“Stop hitting on my girlfriend!”
“Whoa!” I cried, whirling on Joe, in the doorway with fire in his eyes. “What the hell? Jeanna’s just being nice.”
“Don’t defend her!” he exploded. “You’re too trusting. Can’t you see she’s recruiting you for one of her sick porno movies?”
Considering he’d introduced me to those “sick” movies, I found the accusation a mite unfair. Before I could say so, Jeanna stepped in. “C’mon now, Joe. Don’t you know I’d never disrespect you?” Her voice was soothing, like an animal trainer’s. “You got it all wrong, man. I’m just making friends…nothing weird.” She cooed at him, waving her hands around, as if to clear the air between them. Joe was having none of it and continued barking, despite her reassurances.
When I was a girl, my friends and I frequently brushed each other’s hair after school. I’d done the same with my mom after dinner, one of the few ways I was able to feel close to her. Also, mere weeks earlier, Lisa had spent half an hour styling my hair into Joe’s favorite upswept do while he waited in the other room. Still, he banished our guests from the hotel, calling a car service to drive them to LA. I went to bed with my back to him, afraid to say a word.
•••
We spent the next night camped out in Father Guido Sarducci’s driveway. Actor-comedian Don Novello was a good friend of Joe’s and the antithesis of the irreverent character he was known for. Don was sophisticated and smart, sensual and stylish, as was his elegantly rustic Bay Area home. Visiting with him and his lady-friend, I sipped wine and made witty conversation, hiding my deep-seated longing for a life that looked more like theirs.
I still felt like a guest on Blairwood Drive. Our home was in constant disarray. Boxes overflowed with stage clothes and tour equipment, arcane electronics, tools, faxes, letters, random paperwork, and a vast array of cords and antennas I wasn’t permitted to move, trash, or organize. Whether Joe preferred the chaos or was fundamentally, inextricably attached to it, the mess was but a symptom—a microcosm of the macrocosm of us. We were scattered and in disarray. Until that changed, neither would our house.
When it got late, Don offered his guestroom, but Joe was like a kid with a new tent and opted to sleep in the RV instead. Don grinned. “Sounds fun, sleep well.” But it wasn’t and we didn’t. I tossed and turned and was driven half mad by the driveway’s subtle slope and earth’s gravitational pull. The next morning, we left for Calistoga, a sweet little town of natural springs and man-made spas, to soak in pools of mineral water and tubs of toxin-sapping mud. We did our treatments side-by-side and worlds apart, lost in our own thoughts. Mine were how to get more bumps out of Joe. His remain unknown. Eventually, I asked for some, knowing I’d just failed us both. Forty-eight hours into our journey of self-care and I’d yet to renounce the worst drug of the bunch. On top of that, he didn’t have any. Our cocaine had already run out.
We drove south, hundreds of miles to spend fifteen minutes at Gary’s. Then due north to get the hell out of town again, determined not to lose our way this time.
•••
At Joshua Tree National Park I felt a ray of hope. We scampered up rock formations, took in views, and explored crevices. With strength and balance, we climbed steep faces. We leaped rifts with childlike exuberance. When I needed support, Joe fashioned a walking stick. When he tired, I propped him up in the shade. Thoughts of cocaine were never far off, but for the moment we’d risen above them.
At dusk, we made our way off the rocks. I was bouncy and energetic but kept pace with Joe to extend our closeness. We passed a neighboring campsite where a small group had just settled in. Their boom box played a familiar tune—the unmistakable sound of dueling guitars on “Hotel California.” I glanced at Joe to share a laugh then just as quickly stifled it. He’d heard it too, that was clear. His face was grim as he sped past their site, head down, lest they recognized him.
It was easy to forget where Joe had once been, a pinnacle too high to fathom. I was in the fourth grade when “Hotel California” came out, a nine-year-old in braces and headgear. I had no idea how to pull him from this rut, to allow him to soar again. I prayed that I wouldn’t weigh him down further. I didn’t think it was working.
