Jermaine and Hazel had long been over. By the time we connected, however, they were still married. I slowly ended my relationship with Thomas after Jermaine came into my life, but was always fearful of our rendezvous being revealed to Hazel’s father.

Jermaine and I met often in private at his sneak-away, cozy apartment on Hampton Street in West Hollywood. Our meetings were brief but memorable in my mind. There was nothing romantic about us; it was pure sex, no promises, no shopping sprees, or money exchanges; the opportunity to sleep with one of the finest “Jackson 5” brothers was my only aphrodisiac.

Jermaine was very soft-spoken with a sexy smile that aroused me. He had a stuttering problem, but I overlooked it. His skin was so smooth, but adolescent acne had set in. I’m not sure if he was a great lover or if my mind convinced me of it. Albeit, he was well-endowed.

Jermaine’s debut single, “Let’s Get Serious,” was climbing the charts, and the constant realization that my life and livelihood could be in danger by dating the most influential black man in the music business’s son-in-law terrified me. Although our secret rendezvous continued, I sought a love of my own.

By chance, while visiting his father at ‘Marcel’ Record Company, I met Sal Watt’s son, Tory Watts. He appeared to be an innocent, nineteen-year-old, sweet boy with beautiful hazel eyes who had not been exposed to the industry. Sal kept his family well provided for and nestled them away for safekeeping.

Tory, infatuated, fell in love fast and hard! This young boy was in love with me, but I did not know what love meant. He wanted matrimony; I was in search of monetary. He needed a commitment; Bonnie desired fame. I am not sure if it is a blessing or a curse, but I’m the type of woman who needs a man in my life no matter what, and Tory represents ‘security’ for me.

He was young, so I had a lot of control over our situation. He soon moved in with me, and I became the breadwinner of our household. I figured Tory would be my main course after I ordered my hustle and had a wealthy man as an appetizer. When getting money, wealthy men, and fame became tiresome, Tory would be there waiting—a win-win situation.

Immediately after we dated, I thought I was having an irregular menstrual cycle, but it turned out to be my daughter, Myaa. I tried to have an abortion, but my blood count was too low, and no doctor would perform the procedure.

Oh yes, it occurred to me that paternity was a question. The answers were multiple-choice. Maya was the love child of Tory Watts or Jermaine La Jaune Jackson. I thought, “What am I to do?”

At that time, Tory and I were bound together and happy as a couple, so I prayed for the fittest and safest candidate, Tory. Although, deep inside, I knew it was a dream.

The part of the story that terrified me was that Jermaine and Hazel Gordy were expecting their first child during this time.

I must admit that out of all the gangsters, CEOs, drug dealers, and superstars with security guards that I have dated, Berry Gordy scared the shit out of me. The thought of “Berry Gordy” discovering this news and putting a hit out on my life was real to me. Enough of reality, in my mind, to remain silent.

Allegedly, after “Stevie Wonder” re-signed his contract for thirty million dollars, the vice president, who signed him without “Mr. Gordy’s” permission, mysteriously fell to his death from the twenty-sixth floor. Now, Berry had nothing to do with this. However, the subliminal message caused me to be subconsciously paranoid. I did not want the media to know about my relationship, period!

Hence, being close to the Jackson family, I made sure that the entire clan was aware of my pregnancy and that everyone was on notice.

I told Mr. Jackson first,” he told his wife, Katherine; we then arranged a meeting at the Jackson compound on Hayvenhurst to discuss the matter. Ironically, both Mr. and Mrs. Jackson asked me to go public with the news. They wanted the information leaked to the media immediately, hoping to distract Jermaine away from Berry Gordy’s clutches. They also hoped that the brothers would get back together, as The Jackson Five has always been their focus.

Despite my personal unsureness of the father and the fact that the baby would be born out of wedlock, the Jackson family stood united and prepared to take on the responsibility of Jermaine’s new baby. Ms. Jackson, being religious, wanted Maya to have the Jackson’s last name. I expressed to them my fear of Berry Gordy.

I will never forget this; I was at the Jackson compound on 4641 Hayvenhurst, in Encino, CA, when “Mrs. Jackson” uttered these words.

