Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  I patted the mobster’s arm and changed the subject.

  I looked pretty and put-together in a cocktail dress and jewelry. Barely one week earlier, I’d slept in my car, yards from a row of Dumpsters. I had to give Majid time. What if believing in him made the difference? What if I was key to his success? Didn’t all men need that?

  What if he would always hold me back?

  We went apartment hunting for the hell of it. (In truth, I hoped it would motivate Majid.) I fell in love with a luxury complex in the foothills outside of town. It had a high-end finish-out and spectacular view of the strip. Ultra-exclusive, leagues beyond Mindy’s, it was the place I was destined to live. I padded my income on the application (rationalizing that I’d soon earn something close to it) but was rejected due to my independent contractor status. I begged for an exception, but the manager was unmoved. Strippers made good money, but didn’t get W2s.

  “We need to be closer in, anyway,” Majid said. “I can’t live this far out.”

  Maybe you can’t, I thought. I had a car and no problem with the forty-mile round-trip. I didn’t share that, because Majid’s temper had recently surfaced, triggered by my discontentment and unrest. He (rightfully) perceived those feelings as a threat to our relationship. I tried to keep them under wraps.

  Days after moving into the Frontier, I returned from work to find Majid lazing around, half buzzed from drinking with friends. Instead of airing my real beef, I complained about the stiff competition at work. My attempt to guilt-trip him backfired when Majid concurred my performance thus far sucked. “You should be making more money, so why aren’t you? Aren’t you any good?”

  I snapped, “Who do you think you are talking to me like that?”

  Without a word, he reached out and knocked me to the floor. In one swift motion, he grabbed a fistful of my hair, then dragged me the full length of our suite. I kicked and screamed and finally wormed free, then ran to the phone and called security. Majid didn’t try to stop me.

  Two guards showed up with a single question. “Whose room is this?”

  “Mine,” I shouted. “It’s in my name, not his.”

  They escorted Majid out and I collapsed on the sofa, overcome with relief. A bellman arrived to collect Majid’s things, which they’d store until he cooled off and returned for them. He’d not been arrested, just barred from the hotel, and I was safe now, not to worry. Nice as the bellman was, I was horribly embarrassed. I let the story slip only to my regular at OG, knowing he wouldn’t judge me. He was sympathetic and a little angry, which I thought was very sweet. A few days later, Majid called to apologize and shared a shocking turn of events. Returning for his belongings, he’d been led to a storage room where two security guards beat the crap out of him. “It was nuts,” Majid said. “They jumped me for no reason! For the life of me I don’t know why.”

  “That is nuts,” I agreed, trying to sound incredulous—not hard, as my heart was racing.

  Whether my mobster customer had had a hand in Majid’s comeuppance, I’ll never know. I’d be lying if I said I lost sleep over it. I did, however, quit OG and go to work at the Crazy Horse Too. It was a good move. One week later I had earned enough to secure an apartment on par with Mindy’s. Her complex was full, but their sister property wasn’t, and the manager couldn’t care less that I was a stripper.

  Dialing my old home number, I felt the excitement fade. I had to tell Joe where to send my furniture, yet all I wanted to hear was, “I miss you, come home.” Neither happened. I got the answering machine, then a callback from Smokey. He sent my stuff right away, so fast it hurt my feelings. Later I spoke with Majid, and before the week was out, he’d moved in.

  He told me he’d lived a lifetime with me in our four months together. That I’d taught him to believe in himself and strive for his goals. That without knowing me he would not have known love. I’d failed Joe and I’d failed myself. Being Majid’s muse was what I had left. In my attempt to revive a sexy, sassy stripper identity, holding my own at the Horse took everything I had. Majid’s relentless adoration boosted my ego and self-confidence. As a Vegas stripper, in one of the city’s best clubs, that bit of extra mojo translated to cold, hard cash. My survival depended on it. That’s what I told myself.

  •••

  The Crazy Horse Too was a top-tier club that drew more business than its competitors. If things held steady, my monthly nut was covered, with a smidge leftover to pay down credit cards. At that rate, I’d be debt-free by the time social security kicked in, but I refused to complain. I had a job, a car, and a two-bedroom apartment in the fastest-growing city in the country. Life wasn’t great, but it was better.

