by Dave Navarro
“Gabriel went to sleep in the west-facing room and woke up late in the day, with the sun setting in the window. He walked to the window and noticed that he was in the corner room of a house on a street corner. Then he looked down at the street signs and read them. He was at the intersection of Gabriel Street and Navarro Street.
“He dropped down to his knees that moment. And he thanked God for letting him know that this was the right place to make a new life for himself.”
part VI PSYCHOBABBLE
DAVE: I just think that I would do it in front of everybody, call him out when he’s in the lobby so that everybody could see and … Oh, shit!
WHAT?
I just realized what hell would be.
WHAT WOULD YOUR HELL BE?
Trying to stay awake on … Do you know what the top of a lightbulb looks like? Imagine being on a mountain that’s shaped like that and it’s a hundred thousand feet down to the bottom. So if you fall asleep you’ll probably slide off it at some point.
YEAH, THAT’S ONE FORM HELL.
You’d just slide right off it.
ESPECIALLY IF IT’S AS HOT AS A LIGHTBULB.
No, it’s not a lightbulb. It’s just a mountain that you’re going to fall off of if you fall asleep.
YOU KNOW, WHEN YOU’RE SHOOTING UP, YOU START SAYING THE KINDS OF THINGS PEOPLE SAY RIGHT BEFORE THEY GO TO SLEEP.
Oh, really?
YES, LIKE WHEN YOU’RE ABOUT TO START DREAMING AND YOU’RE JUST STRINGING TOGETHER RANDOM, SURREAL THOUGHTS.
Oh, like the lightbulb and shit?
YEAH.
Stop giving me shit about the lightbulb. It’s important to me. You don’t understand. To me, it’s important. [Falls asleep.]
part VII CLOSER CALLS
It is three P.M. on a Tuesday afternoon when the phone call comes. I am on the other line, and tell Dave I will call him right back. But he stops me.
“I just did a really bad shot.”
“Shit, what do you want me to do for you?” (I flash back to what Dave asked in June: “Do you know what to do when somebody shoots up too much?” The answer is that I still don’t.)
“Just talk to me.”
“What did you do?”
“Heroin,” comes the reply, muffled, fading.
“Is it the same stuff you did last night?”
“Yes,” he says. “You should see my arm. It’s so swollen. And my head is swelling. Do you think my brain is swelling?”
“No. But maybe it’s cut off some of the oxygen to your brain. You’re probably okay. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to dial my number.”
“Twice. I dialed it twice. The line was busy the first time. If I was going to overdose, it probably would have happened right away. Oh, shit, no. My head is starting to hurt again. You should see my arms, dude. I just put them next to each other, and my left arm is so huge. Shit, should I get a camera?”
“You’re thinking about documenting it?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re definitely okay!”
The next week, Dave leaves town to judge a rock-and-model TV special in Miami. In the Los Angeles International Airport, an undercover officer watches him walk into the bathroom and shoot up. Dave isn’t apprehended, however. He makes it to Miami for the first day of the special. But he feels uncomfortable the whole time, worried that in his quest for self-promotion, he is, at the same time, appearing like a sellout to fans for appearing on such a vapid program. “You and me talking fashion at my house is cool,” he tells the host, who had paid him a house call to interview him for a different program. “But judging runway models on the beach here, I’m just seen as a dick.”
When he loses his dope stash on the set, that seals it. He books the first flight home, growing cold, nauseous, and dope sick in transit. Unaware that he has been followed by airport security the whole time, he is paged to the information desk after leaving the plane to make a connection in Las Vegas. “Are you Dave Navarro?” the woman at the counter asks.
“Yes, that’s me.”
Suddenly, eight security guards converge on him from the left and right, escorting him into a back room to search for drugs. Fortunately, he was returning home precisely because he ran out of drugs.
Dave is respectful and cooperative the whole time. He tells them that he has no drugs on him, but that they might want to be careful when searching his bag. “I have a needle in there, and I don’t want you to poke yourself,” he warns.
Possession of needles without a prescription is illegal in Nevada, and it could have serious consequences when combined with the fact that there are security tapes of Dave shooting up in the bathroom. But the officers appreciate his honesty and his attitude, and they let him go without pressing any charges.
