My Appetite for Destruction

by Steven Adler

  I would just open the window and scream out, “Grandma. Grandma!” We lived on the fifth floor and my grandma lived on the ninth. She’d come down, forgetting all about the terror I had been the previous day, and run to my defense. She always stuck up for me. She seemed to take pleasure in ordering my mom around and demanding I not be punished because I was “a very sweet boy.”

  She delighted in seeing Mom squirm. Mom was livid with the way Grandma Lilly and I would gang up on her, and there was really nothing she could do about it. When I’d get back upstairs, I could do no wrong until I wore Big Lilly down again.

  WESTWARD HO!

  One of my mom’s older sisters lived in California. They used to keep in touch over the phone at least twice a week. Whenever they talked, my aunt would always tell my mom how great it was to live in Southern California. She would excitedly brag about the weather, the beautiful beaches, the ocean, canyons, and mountains. You could do anything at any time, because it was always sunny and warm, even in the winter.

  Eventually this got my mom thinking about busting a move out of Cleveland, where, in all honesty, things couldn’t have gotten much worse for her. One day, Mom started asking her sister about job openings, and my aunt was ready. She grabbed the paper and actually started to rattle off openings she had circled out of that day’s classified ads.

  Mom would usually tell us all about their chats after she got off the phone. When she was on the phone with her sister her voice would actually get sweeter and go up about an octave. She’d even speak faster and we could tell she was getting more and more excited with each call.

  Finally, the chance for a fresh start and a new life overcame any fear or reservations she had. Moving was something she had been mulling over for months, and one day, when I was having dinner at her place, she just sat us down.

  I’ll never forget the look on her face. She took each of her boys by the hand and told us we were going on an adventure. We were going to visit her sister out in California, and maybe even stay out there if things went right.

  The fact that she picked one of the coldest, windiest, wettest days of the winter to tell us certainly sealed our approval. Kenny and I were all for it. I never saw my mom so wired. She talked about our move nonstop. Maybe that was to hide how scared she was during this whole time. She would make lists, then make more lists, then tear them up, make some phone calls, and start a new list.

  She read travel brochures on Southern California. Then she boxed up everything we owned, from her sewing kit to the salad bowl, and labeled it all with Magic Markers. The entire time she had this look in her eye, like a runaway train. God pity anyone who got in her way. That’s probably why I never heard Big Lilly put up a fight for me when the time came to head out.

  I could feel the excitement as the date neared. This golden opportunity to get a bad start behind her and begin again with a new home gave her boundless energy. She could have sprinted to L.A. So, at the lucky age of seven, we drove to California to get a fresh shot at life.

  Chapter 2

  Going to California

  Made up my mind to make a new start,

  Going to California with an aching in my heart.

  —“GOING TO CALIFORNIA,” LED ZEPPELIN

  Mom found us a tiny apartment in North Hollywood. This began a second series of long phone conversations, but this time it was with her boyfriend from Cleveland, Melvin Adler. A month later Mel showed up with a huge suitcase and a big smile. Mel and the suitcase never left. Even though we were literally living on top of one another it somehow worked out so well that in 1973, Mom and Mel got hitched.

  NEW ARRIVAL

  In 1975, Mel and my mom became the proud parents of a baby boy, Jamie. Just before mom had Jamie, Mel believed it was time for us to officially become one big happy family. He spoke with Mom, then asked Kenny and me if he could adopt us. We were thrilled and had our surname legally changed to Adler.

  Jamie lit up our world. I loved my little brother so much I decided that I was going to protect him. Next to his crib was a small couch where I slept every night with a switchblade in my hand.

  Nobody was going to bring any harm to my little brother ever. I’d kill them if they tried. I’ll never forget the flash of alarm in my mom’s eyes when she spotted the knife, but just as she was about to explode, she caught herself and leaned over to kiss me gently on the head.

  Somehow my parents knew this was just a phase and they never freaked out about the knife. Long after I stopped guarding Jamie, I continued babysitting him and even changed his diapers (well, just a couple of times . . .).