  In October, I celebrated my twenty-sixth birthday. Had I been alone, I might’ve had wine and called friends in Texas. With Majid at my disposal, I sent him on a drug run. I sent him on a few of them. Finally, tapped out and jonesing hard, I searched for something to pawn.

  “It’s over, let it go,” Majid said, pouring us some Jack. “Drink this and try to relax.”

  “I’m not done yet!” I snapped and stormed into the bedroom, emerging with a bracelet in hand. Majid shook his head, wanting nothing to do with it, so I ordered him to drive me instead. The streets were deserted at 5:00 a.m. as we pulled up to an all-night pawn window. Majid stayed in the car while I strode up and handed over my opal-and-diamond bracelet.

  “Five bucks?” I wailed at his offer. “This is a thousand-dollar bracelet.” My protestations elicited a smug shrug. I could pawn it for five or sell it outright for fifteen—take it or leave it, his look said. For fifteen bucks Majid procured a single rock that may or may not have had cocaine in it. The rush it provided was so brief and thin, there was a good chance I imagined it.

  Crack withdrawal was a brutal thing, and on that day it was especially torturous. Combined with the shame of losing Joe’s bracelet, I simply couldn’t take it. Desperate to lighten the untenable load, I sliced blindly at the lowest-hanging baggage.

  “Maj?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We need to break up.” I felt better just for saying it. “I’m sorry. I need space. I—I think you should move out…today, if possible.”

  We were on the floor facing each other. He was propped against my once-white sofa, and I, the love seat across from it. Daylight seeped through mini-blinds over an east-facing window, enough to illuminate the look on Majid’s face, one I didn’t recognize.

  I gave him the “it’s not you, it’s me” spiel, hoping to soften, if not retract, my statement. As indecisive as I could be, when I finally took a stand I threw myself behind it. Ten years earlier, I’d become a vegetarian after reading two articles on the meat industry. It was a Wednesday in November and, though I hadn’t realized it then, the day before Mom’s big holiday dinner. I’d had no choice but to refuse the main dish (because a vow was a vow, and also, that poor bird had been tortured). A decade later, I still didn’t eat meat. And I wasn’t taking Majid back…even after he stopped beating me.

  The man was a veteran with PTSD, strung out on whiskey and crack, stripped of a home and the woman he loved—snap, just like that. I was lucky he didn’t break me in half. I was hit, throttled, slammed into a wall, and bounced off an end table, but that was all. I didn’t fight or go limp. Mostly, I braced myself, and as soon as I got the chance, I ran. Slamming the guestroom door, I locked myself in. It was empty but for one item: a phone, which I used to call my most loyal friend. Christine reacted to the chaotic scene—I was crying while Majid yelled and banged on the door—by hanging up and calling the Las Vegas police from her home in LA.

  I didn’t think it would help. Back in Austin, when I’d been mugged, the police had refused to take my report. Hearing that my attacker was also my former meth dealer, they’d pocketed their notebooks and told me to go home. Why shou
ld Vegas cops be any different? But they were, and at my door minutes later. When I exited the guestroom, Majid slipped inside, hissing at me to get rid of them.

  “It’s okay,” I lied through a crack in the door. “He left. I’m fine now. You can go.”

  “The thing is, ma’am,” the younger cop said, not unkindly, “on domestic violence calls we don’t need permission to enter or make an arrest, so why not make this easy and step aside?”

  I did as I was told. The older cop headed straight for my bedroom, while his partner stopped to offer me a tissue. I looked at it, confused, and he motioned toward my chin and cheek. “Have you seen your face?” I swiped away blood, then pressed the tissue to my lip, hanging back while the officers did their thing. With only a thousand square feet to search, they quickly closed in, the older cop positioned at the guestroom’s bathroom entrance, the younger one at the door nearest me. “Nod, if he’s in there,” he whispered.

  I looked into the eyes of the man who would protect me, and I nodded.

  They found Majid in the closet and cuffed him. He didn’t speak or resist as they led him away. He didn’t look at me once. Only the young cop did, on the walkway outside, turning back to me in the doorway. He caught my eye and set his mouth, then made a small, soft nod of goodbye. If he’d been wearing a hat, he would’ve tipped it. He was unbelievably kind.