“Berry Gordy is a dangerous man, but I’m a dangerous woman, and we have money to protect ourselves, so if there is a question of being fearful, don’t be!”

I was sure after giving birth, but I convinced myself that I was uncertain. However, Jermaine signed the birth certificate “J. La Jaune Jackson.”  A few months afterward, Jermaine’s attorney summoned me to his office, where we agreed to sign a statement of knowledge. We changed the father to unknown for Jermaine’s protection and sealed the old certificate. The updated birth certificate only has his middle name. I settled on this compromise as a possible connection to either being the potential father. Today her birth certificate reads Myaa La Jaune Watts.

Jermaine and I continued to see each other privately. He adored Myaa. Before Myaa, my son had played when visiting the Jackson estate, and she soon became welcome.

Unbeknownst to Tory Watts and family, we held the pending, behind-the-scenes drama in the privacy of Jackson’s Estate. But as far as it concerns me, Sal Watts will always be the grandfather of my baby girl, Myaa.

In the beginning Tory, a big-hearted, lovable young man, and I had a very close relationship. Hence, I was not in love with him. We had fun at the start of our relationship, and his open-mindedness wooed me. Tory knew about my Jermaine affair. In fact, at the beginning of our relationship, when Jermaine visited me, Tory hid across the street to watch one of “The Jackson 5” pull up and exit his expensive sports car. He was in awe. Yet, after Myaa’s birth, Tory changed. The young play toy evolved into a father.

Tory, an excellent parent, raised Myaa and was essential to Jai’s life. Unfortunately, our relationship became distant and volatile quickly.

I continued my lifestyle in the fast lane and dated other men besides Tory and occasionally Jermaine. The thought of me leaving him and not being able to see Maya scared Tory. Along with me, hanging out late at night and other men calling the house made matters worse. We had many verbal and physical fights, once prompting him to put a gun to my head. At that point, I realized it was time to stop playing with his emotions and start planning my escape. We had a painful breakup, but in due course, we remained friends.

The Courtship of Eddie had started by this time. Eddie Cohen, an older, sweet, generous, financially secure mail carrier, was now my benefactor. He worshipped the ground I walked on. Eddie, a married man, carried on our relationship in secret, and I couldn’t judge him because I was still legally married to my high school sweetheart.

Soon, I divorced Johnny (now a drunk and deadbeat father) and began a long romance with Eddie.

Eddie, 55, taught me, a 24-year-old, lots about life and unconditional love. He also often sent my granddaddy money to spend as he pleased; his generosity made me fall in love with him. Eddie paid all my bills, purchased me the newest, most expensive Mercedes-Benz, and we regularly traveled and shopped in Las Vegas.

Living the life of a kept woman, I wore expensive designer clothes. In the 1970s, if you accumulated over $20,000 in jewelry worn on your body at one time, you had it going on. Gold and diamonds draped around my neck, and a ring on every finger was my style.

Eddie put me away and paid the rent on an exclusive condominium in Encino, California, down the road from The Jacksons. I thought, “Now that I’m financially secure, I can focus on being a star again.”

Throughout this time, I still maintained my PR position at Marsel Records. One day, in 1978, sitting behind my desk, I received a phone call from a seventeen-year-old young lady. Her name was Bernadette Cooper. She stated,

“Hello, my name is Bernadette Cooper. I found your number in the Yellow Pages. I had an idea and have been putting together an all-girl band. I feel something unusual is needed in the industry. I’m wondering if this concept would interest your company?”

I was immediately intrigued and set up an appointment for us to meet. She arrived on time and waited for me in the reception room. “Excuse me, Bonnie, Bernadette Cooper is here for you.” The receptionist said. I walked out, and Bernadette, a thin, shapely girl with the most perfect Afro I had ever seen, was sitting on the sofa. We met, went to lunch, and Bernadette explained her vision of shocking the world with an all-female band. Her conversation was so vivid, and she expressed it like a soul who was planted on this earth to create this band. We instantly became fast friends, as if we had known each other all our lives. We laughed and joked; as she shared her dreams, they soon became mine. Thus began the adventures of Bonnie and Bernadette… Clyde.