Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  Lionel extended his hand. “I told Joe I had to meet you first.”

  I grabbed it and held on. “Such a pleasure to meet you!”

  “She’s from Texas,” Joe said and Lionel chuckled.

  “Austin, if that makes a difference. I’m just so honored you’d consider this.”

  “I know all I need to,” Lionel said. “I’d be happy to do it.” (He probably should’ve gotten to know me better.)

  •••

  As soon as we got home, I was off and running. Joe scored a stash and I cooked my share into crack. Blow was anticlimactic by then, pedestrian by comparison. I told myself I could handle it after so much time off, but if anything, I was worse. Three days later, we hit the road, and this time my problem came with us.

  When we first got to Denver, everything seemed fine. I did lines, and drank tequila with a girlfriend of Rick’s who lived in the area. Had I gone straight to bed when she left, it would’ve been a perfect evening. Instead, I locked myself in the bathroom. Using gear smuggled in my luggage—a pinch of baking soda and a glass stem stuffed with Brillo, plus the blow I’d finagled earlier from Joe—I cooked up three small rocks. It wasn’t a monster I was after, but a nightcap. Like three fingers of cognac by the fire—that’s how I’d envisioned it. Deluded myself, rather.

  Unable to get a good hit with that pitifully short stem, I MacGyver’d something more intricate using a small Advil bottle. The result was an improvement but far from ideal. With one rock left, I did my best to seal the makeshift pipe’s air leaks ruining my hit (with what, I don’t recall, maybe candle wax or ChapStick). By the half hour mark, Joe was growing impatient and I was regretting the whole endeavor. I was also too invested to quit. I prepped the final hit just as Joe pounded the door, demanding I open it. His anger heightened my resolve to take control of the next few minutes, since I’d surely have none afterward.

  “I’ve had all I can take, dammit. Put down that shit and get out here!”

  “One sec!” I yelled back, then flicked my Bic and inhaled.

  Bingo! I knew immediately it was the hit I’d been after and used all my best tricks to push it down and hold it in, counting the seconds as the drug worked its magic.

  Joe continued pounding. “Open this door or I will break it down!”

  I’d never heard him so angry (which was saying a lot), approaching his breaking point at the precise moment my lungs were ready to burst too. What happened next was the most spectacularly ill-timed clash of wills I could’ve orchestrated, stemming from a simple desire to kill two birds with one stone. Joe wanted me to finish and exit. I wanted to exit and finish with a bang. Our desires were so closely aligned, I figured that as long as I exited everything would be fine. If I made him laugh in the process, all the better to avoid an argument.

  With only a few seconds to plan, it’s fair to say I didn’t think things through. I don’t know why I thought he’d find it funny, the way I flung open the door and exhaled all that crack smoke in his face.

  He didn’t think it was funny. Two seconds, maybe three passed as the beginning of an amazing rush came over me and Joe’s expression morphed from shock to rage. He attacked me, grabbing my upper arms and hurling with such force my feet left the ground and I landed in the next room. This is not at all how I meant it to go, I thought. Before I could ponder it further, he’d flung me halfway back again. I scrambled to my feet. He caught up and overpowered me, and then he took a swing. He’d never been violent with me before, and the shock of it made me go limp. My brain and body detached, one aching to defend myself, the other refusing it.

  I shut down internally, my default response. Unable to fight back or flee, I froze, like I did most times—save one: a fight with my mother at fifteen years old, when she’d slapped me, triggered by my (admittedly ill-timed) sarcasm. I’d hit back without thinking, I’d felt so violated. My personal space was all I had, and dammit, I would defend it. We’d hit the floor swinging, and though our tussle ended in a draw, to me it was a win—the first time I’d stood up for myself.

  That night with Joe in Denver, something similar happened. I thought, sure, I fucked up, but no hitting allowed, man. It wasn’t instantaneous. I had to summon the courage, but I felt proud for taking a stance and swinging back.

  It didn’t go well for me. Joe doubled his efforts, slamming me so hard into a wall that I was disoriented. He wasn’t done, but I was. I gathered my wits and protected my head. It ended quickly when he shoved me to the floor and walked away. I lay in a ball, catching my breath. When he didn’t come back, I jumped up and screamed obscenities at him. He ignored me and picked up the phone.