  I closed the door and sat on the couch, trying not to break down, and failing. I’d made such a mess of things, I was afraid to be alone. In desperation I called my parents.

  Within minutes I was booked on the next flight out. Minutes later, there was an elderly couple at my door—friends of my father’s to drive me to the airport. They didn’t ask questions, as if it were totally normal to help a complete stranger and full-grown woman pack a bag and navigate the terminal. On my layover in Phoenix, I sipped water at the bar while a man two seats over gawked at my face. The bartender distracted him with sports talk, then placed a tequila shot in front of me, knowing full well I had no money. I drank it and thanked her, and without a word she stepped up and refilled it.

  •••

  I didn’t know what to expect from my parents. We weren’t close, but their disappointment in me was no secret. I’d been raised with strict rules about curfews, good grades, and keeping my legs together. Coping skills weren’t on the curriculum. I was given a list of sins that pissed off God, yet no real guidance on managing life. Fear of hell, on its own, should steer a girl clear of sex and drugs. Self-respect was too convoluted a route.

  I’d learned life was about what not to do, to refrain, abstain, and restrict. That self-sacrifice built self-worth. Self-expression was not encouraged. I was sixteen the day Mom saw my new punk haircut, threw her hands up, and cried, “Why are you doing this to me?” When I’d organized a small—miniscule, really—No Nukes protest, she cursed me for making her look bad to her politically conservative coworkers.

  She was a child of the fifties and had been raised to conform. My nonconformist attitude rubbed her wrong. I embodied everything she’d rejected in her youth—audacity, irreverence, and critical thinking. She’d given birth to her shadow self—the type of freethinking heretic her Catholic Church denounced. She wanted to ensure my spot in heaven, but my independent streak was a liability God might hold against me and the woman who’d raised me.

  I was an extremely strong-willed person. I inherited that trait from her. But in a battle of wills between a child and an adult, the adult will always win. I may have gotten on her last nerve, but in the process I’d lost my confidence and personhood. And once that damage was done, that I would lead a life of dependency should not have surprised anyone. But to see the truth of my failings would be to face the truth of their parenting, and it was easier to blame Satan. I began to regret getting on that plane. In my haste to be comforted, I’d left myself wide open.

  But they surprised me. In fact, barely a word passed between us. Dad went to the office like always. None of us knew what to say. Mostly, I caught up on sleep. When I emerged from the basement, my parents said I was welcome to stay indefinitely. It was kind of them, but I left anyway. I’d found the clarity I needed. Cocaine had done a number on me, but I was still young and healthy. I had an opportunity for a fresh start in Vegas, and the idea excited me.

  When I got home I discovered my pearls were missing—their blue velvet box on the dresser empty and accusing. I didn’t know who’d taken them, maybe Majid or the maintenance man who’d fixed the sink while I was in Texas. I was to blame, regardless. I’d left them out. I didn’t deserve them.

  •••

  I saw Vegas as a soulless, neon dust bowl, built on greed and misfortune. A tacky tourist destination in need of a music scene, and yet I identified with its scrappy population. Austinites were cool and Angelinos polished, but Vegas was for getting down to business. It was not hip, creative, progressive, or health-conscious, but neither was I, were I honest about it. Austin was home, but Vegas had my back. By my count: one mobster, a bellman, two cops, and a couple of Dad’s elderly friends. Also, Majid’s pals, who’d refused to post his bail upon learning the nature of his charges. My Texas friends loved me, but they had expected me to marry my prince. In Vegas, no one expected anything. They couldn’t have cared less.

  Earlier that summer, I’d spent a day with Majid and an artist friend of his painting on spare canvases. Hours into it, I’d produced a single blue-and-beige landscape, a simple flat background. We’d joked about my creative block, but looking back, I realized it was a self-portrait—a blank slate awaiting substance. On the flight home from Texas, I’d been giddy about starting over. Suddenly, I felt lost and uncertain.

  Too bruised still to work, I moped around the apartment. An acquaintance from Austin called, in town with her husband. Did I want to join them at the Dunes implosion? I didn’t, but she was persuasive. We met at the Sahara and were soon separated, which didn’t bother me any. I was as far from sociable as was possible to be, and having a hard time talking—literally, as if over the course of the evening my voice box had fallen into a deep sleep.

