Read Online Coreyography: A Memoir by Corey Feldman - Free Book Online
Authors: Corey Feldman
Tags: Non-Fiction
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turned out, was very different when he drank. By the time I realized that, he had more or less moved in.
At first, the worst part about having Tom around was that he would emerge from my mother’s room and stumble down the hallway to the bathroom, stark naked. I had never seen a grown man naked before. It made me feel strange and uncomfortable. But then one night he came home drunk, reeking of booze. He punched his hand clear through the front door, leaving sharp shards of wood and glass, as well as smears and drips of blood, in the foyer. This was after he ripped the screens from the windows and left them in twisted heaps and piles around the lawn, and screamed—demanded—to be let in. Finally, Mindy called the police. My mother swore that we’d never have to see Tom again, but a month later he was back.
“You’re spoiled and you’re lazy and now you got yourself fired. The least you can do is clean your mother’s fucking house,” Tom is saying to me now, towering over me, a towel wrapped around his waist. “I’m going to teach you what real work is. You’re going to learn some fucking responsibility. Get the broom.”
My mother has stumbled out of the bedroom. She’s half-dressed and her makeup is smeared across her face. She slumps down in the couch cushions. I look at her, but she shrugs.
“Didn’t anybody teach you how to fucking sweep?” he asks after I’ve pulled the broom from the pantry and started dragging it across the floor, pushing mounds of dog hair into tidy little piles.
“We always had a maid,” I say.
“Well, no more maids when you lose your job. That’s what happens when you’re broke.”
* * *
“I’m going to kill you.”
My mother delivers this line in a sing-song cadence, like she’s just suggested we go on a picnic, or make balloon animals, or fly a kite in Chatsworth Park. I haven’t seen her fully lucid in weeks. “On Saturday,” she says, with a wink.
All week long she taunts me, ticking down the days until my eventual demise. Years ago—no, weeks ago—I would have thought she was kidding, that this is just her macabre sense of humor talking, but after the beating under the crib, I can’t be so sure. I need help. Real help. And then it occurs to me where I might get it.
On Saturday morning, I make my escape. After scribbling a quick good-bye note and packing a small bag of clothes, I sneak out the back of our house, scale the privacy fence, tear through the neighbor’s yard and down the hill, and for another mile or two, all the way to the local police station. I push open the giant glass doors and walk right up to the first man I see in uniform. I try to explain to him that my mother is torturing me, that I’m lonely and abused and afraid for my life. That I think, next time, she really will kill me, but the words are coming out in a jumbled heap.
“Please don’t make me go back there,” I finish, out of breath. “I’ll go anywhere but back there with her.”
He peers down at me from behind a clipboard. He seems annoyed. He sighs. “Is your father around?”
I think about how to answer that, how to explain that my father isn’t much of a father, that he left home because at least he knows that my mother is crazy, but he didn’t take me with him. But I soon realize none of that matters anyway, because I can’t remember his new phone number. When the officer dials the number I’ve given him, instead of my father answering, it’s my agent on the other end of the line.
CHAPTER 4
By early 1982, I’ve gotten my career back on track. I’m in the pilot for Gloria, a spin-off of All in the Family starring Sally Struthers. I work with Gary Coleman on a made-for-television movie called The Kid with the Broken Halo . I snag the role of Corey “Kip” Cleaver in Still the Beaver , a two-hour “reunion” movie on CBS. And then I get a call from my agent about an upcoming film. It’s big, she tells me. Very hush-hush. They want me to
At first, the worst part about having Tom around was that he would emerge from my mother’s room and stumble down the hallway to the bathroom, stark naked. I had never seen a grown man naked before. It made me feel strange and uncomfortable. But then one night he came home drunk, reeking of booze. He punched his hand clear through the front door, leaving sharp shards of wood and glass, as well as smears and drips of blood, in the foyer. This was after he ripped the screens from the windows and left them in twisted heaps and piles around the lawn, and screamed—demanded—to be let in. Finally, Mindy called the police. My mother swore that we’d never have to see Tom again, but a month later he was back.
“You’re spoiled and you’re lazy and now you got yourself fired. The least you can do is clean your mother’s fucking house,” Tom is saying to me now, towering over me, a towel wrapped around his waist. “I’m going to teach you what real work is. You’re going to learn some fucking responsibility. Get the broom.”
My mother has stumbled out of the bedroom. She’s half-dressed and her makeup is smeared across her face. She slumps down in the couch cushions. I look at her, but she shrugs.
“Didn’t anybody teach you how to fucking sweep?” he asks after I’ve pulled the broom from the pantry and started dragging it across the floor, pushing mounds of dog hair into tidy little piles.
“We always had a maid,” I say.
“Well, no more maids when you lose your job. That’s what happens when you’re broke.”
* * *
“I’m going to kill you.”
My mother delivers this line in a sing-song cadence, like she’s just suggested we go on a picnic, or make balloon animals, or fly a kite in Chatsworth Park. I haven’t seen her fully lucid in weeks. “On Saturday,” she says, with a wink.
All week long she taunts me, ticking down the days until my eventual demise. Years ago—no, weeks ago—I would have thought she was kidding, that this is just her macabre sense of humor talking, but after the beating under the crib, I can’t be so sure. I need help. Real help. And then it occurs to me where I might get it.
On Saturday morning, I make my escape. After scribbling a quick good-bye note and packing a small bag of clothes, I sneak out the back of our house, scale the privacy fence, tear through the neighbor’s yard and down the hill, and for another mile or two, all the way to the local police station. I push open the giant glass doors and walk right up to the first man I see in uniform. I try to explain to him that my mother is torturing me, that I’m lonely and abused and afraid for my life. That I think, next time, she really will kill me, but the words are coming out in a jumbled heap.
“Please don’t make me go back there,” I finish, out of breath. “I’ll go anywhere but back there with her.”
He peers down at me from behind a clipboard. He seems annoyed. He sighs. “Is your father around?”
I think about how to answer that, how to explain that my father isn’t much of a father, that he left home because at least he knows that my mother is crazy, but he didn’t take me with him. But I soon realize none of that matters anyway, because I can’t remember his new phone number. When the officer dials the number I’ve given him, instead of my father answering, it’s my agent on the other end of the line.
CHAPTER 4
By early 1982, I’ve gotten my career back on track. I’m in the pilot for Gloria, a spin-off of All in the Family starring Sally Struthers. I work with Gary Coleman on a made-for-television movie called The Kid with the Broken Halo . I snag the role of Corey “Kip” Cleaver in Still the Beaver , a two-hour “reunion” movie on CBS. And then I get a call from my agent about an upcoming film. It’s big, she tells me. Very hush-hush. They want me to
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