Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  There was nothing selfless about primal lust. Tongue-tied and trembling weren’t terribly helpful, and weakness in the knees made it tough to pour drinks. I stayed behind the bar out of self-preservation, needing a shield from Majid’s sexual magnetism. I observed him from ten feet away, an X-rated montage overtaking my brain: my legs around his waist, his face in my neck, our chests pressed together as I clawed at his back.

  My stomach pulled in and hips pushed forward; my entire pelvic region was on autopilot. I felt flushed and my breath quickened. The inappropriateness was staggering—in front of Joe, mourning a friend’s death. I am a horrible person, I thought, and continued fucking Majid senseless in my head.

  •••

  Majid was more distraught than Billy, shuffling into the playroom to stop midstream, neither in nor out of it, but hovering in between (not an uncommon place to find Majid, I’d discover eventually). There were vacant seats galore—two sofas and four barstools—but he seemed to barely register his surroundings. Joe asked innocuous questions in a soothing tone, handling Majid—fittingly, I supposed—like a rescue puppy. Majid replied with vague phrasing and long pauses, less cagey than muddled and mentally far away. Billy had said he was a Vietnam vet, and the word shell-shocked came to mind. I wondered if that was what Billy had meant about Majid’s reaction to being penned in.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

  He was handsome and weathered, with high cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, and deep-set eyes framed by lush brows and lashes. I thought he resembled Scott Bakula from Quantum Leap, or like the actor’s mysterious wayward brother (if he had one), fresh from some wild adventure overseas. He was pirate-like, with salt-and-pepper hair falling in waves from a wide-brimmed, black felt hat. He had a broad chest and a fit physique, what I could gauge of it through his blazer and jeans. But it was his voice that hooked me—smooth and deep, with the faintest of accents that I couldn’t place.

  I composed myself. “Majid, can I fix you a drink?”

  I startled him, and then he did me, locking eyes and sending a jolt through me. I feared my private thoughts were suddenly made transparent, projected like a hologram between us for everyone to see. He looked away, not answering, as if overwhelmed by a query into his wants and needs. I brought him a Heineken and he clasped a hand around it, on autopilot.

  “So, where are you from?” I asked, cringing at my banality before plowing deeper in. “I mean, your heritage. Are you Native American?” I really had no idea what I was doing, just that I wanted to know something—anything—about him.

  Majid looked at me then—really looked this time, peering over his spectacles as the corners of his mouth turned up. It was subtle and brief, but also his first sign of awareness since arriving. I held my breath, seeing a flicker of recognition, as if he understood the crux of my question better than I did. Had I really been so obvious? Joe was standing right next to him.

  “No,” Majid finally said. “I’m not Native American.”

  He turned away and I ducked behind the bar, busying myself for all I was worth. The men moved to the sofa to roll a joint. I tossed back a shot of vodka, feeling depraved and ridiculous.

  •••

  On the day of the funeral, Majid called to confirm we knew where to be and when. I was touched he’d check in on such a painful day, though he’d stayed in contact all week, opening up and expressing gratitude for our kindness. Joe had barely mentioned Sam’s death, but I figured that’s what the funeral was for. To grieve with Sam’s friends and loved ones, without me in the way.

  Majid gasped. “What do you mean you’re not coming? You must! Joe needs you there!”

  “Oh…okay,” I stammered. “I’ll go, then. Of course I will.” Until that moment, I honestly had no idea that supporting a partner by being at his side was what one did as a girlfriend.

  I’d never been good at comforting people. I picked up their emotions as easily as the smell of fresh baked bread, yet was helpless to ease the pain I frequently sensed. I’d been taught that fear, loneliness, and insecurity should not be coddled. Mine had been ignored or shamed; thus, I was at as loss in soothing those things in others. My cluelessness embarrassed me—How could I be so stupid? I told Joe I’d go with him, and he looked so relieved I had to wonder why he hadn’t asked me to himself.

  The more pressing issue was that we were two days into a monster with a funeral to attend. The good news: I wasn’t too spacey, strung-out, or anxious yet. The bad: I’d just eaten a handful of high-quality mushrooms and was about to start tripping my ass off.