  With Mel and my mom both working we were able to move into a bigger house in Canoga Park. Mel got a steady job, one he held until he became very ill in 1991, as a chief clerk for the Southern Pacific Railroad. Mom worked as a waitress at a restaurant called Two Guys from Italy. (What the hell is it with Mom and Italians?) Since most of Mom’s family, her three sisters and a brother, had now settled in California, my grandparents soon followed suit and moved to Hollywood.

  SIBLING DEATH MATCH

  While I couldn’t have been closer to Jamie, I had to share a bedroom with Kenny, and we could not get along. We really hated each other. We fought all the time. He was always taunting me. It may have just been a run-of-the-mill sibling rivalry but it soon got way out of hand. He would tease the hell out of me and push me to my limits. I’d put up with all I could take, then fight back as fiercely as possible.

  He was a lot bigger than I was, so I often found myself on the losing end of our brawls. And it wasn’t always a physical battle; many times it was mental torture too.

  Like when Kenny had this paper route. He saved up enough to buy a cheap used TV. At night, he would turn the volume way up and position the set where I couldn’t see it from my side of the room. He’d be laughing at The Tonight Show or whatever while I just lay awake unable to see the TV screen or get to sleep.

  One time I got so furious with him that I smacked him with a tennis racket in the back of his head with all my might. He keeled forward in the bedroom like he had been shot. Good thing he collapsed on the bed. Kenny didn’t move for like five minutes. He suffered a concussion and I really caught hell from Mom, who screamed at me for an hour.

  OPPOSITES REPEL

  We were complete opposites in every way. Kenny resembled our dad, olive skinned, dark haired, and heavyset. I was thin and light like Mom. We never went to the same school at the same time. It always worked out that when I’d be entering junior high or whatever, he’d be graduating. In class he was shy and introverted. I, however, was very outgoing. I made the class laugh and made friends easily, usually hanging out with older kids who were almost my brother’s age. Kenny preferred to hide out in our room, reading comic books and watching TV. He was content to do that all the time.

  Things hadn’t changed much from my kindergarten days. I would get in trouble nearly every day. I was still getting in fights and talking back to teachers. My mom received calls from the faculty. Teachers, coaches, classmates, the custodian—I didn’t take shit from anybody.

  SUMMERTIME BLUES

  Mom and Mel were constantly trying to figure out ways my loner brother Kenny could make new friends. So one summer they sent my brother and me to one of those Hebrew summer camps. Clear Creek I think was its name. I got there and just went nuts. Poked around, made fast friends with everyone, then fast enemies. I was so bored by the end of the first week that I thought I was going to go insane. So I did.

  I’ve always had an imagination that lets me visualize doing something or being something before even a hint of it happens. Sometimes it serves me well, like when I told Slash we were going to be huge rock stars, but most times it’s just the forecaster of doom. My doom. Big doom.

  At the end of the second week, when they had “family day,” my parents proudly came to visit. They were expecting to hear fun stories about what a great time we were having. They were expecting the counselors to tell them what swell kids w
e were. They thought they were getting a lovely day out in nature.

  They got something else. Mom and Mel sat there numbly as the counselors told them I had been running wild in the camp and had probably been the one who stole $300 from one of the camp counselors while she was in the shower.

  Can you imagine the shock on my mom’s face? One moment she’s walking along this idyllic tree-shaded lane with Mel. She meets us at the lakefront, all adorable with little Sunfish sailboats bobbing in the background. She sits down to hear the camp counselor telling her that I’m a thief and a liar.

  I had already denied it—they had nothing on me—and besides, I knew who did it.

  They pulled a full-on search of the camp. Since I was the usual suspect when it came to evil and mayhem, they interrogated me about the missing cash. Three male teenage counselors held me down and forcibly searched me. Needless to say, a situation like that could easily provoke a lawsuit today. I was barely ten.

  They didn’t find the cash, and I was tempted to act outraged and demand my parents seek some kind of restitution, but in the end, this little demon that nests in my head received a sharp pang of guilt. That girl counselor looked like walking death. It must have been her life savings.

