Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  By day three, Joe was sick with fatigue, worsened by an unrelenting heat wave. He withdrew completely, leaving me isolated and homesick. I agreed with Clarence—Japan was not a good fit. The cultural decorum rubbed me the wrong way, mostly because I thought it sucked the life out of concerts. I quit attending them mid-tour, after one crowd’s bizarre nonreaction to Nils Lofgren leaping into their midst while playing guitar with his teeth.

  As the least traveled person in our group, I thought I might be cynical. “I’m literally complaining about excessive etiquette,” I remarked to one of the roadies.

  “Don’t let them fool you,” he said. “No one likes Americans here. It’s their tradition to fake it. When you think about it, it’s like they’re lying to our faces.”

  It was a fair point. I disliked not knowing where I stood with people. I was so insecure, I needed reassurance from strangers that my presence was welcome, that I was liked or at least interesting. One day, Sandy told me, “You get more attention in Japan than Ringo.”

  Actually, it was my hair, Levon explained. “The men here stare at it everywhere we go—sidewalks, trains, elevators. They wait until you walk by or look the other way before they gape, totally fascinated.” That’s when I decided I liked Japan.

  When Joe’s energy picked up, we went sightseeing, to castles, temples, and ground zero. We went to hotel bars with Kevin Buell and Joseph, Billy Preston’s new assistant, but kept our drinking to a minimum. One night, I almost overdid it. We were out to dinner with a few of the guys and I caught myself flirting with Rick Danko. Joe didn’t notice (neither did Rick, funny enough), but I put down my sake for the night. I wasn’t trying to bed Danko. It wasn’t his attention I was after.

  I’d dropped fall semester classes to go to Japan and was starting to regret it, but then suddenly Joe became attentive again. The band had a day off and he wanted to go shopping.

  “A toy store? Seriously?”

  “It’s six stories tall. You’ll love it!”

  “It’s like you don’t know me at all.” But he did, since I followed him everywhere.

  Joe’s mood was so improved he got a scolding from the cab driver—his second since arriving in Japan. It appeared the second cabbie didn’t appreciate Joe’s spastic, backseat-driver behavior any more than our first cabbie appreciated the unintelligible nonsense he shouted at random (extremely startled) pedestrians.

  After we left the toy store (packed with the calmest shoppers ever), Joe went to Sony for some newfangled type of camera. He used it to shoot everything within view at the restaurant where we had dinner—his steak, my fish, our waiter, Rick Danko, the table centerpiece, and random stuff under the tablecloth—until I told him to stop wasting film on my shoes and kneecaps. Back in our room, Rick hooked Joe’s camera to the TV and a slide show appeared on the screen. “Oh,” I gasped, delighted by a stream of crisp, colorful images taken minutes earlier…including one straight up my skirt.

  “Joseph!”

  Rick burst out laughing as Joe scrambled to advance the frame. “Sorry, honey. I should’ve explained how these work.” He paused. “And asked if you were wearing panties.”

  He doted on me for the rest of the tour. After playing the Budokan, we had dinner with Mr. Udo, Japan’s biggest promoter. He’d reserved an entire teppanyaki restaurant, which served the best meal I’d had all tour, maybe ever. We had drinks with an English promoter that, Joe said, “held the keys to Europe,” then ditched him to watch The Witches of Eastwick together in bed. At the Hard Rock, Joe slapped down his AmEx card in the gift shop. “Two of everything, please.” We spent our final night in the hotel bar with the crew, drinking Scorpions, our official Japan drink (for reasons I don’t remember).

  In the lobby awaiting airport transport, Joe suggested I go spend whatever coins I had on me—over $200 worth—which couldn’t be exchanged like paper currency. The hotel boutiques carried little at that price point, but I got lucky and found a darling leather coin purse imprinted with an eerie circus scene. Spotting Barb across the lobby, I went to show her, then caught sight of her new three-piece luggage set in the exact same circus design. I tucked the new pouch away, my good taste confirmed.

  •••

  Back in LA, we went straight to Rick the Bass Player’s house. We did our first hog rails since flying overseas, and then Joe visited with his daughter. I watched TV, where on every channel the Berlin Wall fell, over and over. I was happy to give Joe and Lucy a wide berth. As much as I craved his attention, I couldn’t imagine how much she might.

