Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  I thought he was nuts, but Joe’s friends had known him too long to be fazed. When everyone arrived—Rian, Smokey, Rick, Chad, Joe Vitale, and producer Bill Szymczyk—I turned the kitchen over to Vitale. I didn’t cook and no one judged me for it. Not even Joe.

  Our fridge contained mostly La Toque leftovers, vodka, beer, wine, OJ, and Jerry’s Famous Deli condiments. Tony’s Liquor and Deli was another neighborhood favorite, and I especially liked their wine selection, despite its equally impressive markup. We started a tab at Tony’s and had them invoice Joe’s accountant, making everything from Polaroid film to batteries, booze, and deli platters free to us (or, at least, that’s what it felt like). For post-monster nutritional emergencies—a frequent 4:00 a.m. thing—Ralphs’s produce section provided a plethora of vegetables to juice. Our Champion juicer was the smartest purchase we’d made (the final count being three, since the first two juicers went unwashed so long that petrified pulp rendered them easier to replace than clean).

  I kept our home tidy of clutter: sex toys, cigarette empties, record sleeves, coke-encrusted jewel cases, and X-rated Polaroids that somehow found their way into every room. Joe’s longtime housekeeper, Angelina, did the real cleaning (except juicers, for whatever reason). She was a plump, motherly Guatemalan woman I adored. Which is why, upon hearing her screams one morning, I flew from bed to the kitchen despite having just fallen asleep. That morning we’d wrapped up an extended monster, and, in anticipation of her schedule, I’d carefully tidied up the evidence before going bed. Joe and Romero, Angelina’s husband, were out front fixing a sprinkler. They reached the kitchen before me, and by the time I burst in, they were laughing hysterically. Angelina, with one hand to her heart, was muttering away in Spanish. Scanning the room, I spotted the source of it all in the microwave—a ten-inch-long, fat, pink, veiny dildo.

  I shot Joe a look and stormed upstairs.

  “C’mon, it’s funny!” he called after me.

  By the time he caught up, I was fuming. “Our housekeeper thinks I’m a pervert!”

  “Nah, don’t worry,” he said, putting his arms around me. “I told her I’d done it as a practical joke on her and Romero. Don’t be mad, please?” I sighed and let it go. The real issue was bigger than one dildo (so to speak) and too complicated to explain to him.

  •••

  Besides La Toque and Tony’s Deli, our most regular haunt was the Pleasure Chest adult store. Their inventory filled the storage space under our eight-foot-long window seat—porn videos, sex toys, bondage equipment, leather accessories, and all manner of battery-powered gadgetry—and I’d lost interest in it.

  Kink was a fun experiment that had run its course for me. Pleasure Chest excursions, while initially intriguing, were now akin to wallpaper shopping. I’d trail behind Joe feigning interest, then throw myself into it at home with a “when in Rome” attitude. The combo of hog rails and fresh stimuli had a way of bringing out my inner Caligula. Gadgetry wasn’t my thing per se, but it’s not like the stuff didn’t work. Neither was I immune to the charms of a well-orchestrated power exchange, but I was no life-styler. I was a dabbler, with a taste for men on the dominant side, but I found most roleplaying hard to take seriously. I wanted my passion reciprocated, to express my love through spontaneous physicality and feel Joe’s love for me the same way.

  I wanted above all to be desired, and with an intensity so uncontained and unquantifiable it defied scripts. To me, nothing felt more natural. To me, lust was more sacred than words. Passionate sex was how I gave thanks to the universe. It made me feel spiritually connected and grounded in reality. I wanted to be fucked to a place where words lost all meaning, not mind-fucked with verbal instructions and tauntings. The way Joe orchestrated things made me feel backed into a corner, as if he needed me there, where I couldn’t stir up the power to hurt him.

  In the end, going along with it was easier than stating my needs or delving into his. And in my silence, I denied us the chance at something more intimate.

  After everything he’d given me, I didn’t think I had a right to want more. I also sensed Joe’s pattern: that he was drawn to passionate women, therefore always at risk of disappointing them, and none more so than a wildly horny, much younger girlfriend. Joe protected a fragile ego by suppressing my intensity. I abandoned my autonomy for fear of embarrassing him. I couldn’t afford to lose him. I hadn’t just fallen in love—my identity rested on my role as his partner, despite how poorly I filled it.

