There had always been guns in the house, so many we lost count. One time, Joe went through airport security with a gun in his carry-on. We discovered it in the limo after reaching our destination. Most of his guns were big and terrifying and I refused to touch them. I preferred my .22 pistol, given to me years earlier by a Sugar’s customer after an attempted burglary at my apartment. Joe insisted I learn to use his Uzi.
“It’s better for home protection,” he said. “Especially in an ambush.”
“Thanks for the visual,” I said. “So you know, I can’t cock it. I’m not strong enough.”
“Trust me, if someone’s coming at you, adrenaline will kick in.”
“But I won’t be able to control it!”
“Won’t matter, honey,” Joe laughed. “Think about it.”
I didn’t want to think about it. I smoked crack so I didn’t have to think. When Joe came home on a tour break, we weren’t laughing anymore. We were on our last legs and what I did next was a mercy killing. Why else would I tell him about Weasel?
It had happened after a show in Detroit weeks earlier. Joe had continued on with the band while I’d stayed to catch a flight home in the morning. Too wired to sleep, I called Weasel for company (who was living there, having quit Sugar’s the previous year). We talked in my room, then made out a little before Weasel pulled the brakes. He said he respected Joe and me, and wanted us to make it as a couple. So did I, in theory.
It was late spring, 1993, five years and change from our fateful first meeting. Joe and I were in the playroom shooting pool, pretending not to be miserable, pretending we didn’t each have one foot out the door already, awaiting any excuse to pivot. To reveal my affairs within his innermost sphere was unnecessary, total overkill. The confession of one trifling transgression—with a favorite past lover from my passionate pre-Joe youth—would do.
Joe sank the eight ball, but instead of racking them up, I was unable to continue. The angel on my right said, you can make it work, don’t hurt him. The devil on my left, you don’t deserve him, keep digging.
“Joe,” I said, clearing my throat. “I have to tell you something.”
•••
That night I moved into the Sportsmen’s Lodge on Ventura. The next day, I called a number I’d had stored for weeks in my purse. It had a Las Vegas area code scribbled inside a casino matchbook. It picked up on the second ring.
“I’m on my own for a while,” I said. “In a hotel room getting space. I don’t know for how long, exactly, but wondered if you’d like to visit.”
“I’m on my way,” Majid said.
It was a seven-hour drive. He was at my door in eight.
Can’t Find My Way Home
I didn’t know what to expect when Majid arrived. He’d never flirted or been suggestive in the slightest, not even on the phone when I invited him to visit. I’d shown my hand the day we met, then pulled back for fourteen months, keeping it close to my chest.
Turned out, he’d done the same, hiding his attraction right up to his arrival at the Sportsmen’s. We exchanged hellos and a pleasantry or two—glad you could come; thanks for inviting me—and that was that. The space between our bodies slammed shut before the door did. Pinned to the wall, with his lips crushing mine and one of my legs flung around his trim, taut waist, I felt gloriously weightless, like I’d been yanked aboard the last helicopter in a war zone. The pounding in my chest was the rhythm of a rotor, its deafening roar the sound of one word over and over…this, this, this, this, this. This.
Our physical chemistry was off the charts, but the attraction was more than that. Majid and I identified with each other. I brushed aside the implications of being so drawn to someone like him—a lost and lonely drifter and PTSD-afflicted veteran—my predilection for wounded men well established by then. From Joe and Terry Reid to past punk boys and meth-heads, I had a type and haunted was part of it. On the surface, Maj and I had little in common, but the same undercurrent that coursed through me coursed through him.
Much of his appeal was obvious. He was masculine, mysterious, sensual, and gorgeous, something women stopped him on the street to profess. He was naturally charming, casually elegant, and surprisingly guileless. He’d never be called boyish or innocent, but there was a sweetness about him. When Majid opened his heart, he opened large. He was easy to be with; we were on a level playing field. Joe had always been in the game, whereas Maj and I spent our lives on the bench. Give Joe the ball, he’d run with it—maybe score, maybe get sacked, but the fact was, he could play. I was a fumble waiting to happen. Joe never understood that about me. I think he’d thought I was a ringer, and that together we’d go all the way. I was destined to disappoint him.
