No Regrets

by Ostrosky, John, Frehley, Ace, Layden, Joe

  There were consequences to the DeLorean incident. My license was revoked, I had to pay a large fine, and I received a bunch of negative publicity that made international headlines. In a way, I was fortunate. Had this been twenty-five years later, the fallout would have been much worse: mug shot on TMZ.com, video clips of my courtroom appearance on CNN, and cell phone footage of the car chase drawing millions of hits on YouTube. The worst sort of notoriety: a celebrity falling hard. Not to mention the harsh legal ramifications that would have come down on me. The other consequence was a court-ordered two-week stint in a hospital detox unit, and some mandatory AA meetings. At one of the first meetings I was approached by a guy who looked familiar. He walked up to me, extended his hand, and said, “Hi, Ace. You remember me?”

  Not sure what to say, I merely shrugged.

  He smiled.

  “I’m Jimmy—the cop who gave you the card when you were arrested.”

  Holy shit! I hadn’t recognized him out of uniform.

  “How you been?” he asked.

  I laughed. Seemed pretty obvious how I’d been.

  “Working the program, I guess. We’ll see how it goes.”

  Jimmy eventually became my sponsor in AA and one of my closest friends. We’ve been to hundreds of meetings together over the years, and we’ve spent a lot of time hanging out and chatting. The difference between us is that Jimmy never relapsed. He was a rock; I was a rocker. But I thank God that he came into my life. He never gave up on me, through good times and bad.

  Especially the bad.

  Once I embarked on my solo career, I paid little attention to what was happening with KISS. There were financial and legal matters I should have handled more professionally, but I simply wanted to move on with my life and put the KISS years behind me. But I wasn’t really moving. At best I was treading water. In my heart I realized that nothing takes you out quicker than resentment. And yet I was filled with it. I didn’t want people to even mention KISS when they were in my presence, which was ridiculous, of course, since the band had been such a huge part of my life. I couldn’t just pretend it had never happened. In a very real sense, the early eighties were troubled times until I formed my new band, Frehley’s Comet. They were years largely wasted on drugs and alcohol. That entire period went by in a blur, as I isolated myself up in Connecticut. I tried to keep my nose clean (so to speak). Since I was still on probation, I knew that any future transgressions would not be dealt with lightly. It’s really serious to get in trouble when you’re on probation. You go right to jail, and jail is not a good place for celebrities.

  I’d walked away from the twelve-step world after only a handful of meetings. “This is for the fucking birds,” I told Jeanette one day.

  From time to time, I rented out my studio to friends and other artists, simply because it was there and it was such a terrific, state-of-the-art facility. A diverse group of artists passed through its doors: the 1960s folksinger Melanie; Neil Smith and Dennis Dunaway from Alice Cooper’s original band; Rolling Stones producer Chris Kimsey; and the late Bob Mayo from Peter Frampton’s band, to name just a few.

  On one occasion I had a song idea I wanted to lay down, but I had rented out my studio to some friends. When that happened I usually went to North Lake Sound in White Plains. This particular studio was only forty-five minutes away and had become sort of a hangout for me in the late seventies. It was owned by Chip Taylor (the singer and composer), Jon Voight (the actor), and Joe Renda. (Incidentally, Chip and Jon are brothers.) While I was putting down my song idea, some friends of mine stopped by to see what was going on. I decided to take a break, and after a few drinks and some lines I decided to call it a day without any more recording.

  Instead I invited my friends up to Wilton so I could check on how things were progressing at my place. I was driving Jeanette’s Corvette and somehow all three of us squeezed into it. Me, my friend Richie Ayers, Tommy, and a quart of Stoli vodka, to boot! Needless to say, while driving up the Merritt Parkway we all indulged in the Russian spirit and some blow, and by the time we got off the parkway in Norwalk, we were all pretty loaded. My judgment was somewhat impaired by that point, and I almost ran over a cop directing traffic at an intersection. When I realized what I had done, I panicked and hit the gas. The police soon showed up at the gates of my property to arrest my ass, but I didn’t respond to their calls. Instead I called my attorney and pleaded with him to feed the police some sort of excuse. Somehow my attorney pulled off a magic act here. He called the local police and calmed them down to the point where they left the front gates and decided not to arrest me. To this day I’m still not sure exactly what bullshit explanation prompted their retreat, but I do remember making a large contribution to the local PBA that year!