  Yeah, I knew who did it. I did it. But honestly, it was just for kicks. I was so fucking bored by the second week, I wanted to spice things up. So I bought a shitload of candy with some of the money I stole but then, instead of stashing it, I gave it out to everyone. I know, brilliant.

  Just when they were getting a little shaky over their accusations, I confessed and gave it back of my own free will, minus what I had blown on candy. It was like as soon as I thought I might actually get away with it, then I felt free to confess. I was more into taking it for the sheer thrill of it anyway.

  So on “family day” my parents, much to their dismay, were treated to a request to take me home. My brother was allowed to stay another two weeks. They liked Kenny. He overate, never questioned anything, and kept largely to himself: the perfect, no-trouble zombie camper.

  BACK TO CIVILIZATION

  During the car ride home, we sat in icy silence. I couldn’t have cared less. Camp wasn’t my idea. It wasn’t camping anyway. Camping is going to Yosemite and hiking up where no one can possibly find you, packing nothing but a PowerBar, canteen, and sleeping bag.

  You sleep under the stars for a week. You eat roots and berries, spy on wildlife, and smell like ass before you hike out again. That’s camping, which I also had no interest in doing.

  The only thing I had any desire to do during that silent, unending, and tense drive back to Canoga Park was to get together with my two best friends, Ricardo and Jackie. They lived just down the street from me. Ricardo was a cheerful Hispanic dude. His mom made the absolute best salsa ever. Jackie was Asian, the mellowest wingman you could ever want to meet.

  Jackie went to a local elementary school and Ricardo and I both went to Limerick Elementary. We also played in the junior football league, but on different teams. We were very competitive and had each built a reputation for being fast and tough. The season culminated in a game between our respective teams.

  My team lost. To be honest, with the exception of a few dedicated players, we sucked. I think we lost every game we played that year. The league was for ages eight to twelve, and I swear, no one on our team was older than ten. The apathy at school was rampant. The older kids were either too cool or too spineless to step up and play.

  I used to think we were always pitted against impossible odds. All the other teams had older kids and they were much bigger than us. We developed a humiliating reputation within the league. Instead of the Eagles, kids called us the Bad News Birds.

  On my football team, I was the starting running back and kick returner. I even won a trophy my junior year for Most Valuable Player. The coach used to put me in and keep me in for the entire game. He told my parents I was the best player on the team, but it didn’t matter. Even I couldn’t do anything to end our losing streak.

  SEX AND SPORTS

  I’ll never forget this one time during practice. There was a gorgeous cheerleader hanging out on the sidelines. I couldn’t help but notice her. I was just eleven years old, but I was already developing a healthy appetite for the opposite sex.

  But when I’d talk to my friends about how nice so and so’s ass was they’d just look at me like I was a freak. “Asses are gross.” “An ass is an ass.” It’s like their cocks hadn’t kicked in yet.

  Anyway, she was way out of my league, sweet sixteen with long blond hair and these amazing pouty lips, like a crushed rosebud, all full, round, and soft and begging to be kissed. I just had to get her attention.

  We were having a team scrimmage and when I got in the huddle, I was so amped to impress this babe that I threatened the quarterback. I told him he better give me the ball or I’d smash his face in when we got in the locker room. I swear something snapped inside, and my whole world came down to impressing this cheerleader. Every time I got the handoff I ran like a possessed demon for a touchdown. The coaches were stunned. I scored like five TDs in a row.

  I don’t know why I’m wired this way, but there are very few things in life that really light me up. And nothing focuses me or gets me going like chasing tail. Money, fame, status, power . . . nothing comes close to the pursuit of pussy. It gives me an intensity that brings out the fiercest side of my competitive spirit.

  When I was with the band I had to score the best snapper after a concert. I loved parading around backstage and at the after parties with the pick of the litter. So whether it’s trying to score by making touchdowns or playing in a band, I love the ladies. Primo poon: accept no substitutes.

  BAD MOVES

  After mustering a big smile, I went over to the girl after practice and said something that I thought was cool enough to get a kiss off her. But she gave me such a look. Ouch! Then she just turned away as she muttered something about waiting for her linebacker boyfriend to come over to her after practice. I was so crushed.