  “It’s Joe. Come to my room before I kill my girlfriend.”

  The statement was eerily similar to one I’d made to Gary Belz after Sam Kinison’s funeral. My comment had humbled Joe, but his made me defiant. Ringo’s head of security arrived, a quiet man with kind eyes and a thick moustache. He sat me down and relayed my options, straight from Ringo himself. “First thing in the morning, he’ll put you on a flight to Arizona where his rehab center has a room reserved. Or if you prefer, he’ll fly you home.”

  “You think I need rehab? What about him?” I screeched. The men looked at me blankly. There was nothing to discuss.

  Joe had a tour to finish. I didn’t have an entire band counting on me. I didn’t have a job at all, or anything keeping me from accepting the offer other than denial about needing it in the first place. Immersed in the insanity as long as I’d been, I had zero clarity or discernment. I felt like I’d been breaking the same rules as everyone else in Joe’s circle, but while his level-ten crimes went unpunished, I was banished for going to eleven. The whole thing seemed unfair, but it was the banishment that scared me. Rehab was another planet and they were sending me alone. “Fly me to LA,” I said, panicked. “I want to go home.”

  A flight was booked to coincide with the band’s itinerary. I had to ride to the airport and traverse the terminal with them. I kept to myself, off to the side, eyes on the ground. I had no clue how much the others knew until Zak rushed over, concerned. “Are you okay?” he whispered. “What’s happened? No one will tell me.”

  I wanted to hug him. Without breaking stride, I whispered, “It doesn’t matter, just know it wasn’t all my fault.” As if that made a difference.

  Zak and the band went on to their gate. Ringo’s security made sure I boarded my plane. At LAX, a driver held a sign with my name. Joe wanted to be sure I got home safely. I directed the driver to Gary’s, then I went home and smoked crack for two days. When it was gone, I threw out all my gear: pipes, Brillo, everything.

  •••

  I’d been off crack for a week, eating, sleeping, and trying to move forward. Outwardly I was doing well and didn’t understand Joe’s cold withdrawal. Our lifestyle had been so wild for so long, I couldn’t see the line I’d crossed. I swore to stay off crack. Wasn’t that enough? Can’t we just talk…about that or anything else? No, he pulled away and clammed up.

  I automatically turned to Smokey, who pretended things were normal, but in a phony way—looking near me, not at me, and biding time speaking superficially. I’d seen him that way with others, and I’d been that way myself. But we had never been like that to each other.

  I’d been cast from the kingdom, bested by Joe’s drugs and Smokey’s desire. Unable to keep up, hold my own, or roll over on command, I’d failed them both—my two best friends.

  I’d also failed Ringo. In the heat of the moment, I’d thought rehab an overreaction, that Ringo was a hardline recovery geek who didn’t really “get” casual crack using. Later, I wondered if I’d made a mistake, but when I imagined returning from rehab to live clean and sober in Joe’s house, sleeping every night while he, Rick, and Geno partied on downstairs—I knew I’d done the right thing. Ringo and Barb had done rehab together; surely they could grasp my dilemma. If one of us went, Joe and I
were doomed. I’d stuck by him at Hazelden, but he’d said nothing about Arizona. I would be abandoned in the desert while he toured the country in search of a new girlfriend.

  I hadn’t gone to rehab, but I was losing Joe anyway. We coexisted at Blairwood in silence. For whatever reason, I had no desire for crack. I wanted to believe it was gone forever. I wanted Joe to notice my good behavior and trust me again.

  After two weeks of silence, I was tidying up at the bar and came across a note with some unfinished song lyrics. They’d been written on a legal pad, torn off, crumpled up, and then smoothed flat again. The note said little more than that he loved me very very much. And that he’d started a song about me. He’d written one verse.

  I don’t understand you

  I don’t really need to

  But darling you’re my

  Salt and pepper

  It was our relationship in a nutshell—pained, loving, trashed, and salvaged, full of potential, yet stuck. I wanted to explain myself—the back and forth, the salt and pepper—but I didn’t understand it either.

