Road Trip: A Memoir

By Denise Billings

A cross country road trip from St. Louis to Los Angeles in 1976 and a trip in reverse decades later led Denise Billings to ponder the life in between. Growing up in St. Louis in the 1950s and 1960s, she enjoyed her childhood unaware that racism colored her world. It manifested in subtle ways that weren't truly recognized until years later. "Road Trip" is a look back on the drama, disasters, and decisions that she survived during her lifetime. This memoir is an intensely personal and candid account of youthful high jinks, drug use, friendship, family, multiple marriages, murder, loss, and joy. Denise confronts her past with forgiveness, shades of enlightenment, and a side-eyed humor that makes an absorbing story for readers from all backgrounds. In her authentic voice, Denise Billings reaches deep into the heart of a young girl to find herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350934243

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

ST. LOUIS TO LOS ANGELES

I had to escape. I quit my job and packed as much as would fit into my aging yellow VW Bug, which sat rumbling while it warmed to prepare for the journey. It exhaled a cloud of steam as I checked my map and my fear. In the passenger seat, within easy reach, was a bedpost from my childhood canopy bed for protection. The car was so full I could barely see out the rear window when I left my hometown of St. Louis. I was on a quest for the dream of a shimmery Southern California in November 1978.

Los Angeles was the promised land, and I was eager to trade Missouri’s abusive winters for California’s warm embrace. Yearning to break free of the stagnant lifestyle I’d returned to after finishing college with a psychology degree, I just couldn’t see myself living in my mother’s old house on the north side of the city, working decades on a job I hated like so many others had done. Staring into my future, I saw what would have been for me a joyless, soul-killing life.

Outside it was thirty-five degrees, and cows nibbled winter brown grass in the flat pastures of Missouri that rippled past my car windows. The landscape liberated itself from the constrictions of the city and flowed into the vast openness of country life. Behind the wheel, I realized I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to do, but I was certain life in St. Louis was no longer for me. What did the rest of the world look like?

Months ago, I’d sent a letter to relatives in Boston and in Los Angeles. My father’s sister, Aunt Mae, encouraged me to visit her in California. I’d never met her, but my father told me about her adventurous spirit and that appealed to me. He didn’t tell me the entire truth about his sister, though. Years after my first visit with her in California, I asked him about her.

Daddy, why didn’t you tell me Aunt Mae was crazy as hell?

You had to find out for yourself. His raised eyebrows showed he didn’t think there was anything wrong with me learning the hard way what sort of person she was.

No, really, Daddy, you could have given me a heads up. Just a hint of what she was like, so I would have known what to expect. She was a mess!

During my visit, Aunt Mae laughed, cursed, and drank like a sailor, which I found quite compelling. There was always a house full of kids, from toddlers to adults, bustling around in her overstuffed three-bedroom apartment. She held court from a Barcalounger in front of the TV, shouting orders to everyone but never moving an inch herself.

Daddy laughed at my annoyance as we talked on. I know, I know, he said, but she’s hard to describe, and you probably wouldn’t have believed me if I told you.

I knew very little about his side of the family; before I knew better, I looked forward to adding branches to our family tree. He could have saved me years of heartache, ducking, and dodging long-lost, then please-stay-lost family members.

Outside the car windows, grassy pastures gave themselves over to acres of fields with dark soil neatly tilled in icy rows. I thought of my second California connection. Terry, a guy I dated in St. Louis, already lived in Los Angeles. Coffee bean brown and athletic, he was a couple years ahead of me in high school and best friends with my best friend Marsha’s older brother, Ray. Got that? Terry and Ray were both bright and involved students who’d earned full college scholarships. Terry was on the school newspaper staff and captain of the swim team. Ray was president of the Black Student Union and a Future Teacher of America. I looked up to Ray; he told me I had potential. And Terry had a car.

My girlfriends—sexy, big-hearted Deborah and petite, quiet, liquid-eyed Paula—and I routinely met at Marsha’s family’s duplex. A narrow two-story brick building like the others on the block, it reflected the family itself. They were all tall, thin, and angular. The rooms of the upstairs apartment lined up one behind the other, front to back, to the left of the main hallway. To the right, a railing bordered the narrow, dimly lit stairway.

We all squeezed into Marsha’s tiny bedroom at the top of the stairs and admired the creativity of the latest outfit she’d put together. Next to Marsha’s bedroom at the front of the apartment was the living room, which was connected to a dining room that had been converted to a bedroom. Behind that was Ray’s bedroom, which was next to the kitchen. Typically, tempting smells drifted from the cluttered kitchen, like my favorite warm, browned-justright banana pudding. Behind the kitchen was a porch where Marsha’s father, Mr. House, made his peach moonshine. Big jugs of fermenting fruit with fuzzy clumps of green mold sat on the floor of the cold-in-the-winter, boiling-in-the-summer, screened-in porch. Mr. House thought the peach moonshine was the best thing ever. I was revolted by the mold. You couldn’t pay me to try it.

