I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
The Corpse of Drew Barrymore’s Grandfather Was Stolen for One Last Celebration
John Barrymore came from a long line of theater actors. He himself first appeared on stage alongside his father in 1900, and in 1903 officially began his career, starring in the likes of Justice (1916) and Richard III (1920). His greatest role was his 1992 appearance in Hamlet, for which he was dubbed “the greatest living American tragedian.”
Barrymore also starred in a slew of silent films, most notably Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1920), Sherlock Holmes (1922) and Beau Brummel (1924). He later made the transition to sound movies, starring in the likes of Grand Hotel (1932) and Midnight (1939).
On May 29, 1942, Barrymore died at the age of 60 from pneumonia and cirrhosis. What happened next has been the subject of many rumors. It’s alleged his friends, Errol Flynn, W.C. Fields and Sadakichi Hartmann snuck into the morgue where his body was being held, propped him up against a poker table and allowed him to experience one final celebration.
As it turns out, these rumors are true! In an August 2020 episode of the popular YouTube series Hot Ones, the acting legend’s granddaughter, Drew Barrymore, revealed his corpse had actually been stolen.
“Not only yes, but there have been cinematic interpretations of it,” she exclaimed. Those interpretations include S.O.B., starring Julie Andrews, and allegedly the 1989 comedy Weekend at Bernie’s, in which two friends pretend their deceased boss is alive.
Barrymore added that she wants the same to happen to her. “I will say this, I hope my friends do the same for me. That is the kind of spirit I can get behind. Just prop the old bag up, let’s have a few rounds.
“I think death comes with so much morose sadness and I understand that, but if it’s okay, just for me, if everybody could be really happy and celebratory and have a party, that would be my preference.”
Vintage Hollywood certainly was a different era…
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