  We eventually settled into our routine—outwardly, at least—so that by the time Barb reached out, I was cloaked in pseudo-security. In the bedroom on a balmy, late-summer afternoon, a breeze drifted in through the open window. I listened to Barb carry the conversation. My mind wandered to the familiar view of the Valley and its attendant yellow-brown overlay. I wondered for the hundredth time how toxic that cloud was, grateful, as always, to reside above it.

  Barb’s story of addiction touched yet baffled me. I passed the receiver from ear to ear, comparing the wreckage of her past to that of my present and—as hers sounded worse—decided they had nothing in common. When she asked if there was anything I wanted to share, I glanced around the Zen-like room, at my Jerry’s Famous tuna melt and the book I was reading, a memoir by a man who’d walked around the world. “Not really, Barb,” I said. “But thanks for asking.”

  Soon afterward, Arlee Manuel stopped by in person, sharing, as Barbara had, painful, private stories of addiction. She spoke of her husband’s suicide, something called “speedballs” (a mix of cocaine and heroin), and a prison stint during which she’d found peace through meditation. Intrigued by her experience, I asked for the speedball recipe. Arlee sighed, though not unkindly. “Maybe you’re not quite ready.”

  She meant ready for recovery, and she wasn’t wrong about that. I thought that because I wasn’t in prison and had only experienced rare bouts of violence, I wasn’t so bad off I needed something so drastic. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I figured if I wasn’t craving it right then, I’d be fine from then on.

  It’s too Funky in Here

  In the fall of 1992, I turned twenty-five years old. Joe was out of town and sent roses. Annie, Trey, and Sean surprised me with a gift, cake, and balloons. We shot pool and used the hot tub, and I had fun without booze or coke. When Joe got home, we monstered. I kept pace snorting lines, but our standard pastime felt different. I was bored.

  We spent November on tour promoting Songs for a Dying Planet. The only track I liked was “I Know,” an exquisitely wispy ballad that was a little too haunting to listen to. Also, I was hurt (if unsurprised) to see Smokey’s name in the liner notes and not mine. It was time to cede the fantasy of myself as any kind of muse. The verdict was in; that ship had sailed.

  Zak was a welcome addition to the band, but if I were being honest about the after-hours antics, I would’ve said I was sick of them. Prank calls, devil horns, and improv skits weren’t new—and therein lay the problem. The tenth time Joe dressed up in his “Butt Crack McClonskey” character, I wanted to scream grow up, already! But I’d never embarrass him that way, despite not being afforded the same courtesy.

  His mood swings were scary enough at home, where I (usually) could leave the room. Not so in airplanes, bars, and restaurants, where I was as likely a target as unsuspecting wait staff and flight attendants. They never knew what hit them, berated for banal things, like requesting he put up his tray table for landing. As soon as it started, I’d turn away—better them than me—though I spoke up one time for a young Midwestern barmaid. In the process of taking our drink order, the poor girl got crucified. Joe’s venom came out of nowhere, demanding obscure brands of beer the tiny bar clearly didn’t have. The Speros pretended it wasn’t happening, employing my go-to tactic. I might’ve followed suit were it not for Ellen’s presence. She seemed so classy to me. I thought if I couldn’t reach her level, I could prove I knew the difference.

  “Dammit, Joseph, knock it off! They have five American beers and Heineken. Fucking pick one.” Unfazed, he let up long enough for the shell-shocked server to scamper away and send someone else over with our drinks.

  Most of our circle was on Joe’s payroll, with little incentive to call out his abominable behavior. Whether they registered my pain or pitied me silently, I never expected more from them than better her than me. Joe’s business manager had reason to be vocal, albeit about something else entirely. After the tour, we returned home to an answering machine full of messages from him. The next time he called, I put Joe on. After ten minutes of “Uh-huh, yeah… uh-huh,” he hung up and whirled on me. “Why did you tell him I was here?”

  “He said it was urgent. Call me crazy, but I thought it might be urgent.”

  It was urgent. For starters, we learned that a $3,000 monthly tab at Tony’s Liquor was unsupportable (also, apparently, “bizarre”). There were other reprimands, but the point was that we were broke, or close to it. Suddenly I realized Joe had known all along.