We tagged along with Ray and Terry to high school basketball games at the behest of Marsha’s mother. Slender with a sweet smile and a voice slow as molasses, Mrs. House made the older guys responsible for us girls. We pronounced the Mrs. as Ms. before Ms. was a thing. (Pronounced mizz, it began as a compromise between Miss and Mrs. in 1901. Slowly picking up steam over the decades until the Feminist Movement ran with it in 1971.) Mrs. House was always on her way to or from taking a nap because she worked the night shift at the local hospital. We didn’t give a second thought to keeping her awake during our long loud visits.

Take those girls with you! she would yell. Maybe she could get a nap in if we got out of the house.

Wait for us, wait for us!

We put last-minute touches on our hairstyles and wore our cutest outfits. At fifteen, we were too young yet for makeup, but we sported our Afros, big hoop earrings, tight jeans, short unlined leather jackets (even in the winter), and cheap, you-couldn’t-tellus-they’re-not-cute shoes from Bakers. Mrs. House called our jackets booty-freezers. That did not bother us; fashion trumped practicality and warmth.

We piled into Terry’s car and off we’d go. Terry and Ray ditched us as soon as we got to the game. We cramped their style with the ladies. Thrilled just to be at the game and unconcerned about who was playing, we were there to socialize.

Ooh, girl, he’s cute! We screeched to each other over the ear-splitting blasts of the game buzzers and the clamor of the crowd.

Deborah, girrrrrl, he’s looking at you! We dissolved into giggles.

After the game, we hunted down Terry and Ray, scared to miss our ride. Terry dropped off each of us at our respective homes. We all lived in the same neighborhood, and I was always the last person on the route. We wouldn’t say much to each other.

OK, bye, I’d toss over my shoulder as I jumped out of the car at my house. I considered him a big brother in those days.

Those were also the days when my mother was at the height of keeping track of me. Once, when I was about fourteen, having fun at a basement party with my friends, I went past curfew. I will never forget how embarrassment unfurled and enveloped me. I wanted to die when my mother appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs.

DENISE YVONNE HENDERSON! DENISE YVONNE HENDERSON! YOU NEED TO GET YOUR BUTT UP THESE STAIRS AND GET HOME RIGHT NOW!

Yes, she yelled my entire name in front of all my friends. I ducked my head and tried to make myself invisible as I ran up the stairs in my little mini-skirt and sweated-out hair, puffed up on the right side from slow-dancing with a boy. In the car she went on.

You know I told you to be home by 11:30! You tryin’ to be slick?

No, ma’am. I just forgot. I lost track of time.

No, you tryin’ to be slick. And pull that skirt down!

Yes, ma’am.

Even though she was not warm and fuzzy, she was all about me staying out of trouble—in other words, not getting pregnant.

Years later, having returned to St. Louis after college, I ran into Terry in a nightclub. He was buzzed and on his way out but managed to slur, I promised myself if I ever saw you again, I’d ask you out! Can I call you?

In the bit of quiet at the entry of the noisy club, I looked out toward the street.

Is that the same car from high school—the same one we rode around in back then?

That’s it. One and the same.

I held him back with one hand on his chest as he tilted toward my face. A wave of nostalgia hit me when I saw Terry’s old, dark green Mustang parked out front. At that sentimental moment, I gave him my phone number. We dated off and on—mostly off until he moved to Los Angeles. We had our fair share of drama and infidelity—if there can be unfaithfulness when you’re only dating. The last straw was when I stopped by his place unannounced and someone else was with him. Not totally invested in the relationship, I quietly walked away. Those were the days when I avoided pain by breaking up with a guy before he could break up with me. I wasn’t angry or jealous, just surprised. That afternoon, he followed me to my car.

She doesn’t mean anything to me.

I’m OK, that’s OK. Unruffled, I said, I should have called. Don’t worry about me. You can go ahead and be with her.

He was more shaken than I was. It was as good a reason as any for me to call it off. That’s how things were between us before he moved to L.A., yet who did I reach out to? Contacting Terry to ask about staying with him could have been awkward for me, but I was so keen on getting out of St. Louis that I was willing to take a chance on his rejection. To my surprise, he calmly agreed to let me stay with him until I got on my feet. Like I’d simply asked to borrow $5.00. it was that easy, no resistance at all.

On the road, I passed the Kansas state line in my crammed car. Low livestock fencing stretched to the horizon alongside the highway. I did not regret leaving the job at Human Development Corporation (HDC); it had lost its luster. My Uncle Wilbert, my mother’s brother who was like a father to me, helped me get the job. He was Chief Juvenile Officer for the City of St. Louis and friends with the head of HDC. My job placement seemed to rub some people the wrong way. I didn’t understand then why workers who didn’t know me would lie and gossip about me behind my back. Now I thought maybe someone who had worked there for years was expecting to get the job that was handed to me.