  My parents had not divorced or traveled much. Dad worked long hours, but at the end of the day, he loved being with his kids. Mom worked long hours, often on call, which meant she couldn’t even relax on days off. As a kid, I had no concept of her life outside motherhood. I only knew my mom didn’t like the part she spent around me. I thought she hated me. Being an analytical kid with zero analytical skills, trying to understand her psychology, knowing nothing about the human psyche, well…it was like mapping the universe through opera glasses. Basically, whenever I sensed tension or conflict, I assumed it was my fault.

  I appreciated everything my mother did for the family. Every holiday was done to the hilt. Easter dresses were sewn from scratch with fabrics chosen to match each child’s personality. No Halloween costume was too complicated to ask of her. My ruffled gingham bedding with matching curtains had sprouted from her sewing machine in the corner in our cramped laundry room. Her hands were never idle, and she made sure her kids’ weren’t, either. I was never at a loss for books, games, and crafts of all kinds. She broke her back to ensure I had a structured, active life. If my mother ever forgot to pack a variety of sunscreen and the favorite foods of seven individuals for a week of outdoor camping, I never knew it. I was fair-skinned, and sunburns were serious business. But demanding I relieve my bowels, semi-exposed at a large family gathering, taught me my body didn’t belong to me. The damage was internalized. A sunburn was on the surface, where anyone might see, and where it might reflect on the quality of her mothering to teachers, neighbors, and relatives.

  I craved softness and affection, big and small signs of her approval. I wanted to be appreciated and cherished. At three, I got stage fright during a mother-daughter fashion show. I froze on the runway, my panic compounded by the knowledge I was disappointing her on a day she’d been nicer than ever. She kept us physically protected, busy, and organized. Softness wasn’t on the list. She didn’t have it in her, not enough for five kids and Dad, plus all those hospital patients. If there was one thing I had deduced about her, it was that she resented being asked. She felt she had given me everything any offspring should need, so I could take my demands for nurturance to my room until I could be less of a selfish brat.

  I exhausted her. She lost her temper with me and I started losing mine with her. Had she the skills to manage fear and resentment, she’d have surely passed them down. My father once joked that I “came out screaming and haven’t stopped since.” He seemed to find that endearing, but Mom never did. Joe could be just like her: moody, demanding, blamey, ragey, and impossible to figure out. Other times, he was my dad all over—playful, joyful, delighted by me, and yet nobody’s savior. A provider, not a protector, Dad never seemed to notice I was hurting. When Joe ignored me in Japan, I felt ten years old again. I’d been born into a large family—invited, as it were—then shamed for exceeding my allotment of resources. I never knew how much I was allowed to want—not as a child, and not as an adult.

  Joe was spread thin. I got more attention than his only kid and still it wasn’t enough. Though Joe said I was the oldest twenty-year-old he’d ever met, in some ways I was immature. To say Joe was youthful at forty was an understatement, but he could feel weary and ancient, too. Still, our biggest problem was coke. I wasn’t using every day (yet), but once I started I couldn’t stop. Joe could moderate, but without some blow every day he barely functioned. It di
dn’t take a genius to figure out why he got sick every time we left the country. He needed a strong woman to inspire him. I needed constant love and affection. We gave each other feast or famine.

  Joe came with me to Austin, needing the peace and quiet. We saw my friends, watched TV, and went to bed early. One day, he announced that he had an interview at UT for a music department teaching gig. I waited in the car, fantasizing about campus life—the film students and music teachers meeting for lunch in student union. On the way home, I asked how it went.

  “They asked me to submit a résumé,” he said, then fell silent.

  The next day, Paul McCartney invited us to his concert at the Forum. We caught a flight to LA. Joe never mentioned teaching again.

  •••

  Our second Christmas together, he agreed to spend a day with my relatives if I spent Christmas Eve with his friends. Isaac Tigrett had cofounded the Hard Rock Cafe chain. His wife Maureen was Ringo’s ex (and mother to their three kids). She and Isaac were living on the top floor of the Stoneleigh, in Dallas, where Isaac was building a new Hard Rock.