  But the party didn’t end. After my nerves settled down I became frisky with a .357 Magnum. Escaping the clutches of the law had made me feel invincible, so I proceeded to go downstairs with my trusted Smith & Wesson just outside the entrance to the studio and conduct an experiment. I was interested in figuring out how many times a .357 Magnum bullet would ricochet off concrete walls before coming to a halt. I felt like I was being scientific, figuring out the trajectory of the bullet, where it would strike, and the geometry of the angles its path would follow. Attempting all this, mind you, under the influence of God only knows what else I had consumed since escaping the clutches of the law.

  I got off at least two or three shots without killing anyone, thank goodness, but I did succeed in emptying out the whole recording studio and house! I remember thinking, Where did everybody go? I’m not dangerous; I’m not trying to hurt anyone. Fortunately, that was the end of ballistics training for the day, as I went upstairs for a nap. My recollection of this event was a little foggy, but when consulting with my friend Richie Ayers, he confirmed every detail. Incidentally, Richie’s dad is the famous Marvel Comics artist Dick Ayers. Richie told me, “I couldn’t believe all the precise calculations you made before firing the first shot! It was as if you were a mad scientist on a quest!”

  Thinking back, I thank God for getting my friends and me through that day without any injuries. I can’t help but wonder, in amazement, how the human brain works. It can still retain with accuracy events that occurred while under the influence over thirty years ago. It’s really quite fascinating.

  I worked intermittently on new songs, but I was rarely focused. Friends would come up to the house and we’d jam and drink and watch TV. Slowly, almost painfully, I put together enough material for an album, but I was in no condition to make a record. I’d wake up in the morning, and if I wasn’t too hungover, I’d vow to spend the day writing and recording. Invariably work gave way to fishing and drinking and getting fucked up. I’d crack open my first beer mid-morning and wash down a few painkillers to ease the hangover from the previous night’s festivities. If I started to feel tired, I’d do some blow. Then tranqs at night to fall asleep. Pretty soon my drug use was out of control. Prescription drugs were relatively easy to obtain in those days. Physicians routinely handed out prescriptions for tranquilizers and painkillers with little trepidation. Feeling anxious? No problem, here’s a script for ninety Valium. With five refills! Shoulder acting up from playing guitar? Don’t sweat it. Take some painkillers. Can’t sleep? Take a couple of sleeping pills.

  Around this time I met a pair of doctors in Manhattan. I can’t remember who recommended them, but I knew other rock stars who also were their patients. These doctors were young and somewhat reckless. They both did blow, and sometimes they’d even accept cocaine from me as payment for an office visit. Our relationship escalated to the point where we started spending time together on occasion. I specifically remember hanging out with them one night at the Limelight club on Sixth Avenue in Manhattan. It was very crowded, and I think Alice Cooper was playing that evening. These guys had been prescribing me some of the most potent cough syrup you could get, called Hycodan. It was like drinking liquid codeine, but it looked and tasted like cherry syrup.
We’d all order club soda and go into the bathroom and spike it from my prescription bottle. I remember cracking up about it, since everyone in the bar assumed we were drinking vodka and cranberry juice. Under the circumstances, I didn’t feel like I was doing anything all that bad, but eventually it caught up to me.

  It happened on Mother’s Day. On the way to dinner, I walked into a pharmacy to pick up a prescription, and the next thing I knew I was being handcuffed and taken away by federal narcotics agents to the Westchester County Jail. Getting arrested on a Friday sucked because the chances were pretty good that you’d be spending the entire weekend behind bars. Judges and district attorneys don’t like to work on weekends, so if you hope to post bail, you’d better know someone in high places.

