Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  Back in LA, I called Lisa for a civil, woman-to-woman chat. Why her, I don’t know. I was jetlagged and on edge. I needed a target and happened to have her number. At the beep of John Entwistle’s answering machine, I unloaded a stream of vitriol so intense it surprised me. From composed and assertive (“to clarify things, with respect”) to full-blown crazy and “back off, you cheating whore bitch.”

  I got no return call. Neither John nor Lisa ever mentioned it to me. Who the condoms were intended for remained a mystery.

  •••

  Things returned to normal in February, as much our relationship could be framed in those terms. Joe made a string of sweet gestures. He accompanied me to an extended family gathering and bestowed his childhood clarinet on my sister, who was learning the instrument. He’d let me buy him a custom-made zoot suit that looked as ridiculous on him as he’d (loudly, repeatedly) predicted it would. He traded our Suzuki Samurai (purchased to get me to and from school) for a ’73 Mustang convertible.

  He even took me to a concert, the kind of arena-size gig Joe hated. After a rushed backstage greeting, we took our seats in the audience and were promptly blown away by Dire Straits. Three songs in, Joe dragged me to the Forum bar, where we stayed through the encore. He didn’t say why, but I could guess. To a flailing rock star, Dire Straits’s stellar performance must’ve felt akin to…oh, someone like me catching her boyfriend cheating with a beauty queen.

  Playing Farm Aid made up for it. Joe was so honored to be asked by Willie Nelson himself, he cancelled a previous commitment to do it. Afterward was American Bandstand’s 40th Anniversary Special with Entwistle, Skunk, Bo Diddley, and a host of other biggies. The taping involved a lot of “hurry up and wait,” albeit with unintentional comic relief when Dick Clark took a break from barking orders to lose his shit over an AWOL headliner. The last-minute no-show caused scrambling for the crew and delays for the cast. Gregg Allman spent the downtime hunting Joe on a quest for blow. Gregg’s girlfriend had already alerted me to the situation, and that Gregg had bailed early from rehab the day before—so together we conspired to keep our boyfriends apart. By showtime, poor Gregg looked downright defeated, having spent all day tracking a phantom Joe who for some reason was never where I said he’d be.

  Joe and I were alone in his dressing room when Lita Ford burst in, beaming and gushing and rushing at my boyfriend, oblivious to me on the sofa. I stood up, and she froze midstream. I smiled in greeting, but her expression turned cold before she turned heel and left without a word. I raised an eyebrow. “What was that all about, Joe?” But he shrugged as if nothing bizarre had just happened.

  I let it go, chalking it up to a one-way crush. Only later did I recall Lita’s air of entitlement, entering a private room unannounced. I wondered if Joe was fucking her too. Nina Blackwood had behaved similarly, albeit politely. The former MTV host had dropped by our house unannounced one day, seen me at the door next to Joe, and gone from bubbly to crestfallen in five seconds flat. I’d tried to be gracious, but she was clearly uncomfortable and didn’t stay long.

  Joe’s male friends never behaved like that. I came home one day to find him and an unknown man rummaging through the boxes in our living room. Joe wanted to show the pale-faced stranger some “cool” bit of gear, and they were looking for it like kids sorting through Christmas gifts. I wondered if they were childhood friends.

  “Hey, babe!” He waved me over. “Come meet Harry.”

  Before I could, Harry rushed up and clasped my hand in both of his. “How wonderful to meet you, Kristi! I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Thanks, uh…nice to meet you, too.”

  “I’m sorry for barging in. I was in the neighborhood and Joe didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Of course not, Joe’s friends are always welcome. Can I make you boys lunch?”

  Harry said he wouldn’t dream of putting me out so I went to the kitchen alone. Minutes later, Joe summoned me back. “Do we have something for an upset stomach?” He motioned toward Harry, who wasn’t looking so good. I offered to run to the store.

  “Harry, would you prefer Alka Seltzer, Pepto Bismol, or something else?”

  “Anything’s fine. I’m so sorry to trouble you,” he replied. When I returned with four separate over-the-counter remedies, Harry went wide-eyed. “Wow, I’m so touched. Thank you!”

