by Dave Navarro
part II CUCKOO OR CUCKOLD?
There are cuckoo clocks everywhere in Dave’s house. Sometime in the first few days of the month, he must have slipped out and bought a dozen of them—or, more likely, indulged in his new habit of ordering items from obscure catalogs. There are small plastic cuckoo clocks on the walls over his computer and huge wooden ones in his living room. And all day long, they are continually sounding off, sending cries of “cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo” resounding in a dozen different tones, timbres, and sonorities throughout the house. Whatever the reason he decided to buy them, they provide a perfect counterpoint to what’s been going on in Dave’s life this month.
His face is breaking out in sores—strange, discolored red, purple, and black blotches—and his arms look like a snowy Antarctica wasteland with huge colored pipelines bursting out of the ground. There are fewer and fewer people visiting him, and he is often dejected and uncommunicative. Most of his relationships seem to be unraveling, particularly that with Adria.
Often Dave wakes up to find photo strips of female visitors laid out on his computer or bedside table, as if demanding an explanation. He responds with silence, placing them back in the photo books as if he never saw them. When he comes back from Rexall pharmacy with photo strips of two Goth girls—young teenage fans who happened to be in the store’s color photo booth as he walked past—Adria chews him out.
But midmonth, the tables are turned. A call comes in from Dave’s accountants at Provident Financial. They have a package from Victoria’s Secret sent to Adria and labeled ADRIANA CONTRA NAVARRO. Adria says she has no idea what the package is all about and pulls out a dictionary to look up the words. Dave, suspicious that she is even thinking the words convey a secret message, says not to bother, he has it figured out. The inscription means “Adria against Navarro.”
Adria heads downstairs to make a call, and moments later the phone rings again. It is a secretary at the accounting office. “We apologize,” she says. “The package wasn’t actually for you or Adria. We found the girl it was for.”
“What’s her name?” Dave asks.
“I don’t know,” the secretary replies.
“Well, it must be Navarro.”
“Then it’s Navarro,” the secretary replies, flustered, hanging up.
Dave calls back the number on caller ID to discover that it’s an unfamiliar extension at his accounting firm. His theory: Someone is having an affair with Adria, sending her presents, and using cute little code words and pet names like “Adriana Contra Navarro.” But, by coincidence, this person has an accountant at the same firm as Dave’s, and someone in the mailroom mistakenly sent the gift to Dave’s accountant instead of his. So when the call came to Dave’s house about the package, Adria must have gone downstairs, called the accounting firm, and asked them to pretend like the package was for someone else.
As Dave puts this story together, he suddenly remembers hearing Adria on the phone the previous week, whispering sweet nothings to someone when she thought he was out of earshot. He didn’t think anything of it at the time, but suddenly it’s all he can think about.
The relationship was already moving on to shaky ground, but now an earthquake has hit. Fights between Adria and Dave break out constantly. Whenever he mentions the package, she gets argumentative and hurls abuse at him until, one day, she leaves the house. Dave assumes he will never see or talk to her again. But two days later she is back.
“She is looking me in the eye and acting normal,” Dave says. “Maybe she’s not cheating on me physically, but there is at least someone with a crush who’s buying her something. I sat her down and told her that I don’t believe her and won’t ever. But, at the same time, I won’t fight with her or talk to her about it because it won’t get us anywhere. But I think she’d rather have me yell at her than not talk.”
In the meantime, Dave’s problems with Adria—not just the mutual accusations of cheating but a fundamental insecurity and distrust that has entered the relationship and is fueling those suspicions—are driving a wedge between him and the outside world. He is depressed and moody, rarely talking to anyone. When he does, he is glum and uncommunicative, often accusing friends of trying to influence him to break up with Adria when they discuss the source of his unhappiness.
When a man returns to a relationship like his, it is usually with the idea that maybe this is the right woman, the one he is supposed to marry. As Navarro wrote in July, “The One. Will you ever meet The One, Dave?”