Unable to save myself, I couldn’t save him…any more than Majid could’ve saved Sam. We bonded in our failures, and Majid’s empathy validated me. I knew people would think of him as downgrading, but what other direction would I go?
•••
Majid sympathized with my troubles, taking a neutral stance. He suspected I still loved Joe and cautioned me not to act rash. I wasn’t making hard decisions yet. I was in a holding pattern, circling two equally unappealing destinations—stay in a bad relationship or leave the love of my life. Did it matter where I landed? I’d run out of fuel and crash where I crashed. Until then, the Sportsmen’s was home.
Everything I needed was tacked to the bill: room service for breakfast, lunch at the pool, cocktails in the bar, and gift shop cigarettes by the carton. The restaurant specialized in wild game, and though I didn’t eat meat, watching Majid tear into a plate of ribs or quail—sucking their juices and licking sauce from his fingers—was like a crazy hot new genre of porn. It was visceral and primal and made me squirm in my seat. Guilt? I had it, along with memories of Joe’s affairs and years of sexual frustration. I paid for our drugs, at least. Majid’s dealers were cheaper than Gary (everyone was cheaper than Gary) and the Sportsmen’s lobby ATM became the next best thing to a crack-dispensing machine.
It’s not that I didn’t grasp how things worked. I knew my day of reckoning would come and that it would hurt (I had no idea how badly), but those weeks at the Sportsmen’s were my last hurrah. At worst, they increased my future circle of hell from a ten to an eleven. I was going anyway…may as well go with a bang. Good food, great sex, lazy days at the pool, and crazy nights high on crack. It was self-medication disguised as hedonism, because there wasn’t one day, one hour, one minute that shame and remorse weren’t pushing on the gate, looking for a weak spot to exploit and flood my fragile brain. Pain management and pleasure-seeking look a lot alike to outsiders—insiders too, for the record.
One night we smoked through our stash quickly. Having already maxed out my cash advance limit, I needed something tangible to barter with. All my valuables were gifts from Joe, and though I considered my jewelry sacrosanct, the furs certainly weren’t. I gave Majid the cheaper of two. He returned with an evening’s worth of crack.
Majid’s dealer had a strict “no fronts, no barters” rule, so I was curious what he’d said about the coat. “Not a word,” Maj replied, which unsettled me. I’d crossed a line from a good person displaying atrocious behavior to a bad person not worth raising an eyebrow over.
•••
One day, I awoke to find Majid collecting his things. “You’re leaving?” I asked groggily.
“I just realized tomorrow is the Fourth of July.”
“And?”
“Fireworks,” he mumbled, scanning the floor for his shoes. He found them, slipped his feet inside, and retrieved his sunglasses from a front pocket.
I sat up. “Majid, what are you talking about?”
“PTSD,” he explained. “If I clear out of town I won’t hear them go off. I get flashbacks from fireworks and war movies and stuff.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure how to respond.
He kissed me goodby
e and left. The next day I reached out to Joe to ask if I could visit Rocky at the house. Angelina had been caring for my cat while Joe was on tour, but I missed Rocky and the home we shared. Joe understood and allowed me inside. He said I could relieve Angelina, if I had no guests and didn’t stay overnight.
When Majid returned to LA, he was dying to see me. I was at Blairwood and reluctant to leave, so I said okay. “Two hours, that’s it. Then I’m going to bed.”
We sat on the couch watching sitcoms. When the third one ended, Majid flipped through channels and landed on a war movie. “Keep going,” I instructed.
“In a few minutes,” he replied, eyes glued to the screen.
“Won’t this trigger your PTSD?” I asked, but he seemed not to hear me. “Seriously, this seems like a bad idea.” When he grunted dismissively, I gave up. “Well, I’ve seen Apocalypse Now eight times, so I’m going bed.”
“Mind if I let myself out at the next commercial?”