  I was booked and put in cell A-27, and that made everything seem that much more surreal to me. Twenty-seven has always been my lucky number—I was born on the 27th, after all. Anyway, at this point the Aceman started to worry. I was scared and nervous, but not for the reasons you might think. I didn’t have any drugs on me, and it was only a matter of time before I would start kicking. Inside my cell, I tried to appear calm and collected, but in reality I was beginning to panic. I decided to lie down and try to get some sleep, but soon enough I was awakened by a guard shining a flashlight into my cell.

  “Hey, Ace,” the guard said with a laugh, “How was the concert?”

  I tried to ignore him, but it happened on and off through the night, and I didn’t sleep a wink. By morning, my withdrawal symptoms had really kicked into high gear. Then I remembered something a friend once told me. If you ever get stuck in jail, throw a fit, and they’ll put you in the forensics unit. It’s generally safer there, with trained medical personnel who are primarily concerned with making sure no one gets killed. Best of all, they hand out medication to inmates. So that’s what I did. I became hysterical, screaming obscenities, crying my eyes out, pleading for help, telling everyone I wanted to die. Now, the truth is, I was feeling more than a little anxious, but this was a significant embellishment. In my mind’s eye, I was Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, faking his way to a diagnosis of schizophrenia so he could do easy time in the psych ward.

  Of course, things didn’t turn out so well for ol’ Jack, and they didn’t turn out so well for me, either.

  They ended up putting me in the forensics unit, all right, but it wasn’t quite the country club I expected. Rather, it was a smaller and creepier version of where I had just been—with one major difference. All the crazies and suicidal inmates were also on my cell block.

  In general population, I had my own cell, but in the forensics unit I was tossed into a cell with three black guys. Here I was, a fallen rock star and fraudulent nut job, surrounded by legitimate psychotics and the criminally insane! Nearly everyone knew who I was, too—the guards, the inmates, and the hospital staff—but most of the time I just got the cold shoulder.

  “See that?” one guard said to me, pointing to the unit’s lone elevator. “When you leave this place, you have two choices. You go out through that door standing up, or you leave feetfirst in a fuckin’ box. Your choice, asshole.”

  By midday, finally, we were told to line up to receive our medication. And not a bit too soon for me, since my body was craving drugs. Eventually I made it to the counter, where a nurse handed me a small paper cup with two small pills rattling around at the bottom. I gasped as I looked down at them.

  “Benadryl? That’s what you’re giving me? Fucking Benadryl?! What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?!”

  “Sorry,” the nurse said. “That’s the best we can do without a prescription, and the doctors have all gone home for the weekend. You’ll have to wait until Monday for anything stronger.”

  I couldn’t believe it! I was totally fucked, far worse off than if I’d stayed in cell A-27. Here I was, no drugs, feeling like shit, and locked up in a cell with a trio of guys who looked like they wanted to fuck with me.

  Later that afternoon, my father-in-law, Vinny, came to visit, and I remember telling him, “Dad, you have to get me the fuck out of here.”

  “We’re trying, Paul,” he said. “But you have to be patient. Hang in there. Jeanette’s been very worried about you, as well.”

  That night, after dinner, when we were all locked in our cells, I heard a couple of my cellmates plotting to kick my ass. They spoke just loudly enough for me to hear. Their idea, obviously, was to scare the shit out of me. At that point my street smarts took over, and I remember saying to myself, If they’re gonna try and take me down, I’m gonna go down swinging!

  I decided to strike up a conversation with the third black guy, who was older and seemingly less agitated than the other two. He was probably close to forty years old, while the other guys were in their early twenties.

  I figured that if I formed some kind of bond with him, maybe he’d help me out if things got too crazy. It turned out that he was also a dad with a young daughter, and we shared a few stories about our kids. He was also an addict, and as our conversation progressed I got the feeling that he was becoming sympathetic to my situation.

  A change in work shifts after dinner brought a second glimmer of hope, in the form of a female officer who happened to be a childhood friend of Jeanette’s. I told Kathy what had happened to me, and she appeared to be concerned. Talking with her lifted my spirits.

  Here it is. Another visit from my guardian angel. Someone to watch over me.

  Or so I thought.

  At first Kathy appeared friendly and glad to see me, but she quickly changed her demeanor after getting dirty looks from the other guards. I realized then that her hands were tied and she wasn’t going to be able to give me much help. Protocol dictated that she back off and not show much compassion toward me.