But now that his best candidate for “The One” is adding more pain to his life than joy, he is confronted with a painful dilemma: his head is saying leave but his heart is saying stay. And both hurt. Then there is the complication of drugs, which are clouding his judgment, and the very difficult situation of being in a relationship in which the insecurity of each person is feeding off the other’s, growing into a monster big enough to tear an irreparable rift between them. He seems just steps away from the stage of drug addiction in which he starts seeing CIA agents in trees and ghosts behind the refrigerator
In Adria’s first photo-booth strip, she assumed a pose of resistance, contra Navarro. And that pride, that toughness, that stubbornness captured in the strip is tearing them apart right now. What he said just before Adria’s return is ringing truer than ever: “If you threw a woman into this equation right now, I’d be a mad fucking mess.”
part III LOVE IN L.A. II: THE MYTH OF COUNTING ON ONE HAND
BY DAVE NAVARRO
LOCATION: Animal Farm, a pet store in West Hollywood, C.A.—Leslie (male) and I have been drawn inside the shop to see the puppies behind glass. (Let’s face it, a puppy can help the common man create the illusion of his own innocence …)
Les tried to explain to me the nature of his job. I nearly grasped his theories and marketing concepts, but I suddenly realized that I couldn’t care less about what the fuck he did. I interrupted him and moved on to my own selfish, self-centered interests and topics of conversation. We spoke for quite a while about love, loss, exes, friendships, and friendships with exes. We discussed the old First-Love-New-Crush Fire, a romantic, misleading, and infatuating trance. With the power to easily burn in one’s heart with an immeasurable and intense fury, this fire can totally destroy one’s ability to remember how horrible the quest for love is. I know this fire all too well.
Last week, on one of those twenty-four hour-TV-marathon days, some cable channel ran every episode of In Search Of (a late seventies TV series hosted by Leonard Nimoy re: strange phenomena, Bigfoot, U.F.O.s, psychic abilities, etc.). I used to race to the screen and watch the program in complete astonishment as a child, so I figured, “What the hell? I’ll check it out!”
An episode that I had never caught before dealt with one of our planet’s most bizarre mysteries—a creature that most of us have come face-to-face with at least once in our lives, one that has not only puzzled the finest scientists throughout the age, but that continues to thrive today, surviving on science’s complete ignorance of its arrogance. Of course I am talking about Big Fuckin’ Asshole. (I think it might be some distant relative of the Sasquatch.) This species of human male always seems to have an endless string of beautiful women at his beck and call. It is almost as if he has somehow taken over Elite or Ford or the Soap Plant. Not only can this hideous creature encourage an entire roster of fashion models to find a new line of work, but he’ll also convince this poor, unsuspecting team to remain available at all times for his whimsical spontaneities as well.
He is not attractive. He has no hidden gift or talent. He has tons of money, yet no one can figure out why. (In some cases, it has been proven that the parents of these creatures have cornered the market on some weird thing like lint rollers or those extra-thick eraser things you can stick on top of a pencil that already has an eraser.) So how does he do it? How is it possible to maintain several relationships that are extremely sexual without getting hurt or hurting another? Could it be that this person has m
aintained friendships with his exes? Is he able to stomach staying in contact with the past lovers he has taken? Does he strike a deal at the end of each relationship?
“We can still meet for a late-night rendezvous once in a while, my darling. No strings. Won’t that be dangerous and fun?” he suggests. (It is probably a given that an early Mickey Rourke film is referenced.)
Well, who cares? I can’t do that. The show sucked anyway. I will never be one of those guys. I run with a sensitive and intellectual crowd. At least, that’s what we tell each other.
“We honestly feel our pain … feel our hurt … feel our love and lives. We take great pride in our continual inner search for openness and honesty. We have learned how our willingness to share a nurturing relationship with an equally nurturing partner or significant other brings much blessed joy into our lives and the lives of those we come in contact with. We seek not the caretakers in our emotional lives, as we are caregivers. We deserve love and we deserve to let love in, even though Dave has proven many times that there is no such thing.”
