At my apartment, Joe restored his “dangerously low blood alcohol level,” chugging a double vodka screwdriver, and then pouring another to sip from as I showed him my apartment. In my bedroom he asked to lie down, and I found myself apologizing again, this time for my flimsy mini-blinds that let so much daylight in.
“Honey, please,” he scoffed. “If I had to, I could sleep on the sun.” As if to prove it, he returned to the much brighter living room, lay on the couch with his back to me, and fell asleep.
He stayed there for three days.
At first, I chalked it up to fatigue, probably the result of his usual rock star shenanigans. As the days passed, I wondered if there were more to it, but Joe remained tight-lipped and I dropped it. It was enough that he wanted to be with me. I had to respect his privacy.
Not three years earlier, I’d spent a week curled up on a vinyl-upholstered rocking chair, eating and sleeping off a meth habit with nothing but Doritos, Snickers, and a childhood blanket. Joe’s demons were his business. I recognized the need for space when I saw it, and I went about my routine. Each day, I returned from work or shopping to find him burrowed deeper in the same spot. One afternoon, after a string of errands, in heavy traffic on an empty stomach, I spilled my takeout dinner outside the front door. Hearing my screams, Joe was alert and upright when I burst inside, kicking the door shut behind me. I froze—my dry cleaning in one hand, his chicken sandwich in the other—wondering how to gloss over my childish tantrum. On the bright side, I still had a side dish.
“That’s a good album title,” Joe said thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll use it: My Coleslaw Survived, by Joe Walsh.”
I laughed and he laughed with me. I practically skipped to the kitchen to heat myself a can of soup, but by the time I returned with drinks and napkins, Joe was done eating and back asleep.
I missed the silly, playful Joe, but there was something about this wounded fellow, too. I liked doting on him, stopping short of a sponge bath (only because he refused). I was the type driven nuts by an askew accent pillow, and yet this sullen, smelly sofa slug was all right with me. I liked having someone to come home to.
The next night, he asked me to pick up a whole frozen fish, with its head attached and everything. I left without asking whom he planned to send it to and returned with the biggest one I could find. His surprised delight was all the reward I needed. I put the fish in the freezer, as instructed. The next morning, he told me to throw it out, then smiled as if a spell were broken.
•••
I’d been misunderstood all my life. As a middle-class, Catholic girl and honor student turned punk rock–addict/dropout/stripper, my choices were illogical to everyone I knew. I couldn’t always explain myself from moment to moment. Life was complicated, more for some of us than others. Joe was in that group, too. He didn’t have to tell me—I could see it all over his face. I could smell it from the kitchen.
I tried to close the gap a few times, approaching him with sex in mind, but he refused to even cuddle. Later he confessed to taking a whiff of my panties from the dirty-clothes hamper while I’d been at work. Why? I asked. I missed you, he said, which was so weirdly romantic I forgave him everything. Our first long weekend together and the extent of our intimacy was inhaling each other’s personal scents from a distance. Whatever. Chaos and uncertainty were fine by me. It was boredom I couldn’t stand.
•••
Joe returned a few weeks later, back to his normal (for him) self. I brought him to Sugar’s, where he was given free rein yet chose to hole up in the DJ booth—a high perch with a view of the main floor. That’s when I decided to work. I wanted my man to see what I could do.
My grand plan fell apart when extra tequila shots, meant to calm my nerves, backfired. Though the effect was probably minimal (I had danced drunk often enough, after all), no compliment from Joe was forthcoming. I could only assume he’d been unimpressed, oblivious to his ambivalence watching me be sexual with other men—a simple misunderstanding (not straightened out for years) that absolutely hit me where I lived. My sexy stripper image was integral to my identity, and I never worked in his presence again.
One night, two friends from the club came by my apartment with a gift. Joe had never heard of MDMA and, though hesitant, eventually gave in. For the rest of the night, he kept me and my friends, Stephanie and Bear, in stitches. By the time they left, I was dying for sex and about to jump him when Joe made a request. “You have to find me a guitar. I feel so good right now, I’ll go insane if I can’t play.” I’d seen meth addicts less desperate for a fix.