  After he left, I asked Joe about his health. “Aside from the stomachache, I mean.”

  “It’s serious, actually,” Joe said, somber. “Harry’s not well. He might not last a year.”

  Joe’s friend Harry Nilsson, the renowned singer-songwriter, did make it another year, then died of a heart attack shortly after that.

  •••

  I wanted to be the kind of girlfriend Joe gushed about to everyone he knew and who met everyone’s approval. Like Gregg Allman’s girlfriend, someone who could have fun and be fun, without depending on drugs and alcohol. It happened on rare occasions.

  Joe and I attended a David Copperfield show. Midway through his set, the famous illusionist requested an audience volunteer. Arms shot up, mostly women’s, as our handsome host scouted the aisles for his prey. I sank into my seat and was chosen anyway. I later learned David Spero, Joe’s manager, had prearranged it as a prank.

  Copperfield was a consummate showman who added flare to our bit with a flashy hip thrust to kick things off. “Now you try,” he said, promptly duly impressed with my execution (of a classic stripper move…I mean, c’mon). He then made it appear as if my bra magically came off, which got a big laugh. After the show, we met Copperfield and his girlfriend backstage. She was pretty and petite and totally Joe’s type, as evidenced by his whispered quip: Let’s ask David to swap. I swatted at him, stifling a laugh. I felt too good to be jealous. I was having fun, overcoming stage fright and shyness without a single drink or line. A few years earlier, that would not have been noteworthy. By 1992, it was a rare victory.

  I wasn’t a sensation junky, nor did I use drugs just to numb the darker stuff. I needed them to access good stuff, too, baseline levels of pleasure other people achieved through dating, magic shows, and goofing on friends. For me, substance-free fun was elusive. And when I found it—like that day at Copperfield’s show—it was both a blessing and curse. It convinced me a joyful life wasn’t off the table yet. Also, that I wasn’t an addict in need of help.

  David Spero had been clean and sober for years. He and Joe had been friends longer than I’d been alive. I respected Spero, but he kept me at arm’s length. I assumed he thought I wasn’t good enough for Joe. The Copperfield prank felt like a sign of acceptance, if not full-blown approval. Spero was smart and savvy. He herded cats daily, keeping Joe’s career on track, no matter how many forces were (inadvertently) derailing it. I wanted him to like me, but when he was around I liked myself less. David was successful. His wife was beautiful, poised, and a skilled equestrian. Though they showed me no unkindness, I was convinced they blamed me for dragging down the very man Spero was charged with promoting.

  I had many demons. There was no shortage of devils at my shoulder. Now and then I’d spy an angel in the background, but that as where they stayed. Spero wasn’t on my payroll. My addictions made his job harder, but it wasn’t his place to step in. And I didn’t invite it.

  •••

  In April, we met Ringo for dinner at La Toque. As it was a business meeting, I was touched by the inclusion—however, not enough to abstain from monstering. I arrived jittery, wired, and off-kilter but did my best to choke down an appetizer. When entrées arrived, I couldn’t stomach another bite. Ringo pretended not to notice (the same man I’d noticed notice everything), but I felt compelled to explain anyway, claiming I’d had too big a lunch. Ringo put down his fork and looked into my eyes. “I understand,” he said gently. “I’ve been there myself.”

  I was both relieved and mortified.

  It wasn’t
my first slip-up with him. One year earlier, Joe had brought Ringo and me to the annual church service on Santa Cruz Island (one of eight Channel Islands off the coast of Santa Barbara, on whose foundation Joe was a board member). Seated in the tiny chapel’s front pew, awaiting the proceedings, Ringo whispered to me that he was nervous. “I’ve never been to a Catholic mass and don’t know when to stand or kneel. There’s a lot of up and down, right?”

  I’d nodded and told him to follow my lead. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this thousands of times. I could do it in my sleep.” It was true. And yet I wasn’t asleep, I was high as a kite and under the impression pranking the always considerate and admittedly nervous Ringo Starr in the middle of a religious ceremony was a fine idea. During the bishop’s homily, as the congregation remained rooted in their seats, I’d whispered at no such appointed time, “Ready…stand!”