  I disappointed him at every turn. Stymied creatively, I compensated the only way I knew how. In my world, sexual intensity had value. It meant I mattered and that I had a sliver of power. If I couldn’t get Joe to lose control over me, the paradigm imploded. I needed to be ravaged to feel validated. I put the onus on him instead of developing myself as a writer (the one side of me he unconditionally supported). I blamed Joe for being controlling because taking control of my own life terrified me.

  •••

  In May, Joe flew to New York to do Letterman again but had Smokey stagger our flights for reasons that made no sense. When I asked why he was going a day early, he bristled and refused to give me a straight answer.

  At the Plaza, he acted happy to see me, and I played along even though I wanted to cry. I left him with Rick, Smokey, and Spero and went to the bedroom to unpack, where I noticed an out-of-place nightstand askew from the wall and bed. When everyone left, Joe came in, but before he undressed, he explained that since we were sharing a two-bedroom suite with Smokey, and our door didn’t lock, he’d ensure privacy by blocking it with the nightstand. Then I understood why it had been off-kilter in the first place. Another woman had been there the night before.

  I never let him see me sweat. I faked a good mood the entire trip while the trial of the century played out in my head. My heart fighting for Joe’s innocence, my head compiling the evidence.

  Sexually, I gave him everything he wanted and got a fraction of what I needed in return. If he had an ounce of libido to spare, of course I’d be the default recipient. That’s what I’d told myself for years, even after learning he’d fooled me at least twice. He’d confessed to cheating the day after I moved in: once with the blonde penthouse neighbor, and once with Lisa, his ex. He was telling me so that we’d have a fresh start, he’d said, swearing never again. So I’d forgiven him. And if he’d been going to the Body Shop strip club lately, well, that was Sean Penn’s influence. I’d worked in one myself, after all—the poster girl for sexual progressiveness. It’s not like Joe had developed an inappropriate friendship with the girl in that eight-by-ten glossy…the one I found in his briefcase with her phone number on it. Struggling actresses handed those things out all the time, right?

  I wondered, too, about that friend of Rick’s, the bookishly cool New York chick I’d met on a previous trip. Brusque with me yet openly affectionate with my boyfriend, she shared private jokes and used intimate body language. I was brainy, too, and had stripped for five years—the art of flirtation was my business. Did they think I was an idiot?

  I had less to go on with the Japanese girl, just her name handwritten on letters scattered throughout our house on Blairwood Drive. A faceless fan who’d written Joe for years—“a nobody,” he’d insisted. We met once and she got obsessed. No big deal. Right, Rick?

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Rick had mumbled. “A harmless fan, no big deal.”

  Then there was Hope, another “nobody,” I supposed. Some girl backstage at a show in LA. A tan, toned, attractive blonde, in a tight skirt and loose-knit sweater, with lips like Taylor Dane. She’d asked me a string of innocent questions, except the final one sounded rehearsed and pointed: Is it hard dating a rock star?

  “Not at all. Why?”

  “With so many woman chasing him, I’d think you’d be worried about affairs.”

  He’d never, I’d said—guffawed, in fact (since, after all, he could barely keep up with me).


  Case closed, I’d thought. Until, weeks later, Hope’s name showed up on a hotel receipt from Santa Barbara. I found it in Joe’s pants doing laundry, instantly recalling his bullshit explanation for going to our favorite resort without me. I’d backed down to avoid a fight, but standing at the washing machine, I realized I’d known all along that he was taking another woman.

  I snorted the coke I found in his same jeans pocket, then dialed the San Ysidro Ranch.

  “Why hello, Miss Hope. I hope you and Mr. Walsh enjoyed your stay, and how can I help you today?” I hung up without answering him.

  I never pressed Joe about Hope in Santa Barbara, or the nightstand business at the Plaza. Back in LA, he was loving and attentive. A few days later we had friends over. Joe, Rick, and Geno gathered at the bar across the room. I was eating a snack in front of the TV, watching a mindless celebrity news show, when the puzzle came together. The video clip was brief, but the content unmistakable—my soul mate exiting a limo at a Manhattan charity event, then helping a beautiful woman climb out after him. The reporter called her a beauty queen—Miss New York, apparently. The date of the footage was posted on the screen, the night Joe had been in New York without me, when he’d first blocked his door “for privacy.”

