by Terry Richardson 

“You don’t mind if I bring two gorgeous girls, do you?… Haha, yes. See you soon.”

We pulled up to the immaculate Beverly Hills street and I put my horribly disfigured Honda in park. “Bobby, I can’t do that! Bren, he wants me to leave the phone on the whole time so he can hear his voice. He wants to talk to him.”

“No, that’s gay; we can’t! Just leave the phone on and hold it close to him. No, no that’s retarded, too. I’m scared! Let’s just go in. Breathe!”

Two east coast girls at the original gangsta’s house. Every Philly frat house dons his picture, every boy quotes him, and every character in the Sopranos wants to be him. Living in New Jersey, 80 percent of your friends are at least a little Italian and every family reunion has at least one table of shady- lookin’, cigar puffing Mafioso discussing “business”. I was so under-dressed and sweating bullets. All I wanted in life was to be as skinny as Michelle Pfeiffer and be packing heat at that very moment. Would there be mirrored walls and machine guns? Reality sets in: actors are people who pretend to be other people for a living. This man is just a man.

The three of us were beeped in to the white gate and helped ourselves up the brick walk and into the expansive rancher. The interior had a stuffy, strange aura and an antique smell. Nothing was as I suspected. Floral sofas? Cheesy, romantic paintings? He walked by and his eyes widened. Cold as ice, “I’m feeding my kids. Not now.”

The man who invited us stiffened uncomfortably and quickly scooted us into the backyard. We could still see the gangster feeding his young twins through the kitchen window as he glared at us. My heart sank as I reasoned that while being shot by him might be the coolest way to die ever, being shot an annoyed look by him was just plain awkward.

Our host spoke about how close of friends they are and how their friendship goes on for years and years. Strange to see a grown man sink under the assertive power of their “best friend”. I was so turned off by everything. Who cares about being friends with a celebrity if you have to submit to their demands? Respect your friends? Of course. Let them boss you around? Get new friends.

The gangster’s personal assistant was noticeable nervous as he took calls rounding up all the bigwigs that were attending the evening’s poker game. To Tara and I, “I’m so sorry. You just have to understand…” the assistant let his voice trail off and he smiled meagerly.

“It’s fine. Really.” I smiled.

Another ten minutes and we were allowed to sit quietly in the living room. There was a bar of cheap liquor, book lined shelves with stuffed animals and toys shoved in between certain selections, and stacks of candy bars in huge cardboard boxes. “Would you girls like a Kit Kat?” our host inquired.

Are you serious? I just want to go home. This place was creepy and we were not welcome. “Um, no thanks.” We accepted wine that tasted worse than boxed Franzia and sat silently. Finally the gangster entered.

“Hey. I’m sorry, I just had to send the kids to bed.”

“Oh, we understand,” I said sticking out my hand to shake his with Tara following suit. He nodded uncomfortably until another guest arrived. The vibe became friendlier as everyone loosened up and more polite people arrived.

My favorite was his “girlfriend”. A precious, skinny woman of late 30 something. She met him 20 years ago on a set. Were the children hers? No. Did he call her “girlfriend”. No. In the most roundabout sorrowful way, she explained that her youth is wasted on a man who can have any young pretty thing he wants and that he’ll never settle down. Were we brought here just to be young pretty things? I hoped not, of course, so when his assistant beckoned only Tara and I into the game room we declined and remained with this woman instead. Our conversation thickened into personal issues and she complimented everything from our shiny hair, flat bellies, and wrinkle-free skin. We insisted on her beauty and she laughed in disbelief. At one point she explained, “I’m not anorexic or anything but some weeks I only eat a head of lettuce a day.”

Isn’t that the definition of anorexia, I muse, hoping my sadness for her wasn’t written too boldly on my face.

Suddenly he himself entered, “Um, what are you girls doing?”

“Just girl talk,” I replied. He chuckled and left slowly.

Moments after our host came in, “He’s asking what you girls are doing. Don’t you want to watch us play poker?” I thought not. Tara and I had plans for that night anyway…

We left with his girlfriend’s phone number and while he was tending to his daughter’s nightmare and following request for a favorite stuffed animal and night light. He had just walked around in a panic asking if we’d seen a certain doll, overturning pillows frantically. His girl jumped up to instantly tend to this emergency, as well.

After letting the whole event sink in, I decided that I respected his need to protect his children. What little girl needs to see random blondes parading around her daddy’s house? On the other hand, lack of introduction only makes the situation seem shady. Kids, I fear, are smarter than he suspects. And so are Tara and I.

His lady also later informed me that the house is only a rental because the majority of his life is in NYC. None of those strange, stuffy belongings were his. Makes sense.

And, push comes to shove, how do you live your entire life portraying the darkest and most powerful of people and not expect some of that mentality to rub off on you? He’s actually doing pretty well considering. And, fine, I’ll admit the sex appeal of two machine guns in hand still prevails, even when he’s merely in search of a doll under pillows.