“It’s a sign,” Dave says on returning home. “I was given a warning. I have a lot of things at my disposal ready to go that could help my future. If I blew it, it would be the most tragic thing that could ever happen after being so close now. And even worse than spending the time in jail would be all the people who doubted me saying, ‘I told you so.’”
Once home, he lays off the heroin for several days, shutting himself in alone as he withdraws, growing sicker and sicker. On New Year’s Eve, he is supposed to come to Las Vegas to play guitar as part of a Marilyn Manson concert at the Hard Rock Hotel, so I call that morning to see if he’s going to make it. When he answers the phone, he is no longer sick, he is high. His reason? He couldn’t imagine making it to Las Vegas and performing with Manson while withdrawing. It would be too stressful and traumatic. So he called his dealer for a gram of heroin.
This is the first time that I’ve ever heard Dave use such a weak excuse to take drugs. Some may say that any excuse for drugs is weak, but this is the first time Dave has said something that even he doesn’t really believe.
This is proven true by day’s end. Dave’s phone rings all afternoon and evening with calls from Manson and others urging him to go to Vegas. He is no longer going through the pain of withdrawal, but now that he’s back on heroin his excuse is that he’s worried about traveling and getting arrested with drugs on him, especially in light of his recent Las Vegas airport experience.
So he never makes it, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he has actually let his drug habit keep him from doing something, particularly something that would benefit his career and something that he wanted to do. All of his rationalizations—all his talk that he is stronger than the drugs, that it’s an experiment, that he accomplishes more when he’s loaded, that he’ll get help when he needs it, that he is exorcising his death wish—have just gone to shit. The sores on his face, obsessively itched, have exploded; the clocks are chiming a constant chorus of “cuckoo”; Adria is barely speaking to him; and he is more depressed than I have ever seen him. His worst fear seems to be coming true: the only people still in his life are the ones getting paid—the cleaning lady, the drug dealer, the Pink Dot deliveryman, and me.
part I THE HEISENBERG UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE: A WATCHED OBJECT CHANGES ITS COURSE OF MOTION
I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU’RE SO UPSET.
I haven’t criticized you before now. But this is—June, July, August, September, October, November, December, January. This is eight months into it, and now I’m starting to do that.
SO WHAT YOU’RE SAYING IS THAT YOU’RE MAD AT ME.
Where? Let’s roll the tape back and find out where I said that.
YOU JUST SAID IT NOW.
No, I didn’t.
YOU SAID, “IT’S EIGHT MONTHS INTO IT, AND I’M WAITING UNTTL I GET MAD.”
No, I said it’s eight months into it and now is when I’m starting to snap at you.
WHICH IS WHY?
Because it’s taken me eight months to get to that point.
WHY DID IT TAKE YOU SO LONG?
Because I’ve been incredibly patient with you.
SO YOU’VE BEEN PATIENT WITH ME IN WHAT WAY? MY ATTITUDE? I’VE HAD A B
AD ATTITUDE?
First of all, you’re not fucking letting me answer you. Do you hear that you’re deciding all these answers for me: how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, if I’m mad, if I’m frustrated. You’re deciding that for me, and then you’re reacting as if it were real. It’s taken me this long because I’ve been patient. I’m not mad about the project. I’m upset because it feels like you don’t care so much. I’m upset because you’ve canceled shit on me. I’m upset because when even the slightest hint of coming to one of those topics in conversation happens, you snap at me and you take it out on me. I’m not upset that you can’t be here every day for twenty-four hours. I’m upset because my friend is snapping at me. That’s it. You know me, dude. If I wanted to be mad, you would know it by now.
SO YOU’RE NOT MAD AT ME?
Dude, I am fucking really mad right now, but it’s not the end of the world. And if you could just like take a step back and open your ears and open your fucking eyes and say, “Nobody’s fucking accosting me, no one’s attacking me.”
IF IT DOES SEEM LIKE SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH ME, MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE I’M WORRIED ABOUT THIS PROJECT. I SEE ALL YOUR OTHER RELATIONSHIPS FALLING APART AROUND YOU, AND I SEE A LOT OF THINGS THAT YOU CREATE NEVER GET FINISHED OVER THE PROCESS OF—
Like what?
SONGS, WRITING, THE JANE’S MOVIE, THE WEBSITE. THEY’RE ALWAYS CHANGING AND THEY’RE ALWAYS INCOMPLETE.
Well, the website is going to be continually changing forever.