I found Joe in the RV lining up hog rails. He kept them coming all night. Our driver closed himself off with the front-seat partition while we partied till sunrise. When the hog rails ceased, I tried to sleep, unsuccessfully. Two hours later, I stumbled to the fridge to chase a shot of vodka with half a beer and as much water as I could drink. Joe was engrossed in road maps. Polaroids were everywhere, dozens of shots of a cute couple grinning ear to ear, in hot-pink lipstick and a Santa hat. They looked happy and in love. Where’d they go? I thought. The love of my life, ten feet away, had yet to acknowledge my presence. I wormed into his field of vision only to sense it narrow. His face went dark, a partition closed. He willed me not to recognize him.
Preparing to depart, our driver retrieved a note from the windshield. Our neighbors, the Eagles fans, “thanked” us for keeping them awake with our generator. “Should we apologize?” I asked, but no one answered as we pulled away from the site. Exiting the park, I saw two signs. One warned of rattlesnakes on the rocks; the other prohibited generator use at night.
•••
In my home growing up, a moody, petulant child was persona non grata. Like most kids, I’d learned early on what worked and what didn’t, which feelings to mask and behaviors to modify to secure my place in the herd. On my first day of kindergarten, my mom snapped a picture of me in our driveway. I’d concentrated hard on giving her my best smile ever—big and wide and pretty—desperate for her approval, to win her love if only for that day. She didn’t react either way, just put the camera in her purse and walked me to school. A few years later, in a group shot with my sisters and a new friend, I made a silly face while the other girls smiled prettily. Dad snapped the picture and Mom rolled her eyes. “Leave it to Kris to ruin the picture,” she’d griped in front of my new friend and her well-to-do parents. I reminded myself to tone it down—one must always smile pretty for the camera.
Inside the RV, winding our way out of Joshua Tree, I projected cheeriness till it hurt. But when my inquiries about the day’s itinerary went unanswered, I took a downward spiral from which I could not recover.
Claustrophobia kicked in. I switched seats compulsively, every five minutes, all over the RV. The longer I was ignored, the more diminished and anxious I felt, until I was verging on a meltdown. We stopped at a big box store where I lost sight of Joe, separated so long I panicked. Why hasn’t he sent a search party, blocked the exits and pulled an alarm? Doesn’t he miss me? Isn’t he worried? When I found him blithely shopping for supplies, oblivious to my absence (or perhaps grateful for it), I promptly lost my shit, unleashing a tirade in the flashlight aisle for the entire store to witness. Joe barely reacted—his cruelest barb yet—and I retreated to the RV, gobsmacked. Diving into our stash, I took a pinch of this and dose of that until I’d sampled everything in it—cocaine, Quaaludes, mushrooms, and X, washed down with tequila, beer, and two tabs of acid. I even smoked the driver’s roach. Anything to divert the rage and loathing I felt, and spare us all its spewing forth.
The men returned and we drove off; I didn’t ask where. I was master of my destiny now! I controlled how I felt! We parked at a woodsy day camp atop a gently sloped pasture surrounded by tree-covered hills. I sat in the sun at a picnic table watching quails peck at the grass. I wasn’t angry anymore, just morose and mildly paranoid. When Joe invited me for a walk instead of driving off without me, my relief was all too short-lived.
I’d ingested full doses of numerous substances, all at once, without telling anyone. I hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. I’d slept ninety minutes, tops. Five minutes into our walk I started feeling like shit. In fifteen, every cell was permeated. I tried to fight it, and lost. I tried to fake it, and fail
ed. My speech became jumbled and thoughts unclear. My body language, too, was disjointed and jerky, and my torso wracked with chills. Joints stiffened and fingers lost dexterity (aside from my thumbs—they refused to move independently). Some muscles went weak, others tensed up. My epidermis was both parched and clammy (such a maddening combination that I’d have peeled it off, if I could have). A breeze on my cheek felt like Velcro tearing. Straw sprouted from hair follicles and sandpaper coated my palms. We came upon a crystalline brook that felt like oil on my skin and sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
I grew increasingly agitated, as trees conspired to drive me insane and Mother Earth prepared to abort me. I retreated to the RV to brace myself, to await the inevitable purge. Joe caught up, looking pensive, but that was all I could discern. Whether he was angry, sad, fearful, or disappointed, I only knew I’d fucked up. We didn’t argue, but something between us disconnected. I got on board adrift and alone, emotionally isolated. I have no memory of Joe in the RV from that point on. Only of the driver turning his back to me, preparing to depart. Suddenly, an epiphany—he hates me. I heard it like a bullhorn, emanating from his body.