“All right…I guess.”
Three hours later, I awoke to the sound of screaming. I raced downstairs and found Majid on the couch, his horrified wails reduced to throaty whimpering as he tossed about, eyes squeezed shut, wrestling with an invisible opponent. I shook him awake and helped him up, then waited quietly till got his bearings. He finally assured me he was okay, but he did it while looking straight through me.
•••
I returned to my room at the Sportsmen’s to spend more time with Majid. Then Joe came home and checked me out of the hotel, saying he wanted me at the house. I packed my things and did what he said. Not knowing what I wanted, I stuck with what I had.
We were cordial and careful with each other and did not monster at all. A fight erupted anyway, Joe’s fuse shorter than ever. He set upon me like a prairie fire, with miles of parched landscape to burn. I don’t recall what started it, only that it was absurd. The glee he took in thwarting all logic was maddening, and this time it broke me quickly. I ran from him in tears, palms clamped to my temples. Joe chased me, ranting like a madman.
I cannot go through this again, I thought. Then a light bulb moment: Really, I cannot.
I wasn’t cornered at La Toque without cab fare, nor hurtling through the clouds strapped to an airplane chair. I had free will and four wheels, which I used to peel out of the driveway as my stupefied boyfriend stared after me. Majid was staying nearby in a buddy’s spare room, furnished with a mattress and little else, yet he puffed up like a king in a castle when I entered. That’s why I’d gone there; I was Majid’s queen and he was in love with me. Women threw themselves at him, but I was all he could see. That he thought I hung the moon was intoxicating.
Later that night, passing me the crack pipe, he asked me to marry him and I said yes. When he insisted on sharing the news with a relative (an aunt, I believe)—to lock me in before we slept—I let him. When I awoke, reality hit. I tried to slip out unnoticed, but Majid popped up like a kid at Christmas. “Ready to drive to Vegas?”
That had been our plan: a twenty-four-hour engagement (or however long Nevada required before giving us a marriage license). That’s how off the deep end I’d been.
“Majid, baby…” I started, as his face fell a thousand floors. “I can’t. Don’t you see? I’m still technically engaged. I can’t marry you till I break up with Joe.”
“But we called my family…” he croaked.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
•••
Over the next few days, Joe was subdued and thoughtful. He inquired into my whereabouts that night, and I conjured up some vague excuse for being out till morning. I was only a little surprised that he didn’t pursue it. Our problems were bigger than one night or one fight, and I assumed he knew it himself. We settled into an unspoken truce.
Seeing Majid on the sly was complicated by his couch-surfing status. One night, I sprung for a room at a cheap motel on Ventura, not far from Blairwood Drive. When the clerk asked how many hours I needed it for, I stared blankly until it clicked. “Eight, I guess—no, six,” I replied. I wanted out of that dump by sunrise.
“I had no idea hookers worked in Studio City,” I remarked as we entered the room.
“You mean the hourly rate?” Maj asked. “That’s for people who come to smoke crack.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I laughed, certain sex was the more popular pastime. Seconds later I noticed a shadow in the bathroom light fixture and pulled out a Chore Boy Brillo pad—a forgotten bit of paraphernalia from a previous guest.
“Told ya,” Majid said. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Had I stood on the sidewalk outside the motel and looked southwest, half a mile up the hill, I’d have seen Joe’s ham radio antenna through the trees in our yard—that’s how close we were to my fairy tale.
I couldn’t get a good hit that night. Rock after rock, I did not rush once.
•••
Maj wanted to move to Vegas, where there were jobs and affordable houses. He presented his unused VA loan benefits to me as a gift, for a home as much mine as his.
I was noncommittal. I loved his company and was thrilled by our sex, but of long-term compatibility I was dubious. He sensed it and built a case for himself with celebrity friend references. We met Dabney Coleman for dinner at Dan Tana’s and had drinks at the St. James with Richard Belzer. At a barbecue in Sherman Oaks, I met actor Bill Forsythe from Raising Arizona and The Untouchables TV show. We gathered in the kitchen, where Maj extolled the virtues of Vegas and I countered with praise for Austin (where I thought I might move instead). Wrapping up my case, I noticed Bill studying me. I knew that look and the feeling was mutual, though I tried to play it cool. I asked where he planned to go when filming wrapped in Chicago. His reply was a sly grin and a not-so-vague speculation about Austin.
