After I returned to San Francisco, I kept in touch with Sergio. One day he called, “I know this young woman,” he said. “She’s the daughter of good friends. She had some troubles with cocaine, went through rehab, but now she’s fine. She just needs to get out of Marin County, maybe learn a new skill like photography. Would you consider letting her stay with you for a little while? She could help you on your photo shoots and with the move.”

​

I had been lonely after Lena and Bernard had left town. I was about to move to Los Angeles, where I knew exactly four people and hadn't yet figured out all the logistics, so the idea of company and help sounded appealing, and I said yes.

​

Stacy arrived shortly after. She was a plain-looking, slightly chubby twenty-two-year-old all-American girl with a friendly disposition. She seemed like an okay roommate, and I was able to take her along on shoots as my assistant, where she made herself useful by carrying equipment. I enjoyed her company and didn’t notice any issues.

​

The first job I took her to was a wedding. While I was working and she was in charge of watching my camera bag, I saw her at the bar drinking champagne with a guest. I didn’t think it was appropriate, but I let it slide.

​

Then one night, after we went to photograph a cabaret show by the Swedish drag act After Dark, she suggested we stop for a drink at the newly opened Hard Rock Cafe. I rarely drank alcohol and would never have come up with that idea on my own, but I went along with it. We sat at the bar with my camera bag at our feet.

​

Pretty soon, a handsome, well-dressed man with beautifully tanned skin sat down next to her and started chatting. They seemed to hit it off. I finished my drink and decided we should go home. Instead, she asked if she could stay out a little longer and whether I could give her and her new friend a ride to another bar. I was tired and didn’t feel like making an issue of it, so I agreed.

​

I dropped them off at a bar, then went home and straight to bed and, as usual, I left my bedroom door ajar.

​

I slept soundly through the night and didn’t hear Stacy come in, but when I woke up I noticed that my bedroom door was closed, which was strange. I immediately suspected that she had brought the guy home, and I was annoyed. I decided to confront her, but as I stepped into the living room where she was sleeping on the sofa bed, my heart sank.

​

The area where I usually kept all my photography equipment was empty. My camera bag and the strobe lights bag, five thousand dollars’ worth of gear, plus all the film I had shot at the show, were gone. There was nothing there except for a pink scarf with gold filaments that I had been wearing the night before, lying eerily on the carpet.

​

“My cameras are missing!” I shouted, waking Stacy up. “Did you bring that guy here last night?”

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She opened her eyes and looked at me, hungover, while I continued to yell. “Look, my gear bags are gone. Did you move them?”

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At that point, she sat up in bed and said, “No.”

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So I asked again. “Did that man come up last night?”

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She looked confused, but when she spoke, she sounded credible. She admitted that he had accompanied her up but that he didn’t stay.

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“We just kissed by the door, and then he left,” she said.

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I was upset, so I made it clear that she’d better be honest because I had insurance and I was going to call the police and she would have to tell them the entire story.

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When the police arrived, they asked how she had gotten back to my place, and she answered, “By taxi.” This turned out to be an important clue. They tracked down the driver, who remembered the pair and confirmed that the guy had been gone for only a few minutes. The driver also gave them the address where he had dropped him afterwards, so they found him and made the arrest.

​

During his brief visit, the man had probably unlocked the bottom lock while Stacy had failed to engage the deadbolt. He then returned and stole my equipment while we slept.

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In spite of everything, I considered myself lucky. I had insurance and didn’t get hurt. But the idea that someone had been in my home while I was sleeping was terrifying, and I realized that I had seriously slacked off regarding safety.

​

Nevertheless, still oblivious to the elephant in the room, I allowed Stacy to stay with me to help me pack. Rather than giving up my apartment, I had decided to sublet it to a woman I knew. She was going to forward me any mail from people I hadn't yet notified of my change of address, and I figured there might be some flexibility with the moving date. In fact, we weren’t ready to leave until November 4.