Goddamnit!!! I am a real human being!!! A human person with feelings and emotions and a heart that beats and loves and hurts!!! I am not gonna let you just use me for your own pleasure and then throw me away like a piece of garbage!!! (I love this stuff—that is, when it’s not being screamed directly at me!)
CUT TO: Starbucks—Les pays a kid to go in and buy a coffee for him, like a fourteen-year-old outside a liquor store. What Les then tells me unravels the inner workings of his insecurities…
A lump in Les’s throat instantly swelled. So much, in fact, that I was forced to move my chair back a few feet to keep from getting crushed by it. Tears filled his eyes as he continued.
“Well, there’s this place up on Sunset Plaza. This bar place. What’s it called? Anyway, I met an amazing girl there, Natasha (God, the name alone could break your heart!), who was just the most wonderful… Well, she was working there. The first moment I saw her, I was so in awe. My heart skipped. I had to ask her out and she actually said yes. I got so nervous. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted her to be the girl I married. You know how you can just tell? You know? You think you can tell?”
Boy, do I.
“I played it so cool, I didn’t even try to kiss her on the first date. Real smooth. I knew I couldn’t rush this one. My heart was in heaven.”
Uh-oh.
“I was in love. I guess I still am. Anyway, a couple of weeks later I’m eating lunch with this guy Brian I know from the office, and I start rambling on and on about her. I always ended up doing that with everyone. I was so proud. And keep in mind that by this time, Dave, I was so in love with her that I could’ve married her at any moment! I’d have done it over the phone! I was thinking about how to ask her and all the—/mean, she was a pure angel, driven snow, girlie little, cute little … My little baby! Like a dream. So pure, innocent, almost childlike in a way. We redid my whole apartment and shit, ya know? I never fell so amazing and real, free and alive before in my life.”
(Thinking to myself) Oh!!! I don’t want to hear this. I know I don’t!
“So, my old pal, chum, my partner, Big Bri says, ‘That chick??!!!! You gotta be joking!!! That sexy Barfly redhead?’
“Yeah … W-w-why do you ask? (Quip) Ya know her?’
‘“Up on Sunset??!!! I know her, all right. I … Uhhhh … Dude, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but …’”
(Warning: The following contains information that could negatively affect the rest of your life.)
“‘Kenny and I both fucked her just last night!’”
OUCH!!!
“When I asked her if it was true, she says, ‘God, no, baby! I can count all the men I have been with on one hand!’”
[To be continued...]
part IV ONE HOT VISIT
At three A.M. Chad Smith calls. He is in the neighborhood and wants to drop by.
The time is so random and the tone so casual. The truth, however, is that not only have Dave and Chad not seen each other since the summer, when they were in die Red Hot Chili Peppers together and recording demos for Dave’s solo album, but Chad’s lawyers have been threatening to sue Dave for the songs on which he played drums.
When Chad arrives ten minutes after phoning, he is wearing a baseball cap and a T-shirt. He is either drunk or not very proficient at walking. The first words are strained and awkward.
“Where were you?” Dave asks.
“At Pat’s.”
“Who’s Pat?”
“It’s a place to drink. We lost.”
“Lost what?”
“Lost the game. My baseball team.”
Chad seems sad, lonely, confused. He explains that he is not going to proceed with the lawsuit and just wants to be friends again. Dave urges Chad to enter the photo booth, but Chad won’t walk in alone. He insists that they take a photo together. Dave resists, but Chad says there is no way he’ll get in the booth alone.
To change the subject, Dave plays a video of a very young Trent Reznor awkwardly but very seriously performing cover songs in a Cleveland club: the Romantics’ “Talking in Your Sleep” and After the Fire’s “Der Kommissar.”
Soon Dave turns the conversation to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. “Do they talk about me much?”
“No, not a lot.”
“You mean they don’t talk about me at all?”