  I’d seen Maureen in the audience on Ringo’s tour. We hadn’t met but she’d been impossible to miss, like a sparkling diamond in a sea of dull pencil erasers. Joe described Isaac in similar terms. I asked him what he meant. “You’ll get it when you meet him, but for starters, I won’t have to point him out. He’ll zero in on you. He’s freaky like that.”

  Minutes later, at baggage claim, my gaze was drawn across the room to a brown-haired man who turned and fixed his bright blue eyes directly on me—Isaac. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, with high cheekbones and a trim beard. He had charisma—Paul Newman meets Orson Welles with a pinch of Jesus thrown in. His home was just as warm, colorful, and richly textured. His wife, energetic and birdlike. Maureen made us welcome, despite her apparent surprise to hear we’d be staying the night. Her daughter Lee joined us for dinner, and Maureen even produced Christmas gifts for us, her unexpected guests. Later, in our room, I changed into a short robe just as Isaac dropped by. I rushed to redress, but Joe said not to bother. “It’s just Isaac.”

  We sat on opposite beds—the men on one and me on the other, holding a pillow to my chest. Isaac’s eyes were penetrating, but he was buzzed and seemingly unaware of his intensity. Maureen, however, did notice, having come in search of her husband before bed. That’s when I realized my robe was, in fact, inappropriate—though not from anything she said. She was much too gracious for that, bidding us good night as Isaac followed without being asked. It left quite an impression—that of an unfazed, empowered woman, fully aware of her worth.

  To be Treated

  We celebrated New Year’s Eve at our favorite restaurant, La Toque. It was my first time doing up the holiday in style and Joe encouraged me to go all out. “Be a girl,” he quipped, handing me a small wad of hundreds. “Find something that makes you feel beautiful.”

  I did. A form-fitting spaghetti-strap cocktail dress covered in delicate beading and gold sequins. I paired it with dainty, dangly earrings and my hair in a loose upsweep, Joe’s favorite style. I emerged from the bathroom shimmering in gold from head to toe.

  “You look like a million bucks,” he beamed. “Literally.” And I didn’t disagree.

  The dress was the second most glamorous I’d ever owned. The first—acquired two years earlier—had been in my possession a mere twelve hours. It was a gift from a Sugar’s regular, who’d whisked me away from the club to Vegas for an all-night gambling bent. His sole intent: to blow as much money as possible before the soon-to-be ex-wife got it. We caught the first flight out, then kicked off his spending spree at a Caesars Palace boutique. He thought I needed something more suitable for high-dollar tables than the cotton stretch mini I’d worn to work. Minutes later, I was the dubious owner of a $1,000 black satin, crystal-encrusted, plunging-to-the-navel Halston gown. It was an absolute stunner, in which I felt fairly ridiculous, lacking the hips, height, bosom, and Bond Girl bravado to pull it off. I did my best, sitting stiffly next to him in the role I’d signed up for—feigning interest in the ups and downs of another woman’s childish, vindictive husband—dreaming of the day I’d get dolled up like that to hang on the arm of a man I loved.

  Two years later, there I was. At La Toque, we were seated at a table for eight with Rick the Bass Player and his date. The extra chairs were for a myriad of friends stopping by through the night for champagne toasts and plates of appetizers. Midway through the evening, I noticed Dan Aykroyd on my right. His wife, Donna, was deep in conversation across the table, leaving her husband open as fair game. Danny, as I elected to call him—possibly with his permission, although God only knows, as I was really on a roll by then—proved a most amiable hostage, bombarded with my earnest opinions on the state of an industry in which he’d had huge success (to my zero experience).

  “Seriously, Danny, check out the Austin film scene. This fat-cat studio system y’all got out here is just plain obsolete,” I insisted. “You got to stay ahead of the curve and get in on the ground floor of the indie scene.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Totally!” I smacked the table. “Hollywood has sold out. There’s no artistry anymore, no depth…just soulless hacks churning out an assembly line of superficial, formulaic crap.” I dropped my chin and pointed at him. “You’re too good for them, man.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.”

  “It’s a fact!” I declared, smacking the table again. I lowered my voice to a loud whisper. “Listen, Danny, Austin is where it’s at. Remember that—Austin.”