  Ringo had not so much as flinched. I hadn’t fooled him then, and one year later wasn’t fooling him or anyone. I was a mess.

  •••

  I started keeping interactions with non-drug users to a minimum. Christine, Vicki, and other old friends were held at bay while I made new ones who were less invested in my well-being.

  Annie was an actress whose sexy/smart vibe had yet to land her a bigger role than a real-life fling with Warren Beatty. Trey was a casting director and Annie’s gay best friend. Their time in the industry had lent them an irreverent perspective that Joe, especially, got a kick out of. Through their lens he was a character, a disenchanted rebel with nothing to prove. I was his outrageous displaced girlfriend, more Zelda Fitzgerald than rocker chick/train wreck. Success was overrated and a little unhip. Of course! Why hadn’t I seen it?

  One day I lent Trey a book that he’d long wanted to read. He and Annie had spent the day cushioning me, like bodyguards, sitting on either side of my seat in the studio audience of The Dennis Miller Show, all because Joe’s taping happen to occur in the middle of my full-blown monster. I was so grateful, I’d have lent Trey anything he wanted. But Joe went ballistic.

  “I told you not to lend out my books!”

  “One book, Joe. I lent one book. Of which you have two copies, by the way.”

  “Yeah, and they’re both mine!”

  “Learn to share!”

  Annie and Trey observed us, three feet away, with blank expressions. They didn’t move or say a word.

  “Stop embarrassing yourself!” I screamed.

  “Don’t touch my stuff!” he bellowed.

  Joe stormed off and my friends headed out, patting my head as they did so. They came over less often after that, usually when Joe wasn’t home. It was just as well. His wildly disproportionate reactions were the new normal.

  At La Toque one night, a dozen friends and acquaintances became a silent jury in the kangaroo court of our relationship, when I yanked a stray thread from the brim of Joe’s baseball cap thinking he’d prefer it not hang in his face. I was wrong and received a verbal attack while literally cornered in my seat. With a wall behind me, Joe on my left, and six friends seated to my right, my only escape would’ve been to crawl under the table, and I didn’t have the balls (nor cab fare to get home). I stared at my plate while Joe chewed me out, berating me for my thoughtless behavior. For “obnoxiously” snipping the treasured, two-inch thread he’d “specifically arranged” to hang there. (Yes, he actually said that.) How dare you? he screamed. Idiot!

  No one said anything. There was a long, awkward silence; then someone cleared their throat or commented on the weather, and socializing resumed. I sat up straight—mouth closed, eyes down—tidying my place setting, over and over.

  •••

  My father had never been one to give advice, but he had his share of wise sayings. One was that people will always treat others the way they see them treat themselves. I wanted to blame Joe for his attacks—and I did—but there was no denying my role in our dysfunction. From the beginning, I’d compromised myself, overlooking slights and offenses that then took root and now dangled their rotten fruit over my head. That tree wasn’t going anywhere, and I wasn’t safe until I got out from under it.

  I still felt like a guest in our home, one year in. Half the rooms were life-sized junk drawers. The remainder were neither stylish nor cozy. Furniture was awkwardly placed or downright uncomfortable. Feng shui was nonexistent. I was no interior designer, but I knew how to put a room together, and I hadn’t been allowed to do it. Then Joe turned our sauna room into a sex dungeon—definitely not the direction I would have taken.

  He staged a trial run while it was still half finished, infested with construction dust and spiders. I let him strap me into an elaborate sex swing that threatened to come unhinged and take me with it, but I suffered through playtime without complaint. I didn’t want to disappoint him, nor be sent to bed and forced jones alone.

  My usage was so out of control, I was partying too hard to throw a party.

  One night, while still in the sweet spot of a buzz (well before sunrise), I made some calls and invited all our closest friends to a pool party barbecue one week later. Two days before the event, I launched another monster instead of shopping or preparing for guests. The Brothers (having moved to LA) arrived first, assessed the scene, and immediately took over—cleaning the grill, buying supplies, and manning the barbecue. As guests trickled in, I retreated upstairs, unable to greet them or make introductions. Joe was surprisingly sweet about hosting a party he hadn’t wanted to throw, while I spent hours holed up in our bedroom. When I finally reentered the living room, I was cajoled to the window ledge by the Brothers calling me from outside. I couldn’t say no to them any more than Joe could to Willie Nelson. I sat on the windowsill with a view across the pool, where Angus, Fergus, and Hamish Richardson were serenading me—failed hostess and woman of the house who still felt like a guest. It was a beautiful scene, actually. But instead of sublime euphoria, I felt ashamed and undeserving.