“Well …”
“I’m like a ghost? I’m completely gone.”
“You’re not like a ghost. Um, when we want to show John [Frusciante] a guitar part, we say, ‘This is how Dave used to play it.’”
“But not like that, in other ways.”
“Well, um, not really. I think that’s it.”
“How are you writing songs now?”
“John will come up with a part or Flea will, but most of the time it will come out of jam sessions, like we used to do. But I wish I had more input”
“Yeah, I felt the same way.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I even said that before I left the band.”
Chad walks to the bathroom and, though it seems like he’s trying to end this uncomfortable conversation and seize the opportunity to sneak out of the house, he returns. Chad seems to be plagued by some sort of sentimentality, perhaps alcohol-induced, but he really seems to miss Dave and the music they made together. He continually refers to the good old days, saying that they were “quite a team together.”
Twice this evening, Dave walks into the kitchen to shoot up, assuming that frequent trips to the bathroom will give him away. Each time, he asks Chad to wait outside or to go into the photo booth to take pictures, neither of which Chad does. Instead, he insists on following Dave into the kitchen, as if he’s trying to catch Dave in the act.
On the second kitchen visit, Chad gets his evidence, walking in to find Dave with his shirt off and his torso shielding his arm, which is turned toward the wall with a toaster cord wrapped around it.
On the way out of the kitchen, Chad insists again that they take a photo together. He seems really intent on it, as if he needs physical proof that he and Dave are still friends, still a great team. This time Dave relents. They walk in and the machine snaps away. But the developed photos never appear in the tray. The machine is still jammed. Dave tries to fix it, but the photos are destroyed.
Dave takes Chad on a tour of his house and shows him his latest projects: his website and a Christmas ornament that he designed for an auction held by the Sweet Relief charity. Then he plays Chad the latest version of his solo songs. As he listens, Chad snaps straight up in his chair and his eyes widen into alertness, as if he is sobering up on the spot. “That’s really, really good,” Chad exclaims. “Dude, when this comes out, you’re going to look really, really cool.”
Unhappy to hear that his drumming has been taken out of the latest recording of “Mourning Son,” he warns Dave, “Don’t go all electronic!”
They move to the couch in front of the
television and watch the latest edit of the Jane’s Addiction tour documentary, which has suddenly been filled with scenes of Perry talking with Orthodox Rabbis, reflecting his latest spiritual quest. Chad watches the movie intently, complimenting each performance.
As soon as the documentary ends, Chad grabs his car keys off the table and walks toward the door.
“That’s really great—the movie,” he mumbles.
“What are you doing?” Dave asks.
“I gotta go home, dude.”
Dave walks over and hugs Chad. They part and stand facing each other: Chad in his cap and jersey, Dave bearded and bare-chested. “This,” Dave tells him, “is more awkward than when you came in.”
Chad nods and walks out without a word. The sun hangs bright in the middle of the sky.
part V DEAR DAD
Dave calls his father on December 13 to wish him a happy birthday. The number 13 has always held a special place in the Navarro family. Dad explains that he, his father, and his grandfather were born on the thirteenth of December. Then Dave was born on June 7, or 6/7, which adds up to 13. And his brother, Gabe, was born at 8:05 in the morning, and those numbers add up to 13. Being a Navarro means believing in destiny, Dad says. And then he explains:
“I’m not sure if you know how our family came to Los Angeles. My father, Gabriel, was left an orphan in the Mexican Civil War. And wherever he went, he always believed that there would be a sign telling him whether it was the right place to make a new life for himself. He was very religious.
“He arrived by train in the old Union Station downtown. He left the station and didn’t know where he was, but he started walking anyway, carrying all his possessions and a little money. Pretty soon, he came to a house with a sign that said ROOM FOR RENT in Spanish. Since the sign was in his native language, he felt like the owners would be understanding and let him lease the room, even though he had no job. He knocked on the door and woke up the lady who owned the building. She offered him a room on the second floor.