  Around 10:45 P.M., one of the guards came by and announced that lights would be turned out in fifteen minutes; that meant the ward would be locked down for the night. My heart began racing. I curled up on my bunk, trying to remain calm. My only thought was about surviving through the night, and I began to pray. I started counting the minutes in my head, preparing for the inevitable. I was overcome by a feeling of total hopelessness. Then, just two minutes before lockdown, I heard a voice. I swear to God, this really happened.

  “Let’s go, Ace.”

  I sat up, feeling bewildered. I couldn’t believe my ears!

  “Go where?”

  “You made bail. You’re out. Come on.”

  It seemed too good to be true. Almost a miracle. On wobbly legs, I stood up and followed the guard through the ward. While exiting I received sneers from the other inmates. I got a strange feeling, as though I were part of a movie or something, and I’d been granted an eleventh-hour reprieve. I gathered my belongings and slowly walked out of the jail and into the parking lot. When I saw Vinny and Jeanette waiting next to a running car, I expelled a sigh of relief. In short, it turned out that Jeanette’s grandfather, Joe T., the Teamsters vice president, had called in a favor and gotten a local judge to get out of bed and sign the papers necessary for me to make bail. None of us said very much as we pulled away from the county jail and drove off into the night.

  After we got home I pounded a handful of Valium to relax and cuddled up next to Jeanette. I began to wonder: Had all this really happened, or was it just some bizarre psychotic episode brought on by a drug-induced stupor?

  Reality set in all too quickly the following morning, as I peered through the kitchen window and spotted a patrol car staking out the house.

  ROCKET RIDES AND REHABS

  One of the worst things about addiction is that it makes you weak and vulnerable. That’s probably the most important lesson I learned during my brief incarceration at Westchester County Jail. It also taught me to prepare for the unknown. If I was going away on a trip I’d make sure I had enough medication to last until I returned. I’d count all the pills twice and make sure all my prescriptions were legal. I tried to have a connection set up at my destina
tion rather than carry anything that was illegal. Being addicted to drugs is a lot of work and occupies a lot of your time.

  Sometimes it didn’t matter how well I’d planned. I’d somehow run out of medication anyway. One time I got really sick in Japan. I ran out of Valium halfway through my stay. I didn’t want to be seen drinking in public, and I didn’t want alcohol on my room service bill, either. Interestingly enough, it’s socially acceptable to be drunk in public in Japan. It’s a big part of their culture (or at least it was back then). But at this point I was trying to project a sober image. I needed something to relax me, so I drained the entire minibar, guzzling mostly whiskey like it was water. And here’s the thing: I never even liked whiskey! But it didn’t matter. I wanted to anesthetize myself in some way, and that was all that was available.

  I finally ended up going to a Japanese doctor and told him I had chronic panic attacks and extreme anxiety. He wasn’t quite sure exactly what I was talking about, since his English left something to be desired, but finally (with a little pressure from my road manager) he wrote a prescription for Valium; unfortunately, the maximum legal dose of Valium in Japan at the time was only five milligrams (half the amount readily available in the United States), so I had to double the dosage and ran out again in no time. This pattern was typical of the way I had to live my life; as a result, I stopped enjoying the pleasures of drugs rather quickly. All I was doing was maintaining my addiction, and I always lived with the fear that if I ran out, I’d become ill.

  There was one method of smuggling coke I devised that seemed to work flawlessly, although I never tried it outside the continental United States. I probably shouldn’t be revealing this, but here goes…

  I’d get a large prescription of antibiotics from my doctor and make sure they came in capsule form. Then I’d empty out a dozen capsules and very carefully refill them with cocaine. After the capsules were reassembled, I’d mark them with a tiny dot so I could tell them apart from the rest. If anyone tested the capsules for illegal drugs, the chances were better than 6 to 1 in a prescription of ninety pills that the coke wouldn’t be discovered. This type of insane planning surely sounds obsessive to an ordinary person, but if you’re strung out, this amount of meticulous preparation for a trip is almost commonplace.