  The next day, I snuck downstairs to watch his pageant video from February. It came as no surprise that he’d scored Maureen Murray higher than any other contestant. The verdict was in. He was guilty as sin, and still I didn’t say anything.

  Are You Satisfied

  I consoled myself with coke. I didn’t confront Joe or talk things out; that wasn’t my way. I didn’t face obstacles and overcome them. I didn’t mature; I didn’t cope.

  When Abe called to say he was playing the Palomino Club, I told Joe I was going and didn’t invite him. He gave me a strange look but didn’t argue. I never went anywhere in LA without him, but things had changed. I even bought my own blow, just for me. Something else I’d not done before.

  I’d paid for cocaine in the past, for both of us, on rare occasions. Joe didn’t always have cash on him, and since he paid for everything else, I was happy to pitch in. I’d socked away $5,000 of stripper income before leaving Texas. We’d chipped away at it, but I had plenty left. On the way to the Palomino, I bought a gram from Rick and indulged at the club liberally. After the show, Abe brought me into the dressing room and got his bandmates to leave us alone, only to discover our spectacular chemistry was AWOL. I was fired up all right, fueled by drugs more than desire. Abe noticed immediately. I sat on the edge of a counter and he stepped up between my knees. I wrapped my legs around his waist as we made out, hoping to spark our usual heat. Abe slid his hand down the front of my jeans, then put on the brakes entirely. What should’ve been a lush rainforest was dry as Death Valley. I was the furthest thing from horny.

  “That’s not like you,” he said, concerned. “Are you all right? What’s going on?”

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t how we were. He was right that I wasn’t myself at that moment, yet I had no idea how to reach her. “I did some coke,” I admitted, hanging my head. Sexual chemistry was my favorite drug and our chemistry was pharmaceutical-grade stuff. I knew coke killed my sex drive, so why had I done it?

  Abe was worried about me, which made me feel worse. Demoted from an object of desire to one of pity, I left as soon as I could.

  •••

  I felt betrayed by cocaine. Like a trusted friend that had secretly been nickel-and-diming me, it had now stolen my wallet. Cocaine hadn’t just robbed me of my greatest pleasure—it had chipped away some of life’s color and texture.

  The previous year, in Japan, Simon Phillips had turned me on to electronica music—a heady experience, but also a punch in the gut. My rock music knowledge had never been vast, but alternative trends were my passion. I’d turned Joe on to the Butthole Surfers and Toy Dolls. (In return, he’d played me the Flying Burrito Brothers and Dan Fogelberg.) Suddenly entire genres got past me. I was totally out of touch.

  The same light bulb went on at the opening of Lee Starkey’s Melrose boutique. I’d worn my Stevie Nicks beaded blouse, hoping to fit in with her fashionable crowd, but the drapey silhouette was passé. Bare midriffs, hip huggers, and seventies chic were the rage. More than a fashion faux pas to me, it was Exhibit B in the case of the cocaine robbery. My scope had narrowed to the size of a straw, blacking out music, fashion, and nature. Not going hiking in Chattanooga was one thing. I’d yet to hit the beach once in LA—me, a lifelong water baby.

  I’d watched Lee work the room at her party, as captivating as her mother. I’d hid out in the bathroom alone, doing hog rails one after the other. I’d never wanted to quit drugs so badly nor been more afraid to try. I depended on coke to overcome shyness and melancholy, to think clearly, speak freely, and fit in slightly. Cocaine to detach, cocaine to interact. Cocaine to connect with others, escape myself, and rebel against society. Dependency made me ashamed and then relieved me of the same. When Joe and I fought, his coke got me over it. When he was a dick, it rewarded me for tolerating his shit.

  When I wasn’t turning to drugs for comfort, I turned to Smokey. He lived in Detroit but was with us just as often—we depended on him a lot. On tour during shows, Smokey and I would watch from the wings together or find someplace quiet to shoot the breeze. Our friendship developed backstage and at hotel pools, talking for hours while Joe slept through the afternoon. We commiserated over road fatigue, shared private jokes and detailed personal histories (however much of his I could believe, since—when it came to Smokey—I could be really naïve). Joe’s humor was unique. Smokey’s, more my speed. His Kissinger impression slayed me. My Mrs. Kissinger—a female version of Henry, basically—made Smokey laugh harder than I’d ever heard him.