  We needed to hurry. I was clad, at that moment, in a DayGlo, rhinestone stripper bikini and pink, peekaboo stilettos. My skin was slick with almond oil. Joe was wearing a blue Speedo and NASA baseball cap—that’s it. His hair was matted and his face covered in stubble.

  “Here’s the drill,” I told him. “I need a shower, a boom box, and a timer set for one hour.” I’d never given Joe orders before and was stunned to see him fall in line.

  “Anything else?”

  “You need to shower, shave, and put on a suit. Pack enough bumps to get us both through the day and don’t eat any mushrooms. You can tomorrow, but not today.”

  “Yeah, sure…no problem.”

  “I’m serious, Joe. It’s too late for me but you cannot trip today.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  While I showered, Joe brought in a boom box and hit play on my Rank and File cassette. Then he snuck into the hallway cabinet drawer and helped himself to some mushrooms. I sensed it like a drop in air pressure, just as we were to leave. The vibe in our bedroom took a noticeable shift. “Joseph!” I wailed. “You promised!”

  “Aw, c’mon.” He waved me off. “I’m fine. It’ll be good.”

  I zipped up my boots and led him to the limo. It would not be good.

  •••

  I was relieved to see both Billy and Norm in our driveway. If ever we needed to be bookended by a two-man entourage, now was it. I would’ve preferred Smokey and Sean (the former was out of town, the latter in rehab), yet Norm and Billy were capable of escorting us in and out of the chapel, blocking the press, and managing other threats to our vulnerable psyches. If Joe (or I) got overemotional, one of them would swoop in and extricate us. Tripping in public was unwise, but I was cautiously optimistic. Joe was quiet and calm, and I felt relatively clear and centered.

  At some point en route, I made full disclosure to Billy. He had a right to know what he was up against (and I would’ve expected the same in his position). When he asked if I had a hit to spare, I didn’t hesitate to give him a few stems to chew on later. At Forrest Lawn, Norm and Billy got us inside without incident. Majid led us to a pew so near the front as to be dangerously conspicuous. We’ll keep to ourselves and be fine, I thought, but things went south from there.

  I sensed Joe deteriorating by his despondent expression and collapsed posture. I held his hand and stroked his arm, asking in a whisper if he was okay. He didn’t respond but clenched his jaw and started fidgeting wildly. I could almost feel the darkness inside radiating off his body. Having had my share of nightmare trips, I knew exactly how helpless he was against his. I propped him up throughout the service as the jerking grew more pronounced. If it weren’t for the string of bittersweet tributes being given at the podium, we would’ve surely attracted attention. At one point, I had to forcefully yank down Joe’s arm as he gestured crazily at Richard Belzer mid-speech to convey his desire to get up and speak. Belzer didn’t seem to notice and the service ended without incident.

  In the parking lot, Joe refused to let Billy back in the car. No longer mute and unresponsive, he railed against our stalwart driver for no apparent reason. Billy, smartly, disengaged and caught a ride elsewhere. Norm ducked into the driver’s seat, but I demanded that Joe explain his behavior.

  “Get in the car!” he snapped. />
  Once we’d entered the freeway he unloaded on me. “How could you betray me like that?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You are my fucking girlfriend and I do not permit you to share drugs with a chauffeur!”

  “That’s what this is about? Are you nuts? Billy’s our friend, remember?”

  “Your job is to take care of me, no one else, get it?”

  “Look,” I sighed. “Let’s not do this now. Let’s calm down and discuss it later. It’s an emotional day and I’m sure you don’t—”

  “Screw you! I’m not emotional! You’re selfish and stupid and I’m tired of it.”

  “Joe, please…let’s not fight.” I touched his shoulder but he swatted my hand away. Things were escalating quickly, even for Joe. I took a cue from Billy and ran for cover. I moved to the seat across from Joe, stared out the window, and waited for it to be over.

  It would be a while. “Billy used you like a doormat. How do you think that makes me feel?!”

  “Please stop. You’re making something out of nothing. Just because you’re having a bad trip, don’t make me have one.”

