The Imaginary Autobiography of James Dean by Arthur Winfield Knight

JAMES DEAN: THE VIRGIN

She liked Italian food and jazz and midnight runs in Central Park, and she wanted me to be her first lover because she'd seen me on TV. Arlene said the thought of losing her virginity to an actor was exciting, but I imagined she'd lost it years before. She took acting classes at the Performing Arts High School and spoke breathlessly. She'd started to smoke when she was 11. Arlene had long black hair and dark eyes, and she was wearing an angora sweater that was two sizes too small the afternoon we met. She claimed she was a Jewish American Princess, but I wasn't sure what that meant. It was difficult to believe she was only 17. She screamed when we began to make love, and there was blood on the sheets when we'd finished.

"Oh my God," I said, "I didn't believe you were a virgin, you seemed so sophisticated, I'm sorry."

Arlene held my hand as we lay next to each other. She said, "I wanted it this way. With you. It's all right. I always know what I'm doing. My psychiatrist says I'm afraid to lose control."

It was 2 a.m. when I finally took Arlene home, and her mother was waiting for us. She said, "You may be accustomed to bringing girls home at this hour but Arlene is my daughter and she is very young and this is not acceptable." She certainly knew how to ruin an evening, but mothers never liked me.

JAMES DEAN: DENNIS HOPPER

He came to me crying. He'd seen Nick and Natalie taking a shower together in a poolside cabana at the Chateau Marmont. Dennis was barely 20, but he was one of the most restless people I'd ever met. He was in constant motion. His hands blurred, lighting cigarettes. I liked the urgency he had for life, but he always seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. Sometimes he confused moodiness with sensitivity, but I could be guilty of that, too. I imagined he'd end up in an asylum.

"I think Nick has me playing Goon for a reason," Dennis said. "I get it now. It's symbolic. Nick thinks I'm a sap." Dennis lit the wrong end of a filter cigarette, coughing, but at least he'd stopped crying. "I thought there was something special between Nat and me, but there she is ... in the goddamn shower with Nick. The fucking guy's old enough to be her father. It's ugly, man, it's really ugly. Nick could have any woman in Hollywood. He shouldn't be fooling around with an underage girl. It's... immoral."

Dennis seemed to believe age made all the difference. It was all right if he made love to Natalie, but Nick was supposed to know better. Dennis didn't realize I'd been sleeping with her too, and I didn't plan to tell him. He was already sure his life was ruined.

JAMES DEAN: THE COUCH

Mom purchased the couch at a thrift shop shortly after we'd moved to Los Angeles. It had a faded floral print and had never been very comfortable, but my father was cheap. He worried about money constantly, unless he wanted something.

One afternoon he'd come home with a bright red Chevrolet. He hadn't bothered to consult Mom. He leaned against the left front fender, smiling, while Mom took his picture, his thumbs hooked around his suspenders. He said, "Ain't it a beaut?" I'd never seen him so happy.

I was happiest when my father wasn't there. Mom and I spent hours together, making up stories, but they stopped the afternoon she came home from the doctor's office. Mom said, "The doctor told me I have cancer, and he doesn't think he found it in time." She squeezed my hands. "Death isn't the enemy, Jimmy. Living in constant fear of it is. You have to be brave. All we have is now." We were sitting on a used couch and Mom was dying while my father drove around town in his new Chevy. I didn't want to be brave.

That weekend I set the couch on fire.

JAMES DEAN: SAMMY

He said he knew all the important people in Hollywood, and he was proud he was a member of Sinatra's ratpack. I gave him a ride on my Harley one Sunday afternoon, taking the corners fast, up into the Hollywood Hills, past the mansion where Bugsy Siegel had lived. I could tell Sammy was scared by the way he clung to me, but he kept saying, "Wow, man, what a fucking gas. I've got to get one of these," because he needed to be the coolest man in the world, even if he was black. Especially, since he was black.

I knew it was difficult to be a Negro in Hollywood, but Sammy worked too hard at being hip. He said, "I got a phone book of the hottest chicks in town, man. We got to get loaded and have an orgy."

Sammy opened a bottle of expensive wine Dean Martin had given him and lit a joint. His black face glistened from the heat, and I could smell the sweat on him. Sammy said, "I'm fucking this blonde sex goddess from Switzerland who can barely speak English, but we communicate in other ways. Dig? The three of us have to get together and make it. I believe in sharing with my buddies, and you're my buddy, man." I flinched when he put a hand on mfr shoulder.

Sammy was beating his bongo-drums when I left. Maybe he really believed he was the "hippest cat in L.A.," but he was just a nervous, little guy, and I felt sorry for him. He desperately wanted to be white, and it was impossible.

JAMES DEAN: ROCK

He was always afraid someone would tell the world he was a homosexual. Rock was over six feet tall, internationally famous, and so insecure he got married when the studio told him to. We lived in the same rented house, tenuously, that summer. Sometimes the clouds spun out against the sky like whipped cream, but the sun peeled the paint off the buildings. Everything drooped from the heat.

I thought Rock spent too much time trying to please people, but it worked. Everyone involved with the picture liked him, because he always knew his lines, was on time, and he never argued with the director. Rock thought I was sullen.


He must have signed his name two thousand times, once for every person who lived in Marfa. Sometimes twice. He was a regular guy. Rock said the Yellow Rose Cafe smelled like the place where hamburgers were invented, but he was either a liar or a fool. It was a grease pit.

Rock wore a perfectly shaped Stetson to go with his perfectly capped teeth, and he smiled at everyone he met. Howdy, howdy, howdy. I thought he had a soft crotch.

JAMES DEAN: KENDRA

She was singing in a small club along the Strip the night we met. Kendra wore a floor-length skirt, standing behind the microphone, caressing it. I didn't realize she only had one leg. Later, she told me she'd lost it in a motorcycle accident.

I understood why she kept saying, "Jimmy, not so fast" when I'd take her for a ride on my bike, but she never said no. Kendra thought most lives weren't dangerous enough. Sometimes she'd leave her artificial leg at home, depending on the kindness of strangers. She'd lean against me, or I'd carry her, particularly if we'd been drinking.

I asked Kendra to take her clothes off the first night we went to her apartment. She had long blonde hair and small, delicate breasts. Her body shone in the soft dark. She balanced herself against the bed, then I touched the place where her leg used to be, kissing her. There. She was sobbing when we lay next to each other on her bed. I said, "We don't have to do anything. It's all right."

"No one's ever touched me.. .there," she said. "They all want to pretend I'm just like everyone else, and I'm not."

"No, you have the whole world at your foot," I said, and we both laughed.