It was a meaningless flirtation that triggered a minor epiphany. Bill Forsythe had a presence. He had an overtly sexual energy I found intensely compelling. But more than that, he was inspiring. He sparked me in a way neither Majid nor Joe did. Bill was accomplished, creative, sophisticated, and driven. Bill Forsythe was a force to be reckoned with. Not only did I want to be with a man like that, I wanted to be that, myself.
A part of me still hoped I’d make something of myself, and that part was disinclined to align with Majid. I’d been assuming my options were limited, yet suddenly things felt different. Something inside me was alive and kicking. I never saw Bill Forsythe again, but the exchange stuck with me. It was the moment I realized that Majid was temporary.
•••
In July, I flew to Chicago to meet Joe, who was there for John Mellencamp’s Concert for the Heartland. I waited at the hotel while he checked in at the venue, which apparently didn’t go well. Joe was rebuked by Mellencamp and denied access to catering. He’d traveled all day, on his own dime and an empty stomach, only to be forced to order a pizza delivery backstage.
Joe kept his cool until arriving at the hotel, where he unloaded on me. He burst in the room hurling accusations so outrageous, even seen-it-all Spero was taken aback. I’d gone to Chicago hoping to reconnect, stupidly thinking we had something to salvage. Joe stormed out, demanding Spero book him a separate room. I left the next day for Austin.
I moved into an extended-stay hotel next door to Sugar’s. My plan: to work, work, work until I was standing on my own two feet. Find the strong, self-reliant woman hopefully still inside me, then pay down the current version’s credit cards. If all went well, I could send for my things, settle back in Austin, and enroll at ACC.
I only wished I hadn’t invited Majid, but he’d been persistent, and I was weak.
Suddenly, I had a firsthand glimpse of the untenable position I’d put Joe in for years. I was working my ass off, stressed to the max, while Majid grew restless at the hotel. Stuck in a commercial area without transportation, he spent most days at the pool
getting stoned with one of the wealthy owners of Sugar’s. Yet somehow, I was the bad guy for not taking him to Mezzaluna after my tenth-in-a-row grueling shift.
“Dinner plus cab fare is, like, a hundred bucks, Maj. Just walk to Schlotzsky’s.”
“I’ve eaten there four times this week. A man can’t live on sandwiches alone.”
“What do you want me to do about it? This is a work trip, Majid, not a vacation!”
“One night out, that’s all I ask! Indulge a little. What’s the big deal?”
He didn’t understand how dangerous that sounded. I’d never indulged in “a little” of anything, and yet I knew how he felt: bored and neglected, just as I had in New Zealand. God gave me Majid as penance. I nixed Mezzaluna’s, but enlisted a friend the next day to take us to Lake Travis, then the Oasis for margaritas at sunset. Majid was happy and chatty. I was stressed about the missed income and my friend’s open disapproval of my new boyfriend.
Majid continued pushing Vegas on me. I found his optimism endearing but naïve. I knew better what we were up against and refused to depend on someone less proven than myself. Maj was convinced I was the key to turning his life around. He thought love was transformative. I thought love was bullshit.
I was the only woman he’d ever loved—only person other than Sam. His previous relationships were superficial. His past girlfriends, he said, tiresome. He rarely mentioned family but Maj had many friends, all excited to meet the woman who’d stolen his heart. When he talked me up like that, I’d feel my chest inflate, from collapsed to resuscitated. Were we compatible long-term? Who gives a shit? For now, I could breathe again.
•••
Joe called the hotel one day, his voice grave. “I’m so sorry to tell you this. It’s Rocky. He’s…gone.”
“What?! What the fuck are you talking about?” I shrieked, gripping the receiver.
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