I called an old punk friend, a soft-spoken boy I’d tripped with on acid many times. Gordon was no stranger to sudden drug-induced yearnings, and within minutes he had procured the item from under his own roof. His roommate—the instrument’s owner—was slightly less enthused about a supposed “rock star” with a 4:00 a.m. equipment crisis. It did sound like a prank. Even Gordon became suspicious.
“For real…the Joe Walsh?”
“I can have him there in fifteen minutes.”
The boys took a chance. There was just one problem. “It only has five strings,” I relayed to Joe. “Is that okay?”
He looked at me like I’d lost my mind, eyebrows shooting up so hard and fast I thought they might fly off his face. “No!” he exclaimed, staring at me in disbelief. I succumbed to a giggle fit as he shook his head—tsk, tsk—mocking me. “I need six, Kristi. Jeez.”
We arrived at Gordon’s, where the missing string had been found. After quick introductions, Joe played for a captive three-person audience, sitting cross-legged on a stranger’s floor, more centered and content than I’d seen him before.
•••
I introduced him to my best friend, Christine. Like me, she’d recently dropped out of the punk scene, though unlike me she worked a straight job in retail, fully clothed and absent fuck-buddy coworkers and tequila shooters. Christine was the type of person who found humor in every situation and accepted my moods and quirks as fully as I did everyone else’s. Other punk “friends” had beaten and robbed me. Christine made me laugh on a daily basis. Christine had given me a kitten.
We christened her and Joe’s friendship by dropping acid and ransacking the Walgreens across the street, like spastic toddlers on a toy-shopping spree, carting home everything we could carry: fluorescent poster boards, watercolors, magazines, Polaroid film, rubber balls, hairy trolls, glow sticks, and all manner of bouncy, lighted, fuzzy things. Joe had a way of immersing himself in wonderment in the simplest things, a trait all but alien to me. LSD put us on the same page, and it was euphoric and bonding.
I’d taken hallucinogens many times over three years, with some bad trips along the way. The worst was at eighteen years old, upon ingesting four grams of high-grade, lab-grown mushrooms. The evening had begun in a hot tub with a new friend: a young male grad student I’d met at the club. It ended in a mad, terrifying dash into the street, chased by a pack of demons from the corners of his bedroom. Bad trips were a risk I was willing to take. But with Joe, I felt protected somehow, as if evil spirits lost my scent in his presence.
Most nights, I went to bed at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. while Joe stayed up in the living room. I’d find him on the couch in the morning, scribbling on legal pads, the coffee table littered with evidence of his activities: cigarette packs (empty and full), overflowing ashtrays, Zippos, Zippo fluid, dead and dying glow sticks, corks and corkscrews, wine glasses, beer bottles, and two to three screwdrivers in varying degrees of drainage. There would be rolled-up dollar bills, an empty ballpoint pen tube, and a small plate with traces of cocaine on it.
Sometimes Joe brought his scribbles to bed. Then he would fall asleep sitting up, fingers curled around a pen poised over a legal pad. When I found him like that—too many times to count—I’d set aside his glasses and writing tools, then pull him around me like a cloak, to spoon me in his sleep all night.<
br />
I introduced him to Don King, manager of the Yellow Rose, Sugar’s main competitor. DK, as he was known, convinced Joe to do an acoustic set at his club to benefit the American Transplant Association. Joe agreed as a favor to me, and because DK could talk anyone into anything. He was charming and gregarious, yet also down to earth, and treated Joe like one of the guys. One night at Mezzaluna, our favorite restaurant, a customer from a nearby table offered to analyze our body language. DK was in the kitchen chatting with the chef. Joe wasn’t interested in the matronly woman’s offer, but I was, and I thought the first thing out of her mouth hit the nail on the head: The way he tucks his thumbs inside his other fingers is a sign of self-protection.