  “Act like a doormat and I’ll treat you like one.”

  Whenever Joe made that leap, from mildly absurd to full-blown illogical, I knew I was in trouble. I wasn’t just tripping anymore, I was peaking, and I went from centered to desperate in no time at all. I was so highly suggestible that the enclosing darkness was unstoppable. I pleaded and argued, but nothing worked, and when I asked Norm to pull over, Joe demanded he drive on. Until we reached our destination—Gary Belz’s home studio in Encino—I was an open target.

  One year earlier, right after moving in together, we’d had an exceptionally nasty fight during which Joe had chased me through the house. I’d begged him to stop, running from room to room, hoping he’d come to his senses before one of us got hurt. He’d cornered me near the bedroom windows—four of which opened, two with a crank and two with a push. When he still refused to back off, I snapped. You’re suffocating me! You’re making it so I can’t breathe! I spun to my left, planted my palms on two panes of one window, and, without thinking, threw all my weight behind them and pushed. Unfortunately, that window required a crank to open, so it didn’t move on its hinges. Instead, my hands went straight through the glass. Leftover shards encircled my arms at the elbows, one of which had cut a deep, two-inch gash in my right forearm. Joe calmed down instantly. He grabbed a first aid kit, sat me on the bed, and dressed my wound with great tenderness. When Angelina arrived for work, she took one look under the bandage and rushed me to an emergency clinic for stitches. Since then, we had a new house rule: Whenever an argument gets out of hand, we separate to neutral corners of the house. In a split-level ranch, that was easy enough. In the back of a limo? I was shit out of luck.

  My only hope was that he’d tire of the drama. He got meaner and louder instead. Totally out of control, he didn’t know what he was doing—certainly that it was wrong, but how susceptible I was? I don’t think he knew. Though I tried to tell him, repeatedly.

  “I’m begging you to stop.”

  “Beg all you want. Beg like a dog.”

  “Don’t you see? This is going to end so badly—just stop, honey, please!”

  “Fuck you. You’re a whore.”

  With that, the writing was on the wall. In a confined space with no escape, I was unable to keep myself calm. Bit by bit, I lost control, shaking from head to toe. Every muscle tensed. My back was petrified stone. “Don’t make me have a bad trip. You cannot do that to me. Please, please, please stop.”

  He didn’t stop.

  “I can’t get out! Don’t you see? I’m losing my mind right now. Please, listen to me. I’m telling you, I’ll lose control. I will, so help me, I will unless you stop.”

  He didn’t stop.

  To this day, I have never lost my shit on another person like I did on him right then, launching off my seat like a rocket across the limo. Closing the distance before he had time to flinch, I landed half on the seat and half in his lap, poised over him and swinging both fists at his head.

  He never fought back or resisted at all. He turned his face and shielded his head. Maybe he thought he deserved a beating. I didn’t know and didn’t care. I didn’t quit until I was spent, completely out of breath. I clambered to my seat and neither of us moved. When I raised my eyes, Joe looked gutted, like a lump of discarded clothing. Like the man inside had spontaneously combusted.

  Norm announced our ETA over the intercom sounding more shaken than either of us. He’d heard the whole thing.

  •••

  Gary Belz’s LA home housed a state-of-the-art recording studio. The day of Sam’s funeral, Steve Cropper and other musicians awaited Joe for some project I knew nothing about. I just wanted him out of the car.

  I’d never felt so cold toward him, so completely and utterly detached. As we made our way up Gary’s long driveway, Joe came back to life—the old Joe, the sweet and vulnerable man I’d loved through more than one lifetime—begging me to pretend that everything was fine. Like nothing life-altering had just happened.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I’ll make it up to you, I swear, but I need this favor right now.” He said he’d be mortified if anyone at Gary’s found out, but that was my problem. I didn’t even intend to get out. When Norm dropped Joe off, I’d go home, maybe all the way to Texas—I was that done. We needed to be separated—nothing could be more obvious—except he wouldn’t hear of it and begged me to stay with him at Gary’s. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, probably sensing how close he was to losing me. I agreed, to avoid a scene.

  “You’ll pretend everything’s fine? Kill me tomorrow, but fake it today?”