The RV started moving. I stared out the window, sinking into myself and the upholstery. The road became a hairpin, but I held my tongue, afraid my words would be unwelcome—or worse, a distraction. Unable to watch, I ran to the back room to wait out the dangerous curves. There I went from frying pan to fire, descending into psychosis when the door closed.
Apparently, the back bedroom was a portal to hell—How did I not know? I wasn’t locked in and yet something told me I was trapped. I fell to the bed sobbing, dropping my face in my hands. When the wave passed, I opened my eyes to see a cluster of demons on the bed. Faceless entities of palpable dark energy, there to share a message: The shame and self-loathing you feel is not an illusion—it’s one hundred percent real. You are worthless, useless, faulty, and broken. A grotesque abomination and burden to everyone.
I’d had bad trips, but not like this. Years earlier, I’d met similar demons while tripping with a sweet young grad student. Entities had taunted me from a distance at first as I cowered on the bed. Suddenly, they’d given chase, and I’d run outside, hearing them laugh at my panic. They’d finally dispersed at sunrise.
The RV crew was a meaner bunch—focused, brazen, and fearless. They delighted in my pain and thrived on hysterics, tears, and hyperventilating. I screamed into a pillow until I was spent. When I looked up, the room was full of them.
I curled in a ball and clawed at my scalp. I pounded my skull with the heel of my fist.
We’re not leaving, they chirped.
I want to die, I thought, and the demons laughed and laughed.
•••
The Ventana at Big Sur had plush, romantic cabins, but their minibars contained no food and there was no room service. The restaurant was closed, and the RV was bare, not a single Sun Chip left. I felt my body turn on itself with a hunger I’d never before felt. I refused to complain or even mention it to Joe. That I was with him and not in a heap on the road humbled me beyond words.
Physically, I was spent. Joe helped me bathe, then wrapped me in a thick robe and led me to the balcony. Our room overlooked a woodsy canyon. The sun had set hours ago. The trees were mere shadows, but the stars brightly shone.
“How many creatures must be out there?” I said.
“Lots,” Joe replied. “All kinds.”
“Birds and snakes and bunnies,” I mused. “All that nesting and hunting… How do they do it?”
He gave me a funny look. “What, live? Survive?”
“I don’t know…never mind. I don’t know what I mean.”
I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I tried to be cheerful and smile pretty when he tucked me into bed. He brushed a strand of hair from my face and kissed my forehead, then settled into a chair next to the bed with a book that went unread.
The Zoo
My 1992 launched with less promise than previous years. I vowed to turn things around, starting in the Swiss Alps. Joe was taking me skiing.
Though I’d never been to Europe, I’d enjoyed family trips to Mount Shasta, Big Bear, June Lake, and Mammoth, if not entirely for the sport itself. Mom tended to relax on vacation, and her natural athleticism was always a joy to behold. Jumping wakes, dominating a tennis court, or swishing down slopes, she was a vision of strength and grace I could admire from afar, out of the line of fire.
I was a competent skier at best, my limited skills hampered by a constant discomfiting chill. As a thin-skinned girl—in more ways than one—no amount of poly-filled nylon could ease my suffering. Shivering, juggling poles and bulky gloves, I’d press my back to every vertigo-inducing chair lift, wiping a perennial drip with stiff, frozen fingers and dwindling stores of Kleenex (no matter how many I thought to stuff in my pockets each morning). Every minute on every mountain was spent managing my cold, wet nose and icy blue appendages.