  •••

  I’d lived simply most of my life and could certainly do it again. I started researching local strip clubs in secret, thinking it couldn’t hurt to be prepared. Cici Edmunds was a makeup artist, contributing to her and Dave’s household income. Next to her I was a slacker, and I wanted to do better. Kind and wise beyond her years, Cici’s insights had helped me better understand my relationship issues, and have more forgiveness and compassion than I would have otherwise.

  Because I treasured her friendship, I should’ve anticipated what came next, but when Joe decided to sabotage it, I was shocked and furious. During a game of pool, completely out of the blue, Joe accused Dave of flirting with me—ridiculous for many reasons, including that Cici was standing right there. I yelled myself hoarse, while Dave and Cici said not a word, just slowly, sadly collected their things and left.

  Joe had pushed away everyone I’d befriended: Jeanna, Annie, Trey, Billy, Malika, Majid, and finally Cici and Dave. Meanwhile, I’d let slide every discourtesy from Kevin, JD, Warren, Lita, Bonnie, Jack Nicolson, and Todd Rundgren. I’d never complained about Joe’s friend’s tainted cocaine that had destroyed my septum. On Thanksgiving, I sat at Geno’s table watching him, Joe, and Rick pass around a plate of coke, along with the same old, tired jokes. I caught myself fake laughing three times in a row.

  What am I doing here? I thought. Then, Where else is there to go? I didn’t have the answer, but I started keeping an eye out.

  The bond I’d felt with his friends was one of the first things to fade. Then other aspects of our life together began to wane. For years I’d accommodated Joe’s kink, adjusting my desires and expectations to meet his every whim. I’d never turned down a single request, in that vein. I was nothing if not adaptable—like many women of my generation, socialized to believe our value was measured in sexual access and emotional labor. Well, that way of being was over. I didn’t quit having sex, I just went through the motions instead, responding with appropriate movements and noises while rolling my eyes behind the blindfold.

  I blamed Joe and I hated him. I also loved him, or thought I did. My feelings were confusing and I asked advice from an acquaintance. Jimmy at Tony’s Deli was the owner’s son, and though no older than me, he was thoughtful, candid, and experienced with women. When he delivered my lunch one day, I invited him in for a game of pool
, racked the table, and unloaded. “How do you make relationships work? How do you compromise? How do you make someone grow up or redirect a sex life?”

  His answer was to the point. “Communication is key. And if you’re this unhappy, you should talk to Joe about it.” He paused. “But don’t expect him to change. Women always do that and it never works.”

  But if one of us didn’t change, Joe and I were through—that I knew. I wondered if couple’s therapy would help, but before I could broach it, I overheard Joe disparage one of his roadies for going. Doug had just gotten engaged and Joe was sharing the news with Rick. “They’re going for premarital counseling. That idiot is actually looking forward to it.”

  Rick snickered. “If you need therapy before the wedding, your divorce is a given.”

  “No shit,” Joe laughed. “Like, hurry up and dump her now, before alimony kicks in.”

  •••

  In December, Joe played a gig with Glenn Frey at a venue in LA. Lucy arrived for a rare visit with her dad, so I left them in his dressing room to roam backstage. Among the usual strangers and celebrities, I spotted Arlee waving at me. She approached with a friend in tow, an actress I’d seen on TV: an auburn-haired beauty with bright green eyes and an aura of serenity. The actress gazed at me steadily as Arlee asked about my health and other things.

  I didn’t mind the interrogation because I wanted to share some things, if not the exact things they were asking. I had plenty of problems, but booze and drugs were low on my list. Arlee and her friend saw it differently, and while I respected their opinion, I was no candidate for recovery. I wanted solution without sacrifice, change without risk. An authentic relationship without working for it. To moderate, not abstain—that’s what I wanted.

  They spoke of having “been there” as if the parallels were obvious. But I was a mystery to myself, a composite of traits and experiences labeled good or bad based on how high I was. Dropping out of college was both a relief and a shame. Kinky sex was fun and frustrating. Cocaine was my best friend and worst enemy. How could I hit “my bottom” when I didn’t know which way was up? As for my relationship, maybe I was only as sick as my secrets, but my secrets were Joe’s, too…so ugly, tangled, and toxic, we dare not discuss them between ourselves.