NOT ONLY YOUR WEBSITE, JUST IN GENERAL WITH STUFF THAT YOU CREATE. YOU DON’T THINK THEY’RE ALWAYS GOING TO BE CHANGING AS YOU GET NEW IDEAS?
If I can make something better and I don’t have a deadline, why not? I made my record one way. I have a while until I have to put it out, and I have two hundred thousand dollars left to spend on it. I’d be a moron to not try and better it. I have free money and time, and my manager is suggesting it. So of course I’ll do it. What else don’t I finish?
I DON’T KNOW.
Well, then as a partner it’s your job to carry the parts that your partner can’t. That’s why people team up. Dude, let me tell you something else. You are lying down with your eyes closed. What the fuck do you care?
DAVE, I’M LYING DOWN WITH MY EYES CLOSED BECAUSE IT’S DAYLIGHT OUTSIDE AND I’VE BEEN HERE ALL NIGHT. I DON’T KNOW WHY ALL OF A SUDDEN YOU’RE PUSHING ME AWAY NOW.
I’m not pushing you away. I told you already that the reason I’m upset is because as a human being, you tend to snap at me because of your own frustrations.
I’VE SNAPPED AT YOU TWICE.
Dude, what’s the number of times that it’s supposed to be good? How many am I supposed to accept?
YOU NEVER SNAP AT OTHER PEOPLE? DAVE, YOU FUCKING HUNG UP ON ME THE OTHER DAY WHEN I MADE A JOKE ON THE PHONE. DUDE, YOU JUST HUNG UP ON ME. I DON’T TAKE THOSE LITTLE THINGS YOU DO AS INSULTS. I SAY, “YOU KNOW WHAT? HE WAS UPSET,” AND THAT’S IT.
Neil, listen to me respond to that, okay? However many people I do snap at isn’t the basis for how I feel when I’m snapped at Second, I’m hanging up on you on the phone when for the third or fourth time I’m trying to express to you the need for an emotional therapeutic group, and it’s a hard tiling to admit and ask for help with, and you’re making jokes with my ex-girlfriend. Yeah, it’s a little frustrating.
I’M NOT DISAGREEING WITH YOU.
Okay, so what is the point then? Because those are both cases in which I feel like I had a justified reason.
SO EVERY TIME YOU SNAP AT ME YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO, AND EVERY TIME I DO IT I DON’T.
I’m not saying that, but the time that you illustrated I think I did.
DAVE, YOU THOUGHT IN YOUR HEAD I WAS BELITTLING YOUR IDEA WHEN I WASN’T. I WAS THINKING THAT IF WE HAD A GROUP THERAPY SESSION, WOULDN’T IT BE FUNNY IF WE HAD A PERSON WHO COMPLETELY DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT WAS—
Dude, do you see that through that you’re deciding what I felt? That’s not what I felt. I was incredibly disrespected when I was reaching out for help, period.
OKAY, SO YOU INTERPRETED WHAT I SAID INCORRECTLY.
I don’t think so, because if you interrupted me with anything else unrelated to what I was asking you for, I would have felt the same way. Whereas here, you’re sleeping with your eyes closed. And I understand you’re tired, but I don’t think I deserve that. And, granted, neither one of us should snap at each other in any case. But I just don’t think by sitting here spell-checking on the computer I’m squashing out an emotional weakness for you. I’m not stepping on you reaching out for help when I’m fucking checking apostrophes.
MAN, I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY WE’RE BLOWING UP.
Dude, go home and pass out. Now we’re at the point where I’m—
I CAN’T DO THIS.
What?
DUDE, I CAN’T DO THIS.
What do you mean?
I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW TO MOVE FORWARD WITH YOU. I FEEL LIKE I’M FUCKING SINKING IN QUICKSAND.
Dude, that’s what you should be telling me. I’d much rather hear that flat out. I understand. Because sometimes in the past when it’s seemed like we’re sinking in quicksand, we’ve come out of it together with a great idea.
TRUE. SO WHY AREN’T WE DOING MORE THINGS TOGETHER?
Do you want to know what my truthful feeling is? Because (a) you’re tired of not sleeping, or (b) you’re fearful of how this is going to turn out, and you’re letting that get in the way of being a creative artist. That’s why.