Switzerland was different. The Arosa Resort was sunny, temperate, and sheltered from wind, making jeans and a parka adequate coverage. Our rented chalet was situated such that we could shoot out the front door and ski up to the back. On the ride from Zurich, I’d tried to get acquainted with our guide. Hans being Swiss, however, I hadn’t gotten far, yet soon came to find his genial reserve comforting. Considering the pathological emotionality of my last vacation, the Swiss way of extreme decorum was refreshing.
I felt already half renewed. Poised atop sweeping views and freshly fallen snow, my head was truly in the clouds. The path shone bright as I prepared to hunker down and ditch my demons—letting them blow clean off my soul and psyche, in a high-altitude, Northern European baptism. With few skiers out, we had room for an exhilarating first run. I hit my stride quickly, feeling strong and fluid halfway down when I heard Joe’s muted cry. I stopped and called over, getting a weak ski pole wave in return. I backtracked to where he lay in the snow. Hurt my knee, Joe said, so calmly I had to assume the stretcher and four-man rescue team were just a cautionary measure. Not until the doctor cut away Joe’s jeans did I realize the extent of injury. His knee swelled up like a melon.
They released him with crutches and instructions for fluid drainage. He encouraged me to keep skiing. I thought the idea absurd. I didn’t want to be on top of the world without him.
We grabbed an outdoor table at a mountain café. Joe and Hans drank Irish coffee while I skated around an adjacent frozen pond. When I rejoined them, I felt as partner-less as I’d been on the ice. In truth, Joe had been slipping away all day—from detached to fully disengaged. He shut down my every conversation starter by shrugging and looking away. In front of the punctilious Hans, no less, it was humiliating.
I’d forgotten how Joe got overseas, how the first day of every trip found him brooding, surly, lethargic. I’d yet to miss cocaine. Whether due to the excitement, altitude, or pure mountain air, my first pang didn’t arrive until that evening, at a group dinner with Hans’s friends. They were lively and fun and I wanted to fit in. Instead, I felt awkward and self-conscious. In the morning, I felt fine again. I strolled as Joe hobbled around the resort village. I people-watched and basked in the setting, pretending Joe’s mood wasn’t ruining everything. Back at the chalet, he elevated his leg in the living room and asked me to retrieve something from upstairs—a book or his Zippo, probably. Whatever it was remained unfound when I came across something that sent me barreling down the stairs in a decidedly un-Swiss fashion.
“What the fuck are you doing with condoms?”
Joe sighed and slumped forward, bracing himself.
“Answer me, dammit!”
“Would you chill?” he said finally, sounding less defensive than bored. Bored.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Who is she? Who did you buy these for?”
“Let it go,” he said simply. “Just let—”
“Cocksucker!” So much for decorum
.
I’d been on the pill since high school. Joe and I didn’t use condoms and never had. He had no excuse and his refusal to conjure one compounded the offense. What little he said was insufficiently rueful and I responded by throwing the box at him. The flimsy tri-pack bounced off the table anticlimactically (if you will), as did the half-empty pack of Marlboros I chucked next. Joe must’ve thought that was the end of it because he got up to hobble away. But between us was a writing desk, where Hans (who’d since disappeared) had just left a full cup of hot spiced wine. Before Joe could pass, I grabbed it.
As someone who drank white almost exclusively and was disinclined to throwing things in general, I found it oddly prescient to have (for the second time in our relationship) a glass of red within reach the very moment words failed me. Not that I wouldn’t have thrown Chardonnay, but clearly the red was a firm thumbs-up from God, validating my position. I knew my Bible stories, dammit, and this was how He worked—“mysterious ways” and all that.
It was nothing short of miraculous. Nothing in that room was unmarred. Splatters went everywhere: walls, ceiling, carpet, couch, curtains, and clothes (all Joe’s). As the cup emptied, so did my anger. I ran upstairs and dissolved into sobs. When Joe didn’t appear, begging for forgiveness (or calling up the stairwell for it), I decided to salvage what was left of our trip. Taking a cue from Hans, I pretended nothing had happened—What ugly scene?—and Joe did the same. We relocated to Zurich, went on a shopping spree, then scored some coke and moved in with Hans for the week. We drank his booze, ate his cheese, and dined on fondue with his boss’s family. It was dull and anticlimactic. Also better than being alone.
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