  “Whatever you say.” As if Norm wouldn’t tell all of CLS as soon as he drove away. Not that Norm had any more insight into what had really taken place than I suspected Joe did.

  I had finally clued in to at least one finer point in my role as girlfriend. I’d stepped up as a stabilizing force, provided guidance and a solid shoulder to lean on. I’d pulled it together, onward through the fog on this trippy, challenging day, stupidly feeling proud of myself, right before Joe wiped his feet on me again. Could I not be a good girlfriend to him and a friend to Billy? Or was Billy just an excuse for Joe to sabotage our relationship the moment I fulfilled my role in it?

  I don’t claim to know what went on in Joe’s head. His pointed, sustained maleficence that day was not who I knew him to be, and yet my ex-girlfriend Eileen could’ve said the same of me. Twice in my life I’d been that vicious. Once, berating Eileen specifically to sabotage our relationship—to yank off the Band-Aid but quick. The other incident sickens me to this day. Testing the loyalty of our family dog (who really did love me best), I’d called him to me, then pushed him away, repeatedly, half a dozen times—bad dog, I hate you, go away. Then, c’mere, Obi! G’boy! Such a good doggie! I’d needed to know he’d always return, no matter how ugly and unlovable I could be. He did, of course, though more cautiously each time. More confused with every dagger-sharp rebuke.

  What Joe was trying to prove that day, I couldn’t say. I didn’t have many answers for him, anyway. My inner ratio of self-love to blind loyalty fluctuated daily. Eileen had walked out never to return, even to collect her belongings. She’d moved in with Stella, another Sugar’s stripper, and became her girlfriend days later. Obi loved me till the end, but dogs are forgiving and resilient. And look where it got him: neglected, abandoned, and put to sleep while I’d been partying half a world away in Australia.

  Still, I gave Joe my word and let him help me out of the limo. Then I skirted past him and straight up to Gary. “Get me away from that motherfucker this instant before I kill him.”

  I had met Gary only once or twice before. Longtime friends with Joe and Isaac Tigrett, he seemed like a good man. He had a guru in India and a
n uncommon inner peace about him. Gary also had a special place in my heart for having named a Peabody duck after me, but all he knew about me was that I suddenly wanted to kill the man who’d asked him to do it.

  Gary didn’t bat an eye. I may as well have asked him for a soda. Joe, however, crumbled, the pain of my betrayal written all over his face. He deflated before my eyes, and still I did not care. I followed Gary’s wife Shelly to their guesthouse, so nonchalant a hostess I had to wonder if the Hatfields and McCoys had dropped by her place regularly. (I made a mental note to look into this Indian guru thing.) Shelly insisted I stay as long as needed. “Make yourself at home, take a nap or a bath…whatever you need, don’t worry about a thing.”

  When she left, my bad trip ended—whoosh. The comedown was instantaneous. I lay back on the bed’s plush white comforter, feeling my head clear and heart open. Cold dispassion from earlier was gone. I felt normal, wholly reconnected. My love for Joe came flooding back, as did the fear of losing him. Well, shit. Now what?

  Then an angel appeared. I didn’t see her any more than I’d “seen” demons in the RV, but she was as tangible and present as Shelly had been ten minutes earlier. She had a message for me: Everything will be okay. Tell Joe you love him, then go home and clean the house from top to bottom. You’ll be fine then. I promise.

  Whether divine apparition or delusional hallucination, I knew she spoke the truth. Elated, I flew off the bed, fixed my hair, and marched into the studio. I spied Joe in back, eyeing my approach like a man facing a noose. He told me later that he’d been convinced it was over and that I’d come to say I was leaving him for good. Instead, I hugged him. “I love you. I’m going home to clean the house. When you finish, hurry back and everything will be fine, I promise.”

  He looked at me like I was nuts, but I’d never felt more sane. When Norm dropped me off, I took one look around and called Angelina for help. By 9:00 p.m. the place was immaculate, but Joe barely noticed. He walked through the door, flung his arms around me, and wept in my arms—an occurrence as rare as angelic apparitions. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he croaked.