In between all of the TV appearances, the promotional appearances and, by now, the occasional concert, I was almost never home. But when I was, I would disappear as best I could to spend time with friends and get out of the public eye. That’s the part that was driving me crazy: I couldn’t go anywhere anymore when I was home. If I wanted to go out to a restaurant, all kinds of arrangements needed to be made. If I wanted to sleep with a girl I met, oftentimes I would end up climbing through her window and sneaking into her bedroom while she waited there for me. Everything was undercover. But when I could get off the grid and hang out with friends privately, that’s when the truly crazy things would happen. There’s one incident I will never forget. I was having sex with my friend Peter’s (not my cousin) girlfriend, Stephanie. He was just watching us. It was no big deal. We were at his family’s two-hundred-acre compound nestled up in the Topanga Canyon forest. For several days we had been ensconced there, swimming, running around naked, doing drugs, drinking, and having lots of sex. We had created the perfect hedonistic modern Bacchanalia. There had been other girls I’d had sex with the previous nights, but then it was Peter’s girlfriend. That’s just how it was.
I was on top of Stephanie, and Peter reached over and nudged me. “Hey, man, it’s my turn,” he said, with more than a trace of awkwardness and discomfort. That’s when things got weird. I woke up out of my fog. This didn’t seem right. The moment totally changed, and I got off of her and said, “I just remembered I have to go home. I have something to do.” Which was a total lie. I just had to get out of there.
Only I was still heavily under the influence of the drugs and alcohol. I got into my new BMW and started careening down the serpentine wooded road. I lost control, plunged into a ditch, and smacked right into a tree. This was the last thing I needed. So in my drugged-up state, I got paranoid and knew that this accident could never see the light of day. My family couldn’t find out, the press couldn’t find out and, most important, my insurance company couldn’t find out. I staggered back up the hill and grabbed Peter and Stephanie, and they came down to help me push the car out of the ditch. There was actually a piece of the tree sticking out of the front of the car. But now what to do? The car had major damage. I had to be careful.
So in that crazy moment we concocted a scheme. We would dig a hole and bury that car right there in the woods, and no one would ever be the wiser. I would report it as stolen and that would be that. This is what narcotics do to you.
The next morning, we started digging. It was wintertime in Los Angeles, and even though it doesn’t get too cold, the ground definitely gets hard. Burying the car was going to take a while, so for the next few days we would dig in the afternoon, drink and do more drugs at night, crash, and then get back at it the next day. But that hole wasn’t getting deep enough fast enough. We got the bright idea to go rent an industrial drill to try to break up some of the dirt, but that became a comedy of errors. Three stoned rich kids trying to handle a heavy piece of machinery with the intent of burying an automobile in the woods. What could go wrong?
We eventually ditched the drill, did some more ludes, snorted some more blow, and smoked some more pot. And, of course, got back to digging by hand.
We also needed an alibi to report the car as missing, so we headed down to Beverly Hills for dinner at a nice restaurant. It was all part of this scheme. I waltzed into a restaurant and asked if my friends were there yet loud enough for everybody to hear that I was by myself. “No, they’re not here yet, Mr. Garrett.” Okay. Motive established. Well then, Peter and Stephanie walked in on cue, and we had dinner together and then left. Then I rushed back inside yelling, “Oh my god, my car has been stolen!” Nobody had any clue Peter and Stephanie had simply dropped me off and waited outside before coming in for dinner. The cops were contacted, and I reported my car as a theft. Phase two was now underway.
The next afternoon we were back with our shovels pounding the hard earth, fighting through the roots to expand the hole. Each night we covered the car with leaves and fallen branches just in case anybody trespassing on the private property thought to get nosy.
Finally, on the seventh day, it appeared we had a hole big enough to place the car in sideways. As we were about to try to push it in, we heard some noises we hadn’t heard all week. Something heavy was crashing through the woods toward us, and we heard voices. The three of us each stepped behind individual trees near the car to hide and wait out whatever it was. And then we saw two people on horseback approaching the scene. We had not seen anybody back there all week, and all of a sudden there are a man and woman riding horses near the partially camouflaged car. The couple stopped. The three of us were looking at one another, holding our breath. The woman said to the man, “Oh my god, I think there’s a dead body in the car!” We all looked at each other. Dead body? What?
We knew we had to get out of there. But before we left I tried to wipe my fingerprints off the car. Think about that. It was my car registered in my name. But again, that’s what narcotics do. I thought that by erasing my fingerprints, I could erase all attachment to the vehicle. I was out of my mind.
We got in Peter’s car, and as we drove down the mountain road, we noticed two police helicopters overhead. Shit. Then four 4x4 sheriff’s vehicles sped past us as they raced up the hill, followed by two cops on horseback. That couple must have alerted the entire Malibu force.
We had to get out of Dodge.
The three of us threw some things in overnight bags and raced to the Holiday Inn right by the 405 Freeway and Sunset Boulevard.
We checked in and made an executive decision: Peter and I would run out and get alcohol. When we returned to the hotel room, something about Stephanie had changed. I had a hunch what had happened, and I was right. “I called my father,” she said. Her dad was a big-time lawyer, and he did what any concerned father would do. He told her to get the hell away from us and to cease any contact whatsoever. So she told us that she was going to do that. She said to us, “You know he has to call the cops and tell them you’re here. So you guys really should leave.”
Peter and I found a little faceless motel on Wilshire Boulevard. We must have looked like two desperate crooks on the run because basically, that’s what we were. I was normally in touch with my mom frequently, but I had not called all week. I called her and she said, oblivious to my hellishly weird previous seven days, “Where have you been?”
I told her the story and then asked her if she could call my insurance company and tell them it was all a joke—that my friends had played a prank on me, and that I had the car and everything was fine. She said, “No, I can’t do that. Everything is not fine. The Malibu sheriff’s department just contacted me a few minutes ago, and they have your car. They towed it down from the woods. They’re talking about insurance fraud; they’re talking about you lying about a car theft. What is going on?”
And I realized I had to call them myself. I hung up with my mom, called the Malibu sheriff’s office, and started telling them they could keep the car—that I didn’t even want my beautiful metallic silvery-blue 635CSi. I apologized profusely and kept saying, “Keep the car.” I had little hope that I wouldn’t be arrested shortly after this phone call. But then someone told me on the phone that as long as I autographed a couple of photos for the sheriff’s daughters, they would take care of everything and I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. They were big Leif Garrett fans, as it turned out.
Sometimes, that’s what it was like to be a teen idol. Looking back, was I happy to have beaten that rap? Absolutely. I got the same special treatment the time I was cruising up Highway 395 to go visit Peter to do some skiing. I got pulled over for speeding and the cop recognized me; he had daughters at home whom he knew would love my autograph, so case dismissed. But you know what? As good as it felt to receive this kind of special treatment, all it did was enable me, giving me evidence to believe I was untouchable. Nobody was doing me any favors. That’s the problem with celebrity sometimes; everybody thinks they are helping you out by giving you special treatment, but in reality it’s just another shovelful of dirt to an early grave.