  With traffic blocked, the strip was one long drunken throng, part maze, part obstacle course. My goal was to make it four blocks to the Dunes, point A to point B, without succumbing to claustrophobia. Twelve years earlier, at age fourteen, after sneaking out to my first concert, I almost got crushed by a packed house of hardcore English Beat fans. Bigger, stronger bodies had pressed on me from all sides, so tightly they suspended me, arms pinned and feet dangling. Unable to push anyone away or expand my lungs to breathe, much less scream, I started to panic internally. Just then, a muscular security guard spied me. He launched himself over half a dozen concertgoers and plucked me out to safety. Since then, I avoided densely packed crowds.

  The mob on the strip was a hundred times larger, but loosely packed with some room to maneuver. I stepped off the curb, my first solid perch in weeks, and plowed ahead, worming through bodies, angled sideways. Leading with my shoulder, I zigzagged through, dodging elbows, backpacks, and three-foot-long slushy daiquiris. I lost direction midway and anxiety set in. I stopped, took a breath, and looked straight up. The sky was starless and relatively dull, which calmed and comforted me. When I got my bearings I moved on, feeling the crowd amp up. The clock was ticking and I knew I was close. A space opened up and I broke into a run, the energy of the crowd seeming to spit me out, past the perimeter and onto a patch of dirt. I looked up and my jaw dropped; before me was the Dunes.

  I’d landed exactly where I’d meant to.

  A rent-a-cop allowed me to catch my breath—take as long as you need, kiddo. I rejoined the crowd to await the countdown, gazing at the Dunes. A once-gleaming jewel in the Vegas crown, the magnetic hub had not aged well. In need of repairs cosmetic and structural, she was deemed obsolete, unstable, and too much trouble to keep around. An obstacle to progress, her number was up. The sign was lit, but the building was dark. I
wondered if anything of value were left inside, and felt sad that there might be, sadder still that there might not.

  The countdown began and I grew envious. What a way to go, I thought.

  When the first round of charges went off, I felt them in my body, catapulting despair and a headful of morbid imagery. A series of staccato explosions came at me in waves. Bursts of energy pummeled my chest, like an invisible fist that reached inside and pulled out a laughing fit. Like on mushrooms in Malibu, I was overcome with hysterics, involuntary and magnificent.

  As the building surrendered to a vast cloud of dust, the crowd behind me roared and whooped. I barely heard them, holding my sides, gasping for breath, and laughing until I cried.

  Hotel California

  My life was a demolition site where the dust had yet to settle. I couldn’t see past the haze, but one thing was clear: I’d let the best thing to ever happen to me slip through my fingers. With Joe, my life had shape, if not structure and stability. Without him, I was rubble.

  I had to win him back and pay off ten grand in debt, and neither was possible while smoking crack. My resolve was firm, and though I slipped up twice, as of 1994 I never smoked it again. I snorted coke once in a while, and when I did, would keep on till it was gone, but it wasn’t a daily or even weekly thing, by then. Out of sight, out of mind—no truer words were said. The real challenge was my drinking. Booze had always been my first love, and living in Vegas primed that pump. It was available 24/7, free in casinos, and free to me at work where it literally flowed from the tap. I did my best to rein it in, and when I failed, I would call Sid, who’d bring bumps to the club to perk me up. If he was busy, I’d call Gavin, a friend of his, who’d share his stash in the hopes of getting in my pants. I let him on occasion, as much for the company as his coke. Going home alone didn’t always appeal to me.

  Nothing would get me to take Majid back, though I didn’t hold a grudge. I was no saint, after all, no stranger to blind rage and loss of control. I’d handed down one beating in life and taken five myself, all told. Aside from Joe’s attack in Denver (plus my first, in high school, by an Amazonian punk rock chick whose boyfriend I’d fucked, believing them broken up), I usually felt released afterward, with a sense of closure and freedom. I saw those who turned to violence as having a hopeless inner weakness. One that severed our connection and any sense of obligation I had to that person. What remained was a sense of superiority, overlaid with compassion and/or pity. With Joe and my mom, things were more complicated than that. But with Majid and my meth dealer, lingering emotional ties became the fastest Band-Aid yank ever.