I’d begun to see Joe’s jester act as something he did less to attract attention than to deflect it. Other times, he’d pull into himself entirely. I saw no reason he shouldn’t feel safe with me, but now and then he’d act cold and distant for no apparent reason. I knew two ways to handle that—sugary sweetness and confrontational bitching, and I’d rather die than be labeled a bitch. Joe had just played a free gig on short notice to make me happy. If he wanted to sit across the table, staring at his fork instead of talking to me, well…okay then.
Besides, other times I couldn’t peel him off of me. He got me to go hot-air ballooning, claiming he couldn’t bear to leave me behind, seducing me with his pleas until I faced my fear of heights. The best part had been witnessing the mix of serenity and excitement on his face. I preferred my feet on the ground, but head-in-the-cloud moments were where Joe thrived. And so that’s what I prioritized.
•••
Despite his occasional disconnection, we grew closer with every visit, and he grew more reluctant to leave me in Austin as time went on. I hated it too, but I had work and school demanding my attention. Joe called every other night or so, either from Rick’s garage studio or a hotel room on the road. I spent most nights alone, but not all. I had needs, after all, and Joe’s two visits a month didn’t nearly meet them.
The first time he brought me to LA, I marveled at his Westwood penthouse—what I could see of it, beyond the mess and eccentric bachelor-pad touches. I tried not to judge, but the butler’s pantry bordered on hoarder territory. Joe claimed to be in the process of spring cleaning (I shuddered to think what it had looked like before he’d started), and as proof he presented me with an artifact unearthed in the process—an eight-by-ten of Gene Kelly’s lamppost scene from Singing in the Rain. My jaw dropped as I reached into my purse for the greeting card I’d brought him, depicting the exact same scene.
“Another sign,” I squealed. Joe just smiled, saying nothing.
He had friends over to meet me, one by one, starting with Geno Michelini, the KLOS rock DJ. Geno was breezy, polite, and not at all judgy about the stripper thing. Later, I overheard him tell Joe I seemed nice. I was about to join them in the kitchen when he continued. “I mean, there’s a lot to be said for a beauty like Lisa, but you’re better off without the drama. Besides, this one seems smart.”
I returned to the living room with a lump in my throat. Geno was used to voicing opinions uncensored on the airwaves. I respected his honesty and tried not to be hurt. Besides, I was smart. And Lisa was a real beauty.
Next, I met J. D. Souther, whom Joe called a good friend and great songwriter. JD and I had Texas stomping grounds in common, which led to a discussion on all things Southern. When I let slip an unflattering crack about Nashville fashion, JD’s nostrils flared in defiance. “Well,” he snapped, “Mama Judd sure looks good.” I just pressed my wine glass to my lips, stifling a laugh.
I liked the General, Joe’s soft-spoken college friend, who carried with him a mysterious undercurrent and a pocketful of LSD (two things that were possibly related). I felt most comfortable with Robbie, Joe’s round-faced assistant, a man so chill and unruffled that the night I almost set Joe’s kitchen on fire, making my first (and last) bananas Foster, he’d shrugged, dug in, and pronounced it delicious. Joe slept through most afternoons, leaving Robbie on call as my only company. He’d drive me to the store for tampons or kitty litter, then drop me back at the penthouse, where Rocky and I wandered in circles, wondering where we fit in with Joe’s clutter.
Joe rose around 4:00 p.m. but rarely came to life until sundown. He and Rick did everything together, starting most nights with dinner at La Toque on Sunset Boulevard. From there we’d head to Rick’s garage, where he and Joe made silly recordings and I played poker with Geno and Sean Karsian (another close friend of Joe’s). More friends would drop by, and the energy would kick in around 1:00 a.m.—aka 3:00 a.m. Texas time—aka my bedtime. If Joe was having fun, I’d go inside and crash on Rick’s sofa—sleeping accommodations on par with those at the penthouse.
Joe’s master bedroom was a disaster of strewn clothing, storage boxes, unpacked suitcases, and other stuff. Piles of crap so huge I didn’t realize there was also a king-size bed in there until my third visit. We slept in the smaller bedroom that served as Joe’s office, on a futon on the floor between the desk and the bookcase. Though he tried to keep it tidy (if not exactly clean) it rarely met my standards. The night I found a half-eaten sandwich under my pillow, I had to take a moment alone in the bathroom to keep from snapping at him. The next day, I took over housekeeping duties for that one room.