  Soon afterward, we received a visit from Charlie and Dilworth, our Kiwi brothers from the Herbs. They’d been in LA on business—a potential record deal, or something—trying to reach us for days. Details of their trip were fuzzy, but I gathered they’d outdone themselves partying and were eager to return to New Zealand the next day. If they’d hoped to find a temporary haven on Blairwood, we sorely disappointed them.

  Outrageous as our lifestyle was, some days were crazier than others, and we were neck-deep when our Maori brothers arrived. From the moment they entered, Joe and I talked nonstop, racing around physically and mentally, unfocused, inattentive, and vacuous. Our friends needed to relax, reflect, and bounce their potential deal off Joe, their music industry veteran friend. They deserved the same nurturing they’d once given us, and we failed them. I’d opened the door but no one was home. Midway through their visit, I left the room for a moment and returned to find Dilworth, the mighty ex-rugby player, openly crying.

  “You’ve got to get out of this town before it eats your soul and kills your love,” he pleaded.

  “Please,” Charlie reiterated. “Take care of yourselves. This is no way to live.”

  As someone who saw prophetic signs in everything from red wine to china patterns, it was like a telegram from God: You’re going the wrong way (stop)—exit now and turn around (stop). But we didn’t stop. We careened onward.

  Funeral for a Friend

  In April of 1992, Sam Kinison was killed by a drunk driver. Joe was torn up by the news but pulled it together as the word got out and calls came in. One was from Billy, Sam’s limo driver and trusted confidant, and also one of ours. It was usually Billy who drove Sam to Vegas, so the tragic turn of events hit him hard and Joe invited him over.

  Over the years, Billy had seen us through many a monster, carting us around like errant children in the capable hands of our own Mary Poppins. He’d scooped us in and out of the car for countless meetings, gigs, and airport runs. No matter how trashe
d we were, Billy delivered us on time and upright, with bystanders none the wiser. He knew when to take orders, when to take charge, and when to chill out and socialize. Many times we invited him inside to play pool or poker. Everyone liked Billy. I considered him a friend, and he and Sam had been even closer.

  Billy sat at the bar with his face in his hands, a shell of his exuberant self. Joe consoled him and I poured drinks, wishing I had magical words of comfort to offer. Joe and Sam had had a unique bond; they identified with each other. Billy had, too, as a former child actor, and an adult who was no stranger to substance abuse. Sam had made strides battling those demons. He’d married his girlfriend, Malika, mere days before making her a widow. It was no secret that their relationship had been volatile, but they also truly loved each other.

  Joe asked Billy about Malika and someone named Majid, apparently a close friend of Sam’s. Malika had been in the car with Sam, Majid in the car behind them. He’d witnessed the accident and helped pull Sam from the wreckage, then looked on helplessly as his friend’s spirit left his body. Billy said Malika was in the hospital. “She’ll be okay. Maj was living at Sam’s and is there now. The house is surrounded by press and it’s stressing him out.”

  “Get him on the phone,” Joe said. “Maybe we can help.” He rocked side to side, smoking a cigarette, his free hand jammed in his front pocket. The playroom felt like Mission Control suddenly. I loved it when Joe took charge.

  Billy confirmed, Majid was penned in by paparazzi with nowhere to go nor a way to get there. “It’s not good,” Billy said, covering the receiver. “For someone like Maj, especially.”

  I wondered what “someone like Maj” meant. “Is he holding?” was all Joe asked.

  Billy checked then shook his head. “Not even a joint to take the edge off.”

  “Go get him. He can smoke our pot and hide out here as long as he wants.”

  I planned to contribute, if only by pouring drinks and cleaning ashtrays while the men bonded in their grief. Then Billy returned with the mysterious Majid and my altruism went out the window.