  He’d been on The Best tour, and with us in Hawaii, when Joe spent the first two days in bed. With nothing to do, I’d occupied myself around the hotel, purposely avoiding Smokey, whom I didn’t yet know very well. On the second day, I headed to the pool and found him lying out, oiled head to toe, in nothing but sunglasses and a Speedo. I could’ve pounced on him, right then, but hung back at the gate, fighting the urge and drinking in the sight—his broad chest and umber flesh, dripping with oil and sweat. The gold rope chain around his neck glinted in the sun, winking at me, for Christ’s sake. The scene was like something out of a slick brochure for a swinging singles cruise, in a time machine to 1970s San Tropez. It was just so overtly, nakedly erotic I thought I’d go insane.

  Instead, I suppressed my inner cavewoman—no small feat, that—and feigned cheerful casualness, plopping down next to him. “Hey, sailor,” I joked. “Come here often?”

  An elegant Asian woman two lounge chairs over suddenly stood, collected her things, and marched from the pool area. She was fortyish and petite, with a flawless pedicure, a designer bag, and Chanel jewelry. As her high-heeled sandals clicked down the path, Smokey burst out laughing. Apparently, she’d been eyeing him for an hour, about to make her move when I cock-blocked her. I apologized profusely, but Smokey said he couldn’t care less.

  I was secretly glad to have scared her off, though it hardly solved my dilemma. As much as I envisioned a future of blissful monogamy with Joe, I also craved variety and intense, unpredictable encounters, and was genuinely ticked off that I couldn’t have one with Smokey.

  •••

  The Ordinary Average Guy tour started in June. The Doobie Brothers shared billing on a handful of dates, and the two bands took turns lobbing practical jokes back and forth during each other’s shows. The antics escalated from flying rubber chickens to strippers, flashers, and zoo animals. Joe suggested I sneak onstage to dance around (fully clothed) with the Doobie Brothers, saying, “You’ve got better moves than the strippers we sent up there last week.” (Touched as I was by the praise, I only had enough nerve to dance way in back, by one of their two drummers.)

  In the
years since Hamish had pulled me onstage in New Zealand, I’d shed my perennial outsider identity. It was easy enough after a few bumps, but most of the credit was Joe’s for making me a part of something—when he wasn’t trying to wall me off, that is. On the OAG tour, old patterns resumed. The same issues, triggers, and name-calling—You’re a cokehead, you’re an asshole, give me space, give me sex! Our ability to make up and move on, however, was gone.

  The band played Austin on the Fourth of July, where Joe booked a hot-air balloon ride. Behind his back, I requested a “do not disturb” from the front desk. Joe’s ride arrived, but when they wouldn’t put the call through, he left. When Joe woke up he was furious at me, but I was too embarrassed to explain why I’d done it. A surge of irrational fears, of heights and abandonment, had kept me from going with him or letting him go without me. I was sinking into depression.

  By Pittsburg, we’d reached peak tension. Together in our room, I felt an awkward, painful solitude. He scribbled on legal pads. I tried to interest him in a shared activity—room service, SpectraVision, or a game of rummy. He shook his head and kept on writing. It occurred to me that I missed journaling. If he refused to hear my thoughts, I’d record them on paper until they felt real…until I did. I asked Joe for a legal pad. When he claimed not to have a spare, I threw up my hands. “Fine. I’ll get one from Smokey.”

  I knocked on the door across the hall. “Hey there,” Smokey said, stepping back to let me inside. It felt like coming up for air.

  “You busy? I don’t want to impose…”

  Nine times out of ten, Smokey answered the door with the phone receiver pressed to his ear, the cord trailing like a snake behind him. I’d told myself I’d leave if that was the case, but it wasn’t, so I sat on his bed and vented. Smokey took a chair by the window and listened. I don’t remember what he said or thought, but I do recall feeling heard.

  “Well,” I finally said. “I should let you get back to whatever it is you do when not gluing me back together.” He smiled and assured me I wasn’t falling apart, just being human.