​

My furniture and clothing had been loaded the night before onto a U-Haul truck driven by a kind Swedish tourist I had recently met. He was planning to return to Sweden soon and offered to drive the truck to Los Angeles in exchange for a little money.

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The day we left, I was still rattled by the burglary, concerned about the move and uncharacteristically unprepared. So instead of taking the 5 freeway to Los Angeles, I took the 101. My car was loaded with things that I didn’t want to put in the truck, and I was driving slowly. We stopped several times, and finally, fourteen hours later, at two in the morning, exhausted, we arrived at Sergio’s place, where we went to sleep on the floor in the living room.

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The next morning, we drove to my new home, and luckily the Swedish guy was there. He had spent the night in the truck waiting for us. After the three of us moved my furniture into the apartment, Stacy started unpacking. My plan was to have her stay a little longer while I was getting settled. The insurance was going to reimburse me for the theft, and I was busy assembling a new equipment kit while she was taking care of chores around the house.

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Then one afternoon, everything changed.

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I asked her to paint the kitchen walls and then left to run errands. When I was younger, I had read To Kill a Mockingbird, which had been very influential on my perception of the United States. I remembered that their kitchen was described as being pale yellow. My kitchen had pale yellow tile countertops, so I bought paint to match and was looking forward to the results.

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When I returned home, I heard singing. As I walked into the kitchen, I smelled paint and saw Stacy standing on a ladder with the paint roller in her hand, but not much had been done.

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“What happened?” I asked.

​

“I went out and bought some wine.”

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“Where and how?” I wondered, since I hadn’t given her any money.

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“I took the change from your jar and went down to the liquor store,” she explained, pointing to an empty wine bottle in my trash can.

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She was drunk, and I wasn't happy that my kitchen hadn't been painted, but I just told her to get down from the ladder and finish tomorrow. That night I had plans to go out with a woman I had recently met, so I went to my room to get ready.

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Later, when she arrived, I walked through the back of the kitchen to let her in at the side door. As I opened the door and greeted her, something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. But before I could react, the woman stepped inside the house.

 

Then the two of us watched as the scene unfolded.

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It was dark outside, and the kitchen lights were off, but halfway across the room, the refrigerator door was open, casting a bright light. And there, in that light, we could see Stacy.

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She was naked except for dressy red shoes with little heels, reaching into the refrigerator and shoving cottage cheese into her mouth. Her lower belly stuck out, creased where the waistband of underwear normally sat. Her overgrown, boyish blonde hair was messy.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

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She looked at us, surprised. That’s when I noticed that she had red lipstick on. She then walked toward us, bypassed us and ran outside, still naked.

​

My visitor stared at me in disbelief.

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“She’s a friend of a friend,” I felt compelled to explain as I ran after Stacy.

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But she was fast, disappearing onto the street. We followed her and watched as she staggered, stumbled and eventually fell into the gutter. Thankfully, the street was deserted. We helped her up. The red lipstick was now smeared all over her face. We brought her inside and made her put on some clothes.

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I didn’t go out that night.

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Finally, I got it. Not only did she have a drug addiction, but she was also an alcoholic. I had no idea. Back in Italy, most people drank wine daily with their meals, and the concept of alcoholism was never really discussed in our household.

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Afterward, I called Stacy’s parents. They had good health insurance, and the next morning they found a rehab center in Beverly Hills ready to take her in. I loaded her and her belongings into my car and drove her there.

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When we arrived, a blond doctor in her forties asked me, “What happened?”
 

“I am just the ride,” I replied.

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The truth was a bit messier. I had unknowingly enabled her by letting her drink. But nobody had warned me not to. In other words, I felt that her parents and Sergio had been the irresponsible ones, not me.

​

The doctor tried to press me for more details, but I told her to ask Stacy.

​

As I drove home, I was relieved that I had been able to get rid of her so quickly. When I turned on the radio, "Drive" by the Cars came on.

​

That song marked the beginning of the next chapter of my life, one that ended up being a mixture of bravery and recklessness.