  As the rest of the guys filed off they looked pissed at me for being such a showoff. I remember shaking my head and letting out this huge sigh. I couldn’t believe what an asshole I had been, and all for nothing.

  Just as I started walking away from the bleachers, she turned back toward me and gave me a little smile, saying, “What’s your name?” I got this big lump in my throat and croaked out, “Steven.” She repeated my name, nice and low, and believe me, that made it all worth it. To this day, I can still hear the way she said my name.

  HANGING WITH MY BLOODS

  Outside of school sports, Jackie, Ricardo, and I spent every minute together. Ricardo was going out with this cute little blond girl at the time, but he always put us first. Nothing was more important than the bond between us. At least that’s what I thought until I received my first lesson in the politics of friendship.

  Ricardo and I found some oranges in an abandoned lunch bag at the playground, and we started throwing them back and forth at each other. One orange started to break up from hitting the ground too much. I remember throwing it way up in the air toward Ricardo, who was like thirty feet away. All of a sudden, his little blond babe starts skipping right over to him, and blam! The orange came down and just nailed her on the head.

  She was screaming, covered in orange. Ricardo freaked and started chasing me all over the field. “You’re dead!” he yelled. I tried to sprint away but he caught me and got on top of me. I was helpless. He had my arms pinned with his knees. I thought he was gonna start punching me in the face, or at least spit on me, but he didn’t. I guess he realized that she had already run home and it really was just an accident. But he was really pissed at me. Over a girl . . . a girl!

  THE SEVENTIES

  The seventies were a magical time, especially for a kid my age. It was the perfect decade for growing up. I remember seeing Kiss records in stores, before I had even heard their music. I thought they looked so cool. And I loved Charlie’s Ange
ls. Jaclyn Smith was my favorite. Of course, Happy Days was a big show for me. I wanted to be like Fonzie.

  I collected Stop N Go gas station mini NFL football helmets, which you could only get by purchasing Stop N Go’s inferior version of a Slurpee. I had to have them all, and as quickly as possible, which meant plenty of brain freezes!

  I wore tight Sassoon pants, corduroys, or Levi’s. Bell-bottoms were at their peak of popularity, and everyone had to have Vans tennis shoes. The cool thing to do was to have them custom-made. You would have to wait a few weeks, but it was worth it. Just having Vans was cool, really. But they cost about $40 . . . Hey, Grandma!

  White moccasins were another hip thing to wear. They were available only in the leather stores at the farmers market. My grandparents would take me to get them. The employees would see us coming in and they would take them down for me, knowing exactly why I was there. They cost like thirty bucks, but my grandma never had a problem buying me new ones once the old pair wore out.

  I also loved playing with yo-yos. This was when I was ten years old. They’re not very popular today, but back then they were pretty common for kids, a must-have toy that was advertised all over TV. I became a pro. Every week, we had these yo-yo contests at our local 7-Eleven store, sponsored by Duncan yo-yos, right in the parking lot. Ricardo and Jackie weren’t into it as much, but they would still come along with me on their bikes. I could do every popular move, and I even made up a few of my own. I was in the running to win every time.

  As a prize, they’d give me a nice yo-yo, like a glow-in-the-dark one. I won at least ten of those things. I rocked at that and always came home excited. In my mind, I was a stud who could be the best at anything I put my mind to, particularly if the girls thought it was cool.

  THE BEGINNING OF THE DRUG SCENE

  As we got older, Ricardo, Jackie, and I became aware of the drug culture that so many other kids were getting into. It was 1977 and a new phrase that epitomized the attitude of the time swept the nation in an Ian Dury and the Blockheads song called “Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll.” It was in the air and on my mind. My friends and I were very curious about drugs, and it wasn’t long before the fateful day arrived. Jackie and Ricardo must have experimented before me because it all started this way: one day we were all hanging out and Jackie asked if I wanted to get high. Just like that—out of the blue. I knew exactly what he meant. Ricardo had a makeshift pipe he had made out of tinfoil. We walked over to Winnetka Park and sparked up.