I DON’T KNOW WHY I WAS YELLING BEFORE. WE GET MUCH MORE DONE HAVING A DISCUSSION. I THINK WE WERE PUSHING EACH OTHER’S BUTTONS ON PURPOSE. I DON’T KNOW. I DO ENJOY WORKING WITH YOU.
I do too, dude, that’s why I think it’s important for us to do this, talk about this stuff, you know? Your insecurities show themselves in certain ways, and my insecurities do too. Mine are that you don’t want to be my friend anymore, that you don’t like me anymore. Because my fear isn’t that you don’t want to do this anymore, my fear is that you’re doing it and don’t want to do it.
NO, I’M DOING IT BECAUSE I WANT TO. YOU’RE SMART AND PERCEPTIVE, AND EVEN THOUGH THIS HAS BEEN SO FRUSTRATING TONIGHT, IT’S REMINDING ME OF ALL THE REASONS WHY I WANTED TO DO THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE.
And I’m glad you’re doing it, dude. So write this down: idea for series—poor loser agrees to write a book about a great man’s life, and in the process comes to learn deep values.
VERY FUNNY. I SHOULD KICK YOUR ASS.
That’s a line from Woody Allen. Seriously, I should apologize too for not talking to you enough about what’s been going on in my life this month. Maybe that’s why it seems like you’re losing faith. All I can say is I’m sorry, dude. I’ve been going through a lot of shit. Maybe I’ll be ready to talk about it next month.
part I NAVARRO HYPOTHESIS # 9
part II A TEMPORARY REPRIEVE FROM DARKNESS
Dave is back! He calls and says he’s ready to talk again. “Come over here with a tape deck,” he practically shouts. “I’ll make up for the past few months.”
It’s as if at the beginning of each month, his clock resets and everything is back to normal. He has just returned from a short trip to New York to begin mixing his record. And he’s done two good deeds already this month: bailing Mary and a prostitute (Sara from the Playboy party night) out of jail in two separate incidents, the first involving a supposedly stolen car and the second culminating in some kind of jail-house scuffle involving a fork and a human eye.
In addition, Val Kilmer bought him a leopard-print hat in Utah, Cher has become a fan (even inviting him to dinner at her place), the photo booth has been repaired, and a chance meeting with Grandmaster Flash inspired him to buy two turntables and a mixer. (He has given himself the pseudonym DJ Moth after a poem about a moth who gets burned by a flame and learns a lesson about his powerlessness to change things.)
In New York, he also had dinner with Lou Reed. They talked about motorcycles, quad recording, Andy Warh
ol, Lester Bangs, and Dave’s lack of political involvement. A woman who works with Reed described the dinner: “We had the absolute best time, and that was before Lou heard Dave’s version of [the Velvet Underground song] ‘Venus in Furs.’ After he listened to it, Lou called and said it was the best cover version he had ever heard. I said, ‘Lou, you never say that.’ And he said, ‘You’re right. I never say that’ You know what Lou’s like, but he and Dave liked each other instantly Lou’s a very private person—he doesn’t trust anybody—but he even took Dave to his home. I couldn’t believe it.”
The day after meeting Reed, Dave flew back to L.A. “I always bring a bomb on a plane with me because that way the chances of there being two bombs on the plane are very small,” he laughs.
“My philosophy,” he continues, “is pessimistic optimism. I expect the worst, and that way I’m always surprised by life. So I view my pessimism as optimism.”
Since returning, he has whittled his drug intake down from $300 a day to $150 to $75. “I called my dealer and asked him to come today and he said, ‘Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy,’” Dave says, running a hand through his shower-wet hair. “And I said, ‘What do you mean, you’re busy?’ And he said, ‘I have to go somewhere. And, besides, I was just there.’ I said, ‘Yeah, but that was yesterday.’ He said, ‘Look under your left turntable.’ I did and there was a package. He left it there for me. He’s been trying to help me taper.”
As Dave rattles on with rapid-fire excitement in his living room, the Who rock opera Tommy flickers across the television screen. Every so often, Dave turns around and watches the movie for a few minutes, rapt. “When I was a kid, I wasn’t really into music,” he explains during the baked bean scene. “I took lessons for a little while and quit. Then my dad took me to see Tommy and I flipped, especially when I saw Elton John in those big boots. At the time, I was slowly losing my hearing. Eventually, I was seventy percent deaf, although I didn’t really know it because it happened so gradually.” (Two years later, his full hearing returned with no warning or medical explanation.)