I slept well most nights and hardly minded Joe’s piano playing. The same haunting melody every night, drifting in from the living room to wake me, would then lull me back to sleep. One night, the playing failed to resume, and I got up to investigate. I found Joe sitting on the couch, disheveled and spacey, a legal pad slowly sliding off his lap. I took it as an invitation.
Our sex life was still somewhat awkward—what existed of it at all—and I leapt at the chance to jump-start things. Pushing aside the legal pad, I straddled his lap and moved in for a kiss. But I didn’t get a kiss. I got shoved aside instead.
“Don’t ever do that!” he snapped, roaring to life.
I stared at him, dumbstruck and flooded with shame, despite having done nothing shameful. I waited for an explanation or apology—you startled me, I was meditating, something—but he clammed up and acted distant and bristly. I went back to bed and curled in a ball, furious, confused, and tongue-tied.
I awoke to find him asleep beside me. I spent the next four hours going stir-crazy. Still angry, I decided to entertain myself any way I saw fit. The night I’d arrived, on that particular trip, I’d spied a lipstick-smeared wineglass in the kitchen. Curiosity, combined with the sting of fresh rejection, was enough (in my mind) to justify snooping. I searched every drawer, cabinet, and stack of papers in the butler’s pantry for clues to the sleeping giant down the hall. I found pictures of him with other people—some women, all pretty—but nothing to latch onto, as in, Ah, I get you! Then, in a small chest of drawers in the living room, I found something. Lisa, dozens of her, three contact sheets full. They were studio shots, against a plain backdrop, in a peasant dress with stockings and heels. She was absolutely stunning.
That night, I followed Joe’s path—literally, he’d made a path—through the main bedroom’s clutter to a catastrophic bath and dressing area. It broke my heart to see such luxury rendered unusable, though it managed to serve Joe’s purposes. The closet doors were floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and this time I decided to run with it. There had to be something I was missing.
It’s not like I didn’t enjoy the male gaze—I was a stripper, for Pete’s sake. I just didn’t get it outside the context of work. Yet if I hoped for an active sex life with Joe, adopting his style seemed the only way. I tried to step outside myself as Joe stripped off my clothes, to release all analytical thought—to cease thinking at all. I took in the couple in the mirror without placing judgment or expectation on them.
Then it happened. I sensed the vibe he was going for. And damned if it wasn’t erotic. In a detached sort of way, but enough to pique my interest. Which Joe must’
ve noticed, because the next thing I knew we were all over the place—literally, all over the building. He toyed with me in a dark corner of the underground parking garage where my sex noises echoed off the concrete. On the roof, he stripped me naked, impressed by my boldness. When I joked about the door locking behind us, we raced back inside, laughing. He tied me naked to the penthouse balcony, briefly, as it was late and I was sleepy. The next time Joe did a bump, I asked if I could have one.
“Sure,” he said, his voice artificially light. If there was a millisecond pause, I ignored it. It wasn’t until afterward that I remembered that cocaine killed my sex drive. Otherwise, I felt amazing, fearless, and up for anything. Being blindfolded and spanked was new and exciting. Sex toys? Sure! Porn videos? Why not? Lingerie fashion show Polaroid shoot? Let’s do it!
Nightly playtime became our routine, and once we got going, that was it. Phone, fax, and clocks were ignored during our erotic improv circus. The danger was losing track of time, and the first night it happened I groaned outright. I’d done enough meth and crack in my life to dread the onset of sunlight.
“I wish it could be two a.m. indefinitely.”
“Twelve,” Joe replied, untying my wrists. “If I could, I’d make it midnight forever.”
Apparently, he wasn’t immune to it either, that unsettled feeling that came from living without rules in a world necessarily governed by them. I don’t know why I thought he would be.
Rock Monster Page 4