At the time, I lived in an apartment complex in Jennings, a suburb of St. Louis, just a few miles from the house where I grew up with my mother and brother. I drove over to see my strong-willed mother, Versie, to tell her my plans. She preferred I stay in St. Louis. She and I did not have the touchy-feely, warm and fuzzy relationship that I thought a mother and daughter should have. Versie did not show me love the way I wanted it. I wanted a mother like the ones I’d read about in novels. Fiercely loving moms. Sweet moms who baked cookies. Soft-spoken moms who were endlessly encouraging. Playing with makeup together moms. Combing each other’s hair moms. Bedtime story reading moms who hugged me before tucking me in.

What I got was love the way she knew how. It was fierce, but it was on her schedule, rough, tired, detached, and chilly. Don’t you know this is love kinda love. Always looking out for me, always in my business, even as an adult, kinda love. Imposing her will kinda love. Embarrassing me in front of my friends kinda love. Believing me when I needed her to kinda love. Sighing deeply and sadly for me when I had bad news kinda love. I didn’t recognize it as love at the time kinda love.

I call her ‘Mommy,’ which made me self-conscious as a teenager. I tried ‘Mama,’ but it didn’t feel right in my mouth. As an adult, I embraced the term of endearment; ‘Mommy’ softened my idea of her.

Why is it you have to go to Los Angeles?

I’ve just got to leave. I want to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. I don’t want to work at the Post Office for the rest of my life.

My mother had tried mightily to get me a good government job at the Post Office or with the US Army where she’d worked for thirty years.

You don’t know anybody out there.

I ignored the worry in her voice.

I know, it’s gonna be an adventure! Terry’s gonna be there, AND his mother lives there, too.

Well, if you just have to go, don’t leave before I get some food for you to take with you and wait a minute...

She headed upstairs. After a few minutes of rustling around in my littered old bedroom that she’d turned into storage space for her hoarding while I was away at college, she came down the stairs with a white bedpost from my old canopy bed.

Here, take this with you now.

What? Why would I need this?!

It’s for protection, just in case.

There was no use arguing with her.

A few weeks earlier I had bought a used, yellow VW Bug with an automatic transmission for a few hundred dollars in preparation for the big cross-country trip. It was important that it was an automatic because I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. Friends advised that an automatic shift in a Bug was not the best idea; I did not let that dissuade me.

A few days later I headed out with clothes and lots of books crammed into my tiny Bug, fragrant with the smell of fried chicken. My mother came through with the food she promised. I was pleased with this kinda love. Unexpected tears filled my eyes when I said goodbye.

Don’t cry. You be safe out there, and call me from the road, OK?

I will! I promised. We did not hug.

I studied the map to chart my route. I am not a good navigator, but this did not deter me. I was ret to go. No cell phone. No concern about the potential dangers. I was twenty-four years old and fearless.

My yellow Bug did not have a fancy radio. No Sirius XM then. It had no tape player and no air conditioner, but it did have a working heater. Still, I bundled up in tan knee-high leather boots, jeans, and a sweater under a dark-blue overcoat. A knit cap, scarf, and gloves kept my extremities warm, which was crucial to me since I was what they called cold-natured. My favorite navy-blue purse from JC Penney came along for the ride. What kind of clothes would I need for California, I wondered? Later I puzzled over the curious custom of L.A. people who wore shorts, sandals, and a jacket. Initially it seemed incongruous, but in time I learned how the weather changed throughout the day. At midday, it was warm enough for shorts, but the morning and evening carried a chill that might require a jacket.

I prefer R&B and jazz, but on this road trip I listened to what was available: country and western. The lyrics convey heart-tugging stories, and I’m a sucker for a good story—like Dolly Parton’s heartbreaking "Jolene", where Dolly begs Jolene not to take her man.

I drove every day until dark and then found a place to spend the frigid nights, choosing hotels based on their availability as the sun went down. The winter nightfall came early, which meant getting up at dawn to get on the road and get moving. Normally, I’m not a morning person, but my adrenaline raced at the start of each day.

Miles piled up behind me. My mind wandered. Flat land turned hilly. Freight trains crisscrossed the highway. I know I’d bragged about being unafraid of this long-distance trip, but I feared I couldn’t really do it. Many times, in the past I’d given up on projects without completing them. This was a big scary task and I was deep in it now, and there was no turning back.

What would California be like? I wondered. Anything near my fantasy of golden sunshine year round. Cloudless skies and running on the beach every day. I focused on how wonderful it’d be to see the ocean and the mountains. I recalled the stories Daddy told me about his sister, my Aunt Mae. Would she welcome me? What kind of job might I get? Could I use my Psychology degree? Would the weather hold on the road? So far, it was clear and sunny and my breath clouded in my face when I walked to the car. I hoped it would stay that way. I was going to miss my family, especially my brother, Phil, who made me feel safe and loved. I could count on him to keep me laughing. Maybe he’d come visit. Like a ping-pong ball, my thoughts bounced back and forth.

Inexpensive hotels on the road were imperative because I’d financed this trip with my last