  “Austin, you say?”

  “Austin!”

  “Okay, then… I’ll look into it.”

  “You heard it here first.” To be sure, I repeated myself a few times, and Danny’s gaze never wavered. He seemed bemused, but it was hard to say. Our table was on its tenth or twelfth bottle by then. “You’re kind to indulge me,” I said, patting his hand, signaling his release. “My apologies…champagne makes me subversive.”

  He laughed. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  I decided to force down some ravioli before launching my next antiestablishment coup. Two bites later, Bob Dylan walked in. He was with his producer Debbie Gold, a savvy East Coast chick I’d recently met at Rick’s and been too intimidated to talk to. Debbie pulled up a chair straightaway while Bob cast furtive looks around the room. Other diners in our section were absorbed in food, drink, and revelry. Bob finally took a seat between Joe and Rick, though not without a few more backward glances. I decided my lecture on Austin’s indie-music scene could wait until Mr. Dylan was more receptive.

  I knew next to nothing about the reclusive icon, aside from radio hits and the awed tones in which Joe’s generation spoke of him. What I noticed was a vast chasm between Bob’s reservedness and the easy receptivity of my good friend and comrade, Danny. If it weren’t for alcohol and cocaine, I’d be closer to Bob’s side of it, myself. I had always wanted to be vivacious. At best, the world overwhelmed introverts; at worst, it dismissed us. Coke and booze helped me bypass all that. They leveled the playing field.

  As midnight approached, the wait staff corralled us outside to count down 1989. Amid plastic horns, drunken cheers, and passing car honks, Joe wrapped me in his arms for a long, tender kiss, with a dip. When the crowd broke into “Auld Lang Syne,” he scooped Bob between us and linked our arms so we’d all three sway in unison. Soon, I felt Bob relax. I glanced over and he smiled, then joined in the last few lines of song.

  I wasn’t a superstitious person, but if there was truth to the notion that New Year’s Eve celebrations set a tone for the coming year, it would seem in 1990 I’d have nothing to fear.

  •••

  By now Joe’s world was far more compelling to me than school, and I dropped out once again. College would always be there, I reasoned, but Joe might not. I’d be a fool not to grab every cha
nce to be with him. He felt the same and flew me out whenever he could. When apart, he called daily, one night from Wisconsin at 3:00 a.m.

  “Hey, babe,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “What’s up?”

  “I’m calling to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  I had not seen that coming. “What? Wait, I mean, yes. Yes!” We had a good laugh, then I was serious. “My hand is absolutely yours, the very moment you say the word.”

  “Okay, just…someday, you know.” He stammered, nervous all of a sudden. “We’ll talk about it again…down the road.”

  I was getting used to that side of him, the impulsive leaps and sudden backtracks. That he’d asked was all that mattered. “Joseph, my answer has been yes since the day we met. If you don’t ask again for twenty years, it will be yes then, too.”

  “Glad we got that settled,” he said, sounding relieved. Then, “There is one other thing.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want a son.”

  Gulp.

  “No need to answer that yet,” he laughed. “Just keep it in mind.”

  As if I could help it. I lay awake long afterward, thrilled to be considered marriage material and stupefied he thought me remotely parental. I wished to fulfill Joe’s every need, but the only family portrait of us I could see was me and baby center frame, with a blurry, unfocused Joe in the background. I’d seen stripper friends’ relationships crumble after a kid. Those who didn’t split up were exhausted, sexless, and perpetually on edge. My own mother had made it look like a miserable job. Why on earth would I subject myself to that?

  Joe scoffed at my concerns, citing many happy freewheeling friends who were married with kids. To prove it, he took me to the Hells Angels clubhouse in Manhattan’s East Village. Though it was off limits to outsiders, Joe had an open invitation. He said the New York chapter were true friends and “good people.” I wouldn’t know. Hells Angels were not exactly accessible. Joe’s friends Butch and Joan lived in the six-story apartment building above the biker gang’s headquarters, with their son who was maybe eight or ten. They were a nice enough couple, if politely reserved and disinclined to anything resembling conversation. Of the other six or eight bikers hanging out that day, I only met Eddie, the chapter president, and he barely said a word to me.