Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  My attraction to Majid was dead and gone, but I’d occasionally meet him for drinks. His new girlfriend was a pretty blonde bartender with a biker edge that I found alternately silly and intimidating. She was aware Majid was using her—he’d made no secret of his stalwart love for me—and though she’d be aloof in my presence, she gave him hell for it later, at home. That Majid was punished for pining for me gave me a certain, secret glee. That’s the main reason I’d meet him at the pub she managed. Also, as a reminder of the life I no longer wanted to lead.

  •••

  I liked working as a stripper in Vegas. Moreso than Texas, the outfits were skimpy and flashy, and the new style of platform shoes was more comfortable than old-school stilettos. One day, fresh from buying my first pair, I cut through Caesars Palace and heard a voice in my head near the roulette tables. Play twenty-six, it said, growing insistent. Play twenty-six, play twenty-six! I wasn’t a gambler and couldn’t afford to become one, but when disembodied voices spoke, I listened. I picked a table and lay everything I had left on twenty-six—five measly dollars. When the marble landed, my hand flew to my mouth. I’d won. It was a sign; I was sure of it.

  My mojo was back, and Joe would be next.

  He finally agreed to see me sometime around the holidays, and we spent an awkward evening shooting pool at the house. I felt more like a guest than ever (for obvious reasons), but I tried to be patient. Our next visit was less awkward. In February, I saw him again.

  We were at the Sportsmen’s because the house was trashed. I didn’t ask questions; I was just happy to be with him, placing candles around our hotel room for ambiance. The coffee table was a makeshift bar with vodka, beer, and wine, plus a pile of cocaine in the middle. I’d just gotten started, though Joe looked like he’d been up for days. I’d heard rumors he’d been out of control in my absence, and his appearance didn’t belie them. He seemed haggard and detached, but mostly sad. The eye contact he was so big on was elusive. Whatever the cause, reconciliation would fix it.

  “We’re destined,” I told him, going on and on about the good old days, the fun we’d had and the plans we’d made. I listed my regrets and apologies, with heartfelt promises he’d heard already. I used everything in my arsenal, from nostalgia to outright pleading, wearing him down until I heard those magical words: “Okay, I guess we can try again.”

  “Really? You mean it? We’re officially boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  “Officially, yeah…sure.”

  I hugged him with enough excitement for both of us.

  Almost immediately, the phone started ringing. Call after call, for hours on end. Apparently a business matter of some urgency. I went to primp in the bathroom, emerging just as he slammed down the phone. My plan to consummate our rekindled bond was on hold, and the reason for it beat all. It seemed mine wasn’t the only reunion plot that night, and when I heard the whole story I fell back laughing.

  I’d just been cock-blocked by Don Henley, Glenn Frey, and the gang. Are you fucking kidding me?

  It was no joke. Calls from the Eagles camp came in all night, with a singular message—we want you back, on one condition—and Joe was having none of it. As he went from annoyed to infuriated, I put on a robe and sat down. “Spill it,” I said. “What are you so mad about?”

  “They’re trying to send me to rehab! The band gets back together only if I get clean.”

  Whoa.

  Joe was on a tear, on and off the phone, barking objections and chain-smoking, disgruntled as hell.

  “You’re doing it, right?” I finally asked. Angry or not, he wasn’t stupid.

  “Yeah,” he snapped. “But when the tour is over, I’m throwing the biggest party LA’s ever had.” I laughed and he laughed with me. It was our most—perhaps only—connected moment of the night.

  It seemed like a great thing, a surprise ending out of the movies. He’d straighten up and fly right, get his career on track, and then we could party again…in moderation, obviously. They were coming for him right away. He went to Blairwood to pack a bag, leaving me alone at the Sportsmen’s. “Can I call you there? How long will you be?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll arrange for you to visit. I need you now more than ever.”

  •••

  True to his word, he arranged weekly visits at a Marina Del Rey hotel near Exodus rehab center.

  “How’s it been?” I asked when I saw him.

  He shrugged. “Not bad.”

  The newly sober Joe was a man of few words. He’d been quiet at Hazelden, but this bordered on mute. I was dying to know what he was feeling and thinking, but I didn’t pry. His therapists were surely doing that already. Besides, I knew how moody he could be coming off drugs. I walked on eggshells for a while, but he never blew up. He didn’t do much of anything other than watch TV. I began to take it personally.

  “You sure everything is okay? I haven’t done something to upset you?”

  “Don’t be silly. Now c’mere; Seinfeld is on.”

  I joined him on the bed to spoon and watch sitcoms. If I couldn’t get inside his head, I’d curl around his body. I kept hoping it would lead to sex, but it wasn’t happening.

  “Not even a quickie?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “That’s what you said earlier….” He shot me a look and I shut up. Then, “Is it me? If it is just say—”

  “It’s not you, okay? It’s not uncommon to lose your sex drive temporarily in sobriety.”

  “Really?”

  “I swear it. They told me so at Exodus.”

  I told him I understood. But in the absence of cocaine there was nothing blocking my sex drive. I didn’t miss the coke, but I missed sex like crazy. I also missed the man I used to have it with. Joe just seemed so different…I hoped that was temporary, too.

  He had very little energy. Enough for TV, card games, and what appeared to be his sole new hobby: clothes shopping. He was putting on weight and needed new stuff, all of which looked just like Don Henley’s. I liked the new style but not his short haircut (of course I lied and said it looked great). I didn’t really care about his hair. I missed the man underneath, his silly jokes, seductive looks, bouncy walk, and boundless affection. Joe no longer sniffed around my neck screaming bacon, or made that strangely sexy woof when I dressed up. I liked his new way of speaking—softly, with thoughtful pauses—but his deflated posture worried me. His thumbs were always tucked into his fists and he’d lost his boyish spirit.

  In the end, I decided that that stuff wasn’t mine to miss. A life was on the line—this sobriety thing was big. Everything had changed, and my needs didn’t matter—only his. I wanted to be supportive, if only someone could show me how. Instead, I felt a chill from Smokey and Dallas Taylor (a drummer and interventionist with some unknown role in Joe’s recovery). I didn’t mention it to Joe, afraid of adding to his stress. They were helping him stay sober, after all. I wanted that as much as anyone. I’d wanted that since Hazelden.

  After one of our visits, on a return flight to Vegas, I sat next to film director Peter Bogdanovich. He asked all about my life and what it was like to be a stripper. He said he thought I was fascinating and wished the flight were longer. He encouraged me to write—not about Joe, but about myself. Instead, I pondered how to support my boyfriend, how to contribute to his success rather than my own.

  The following week, Joe asked me a favor. He’d be going home soon and wanted his records organized. When I’d lived at Blairwood, every week I’d tidy his collection, returning his records to their sleeves, then placing them on the shelves in alphabetical order. In the six months he’d lived as a bachelor, hundreds had been strewn and left on the floor. It took me longer to organize his collection than when I’d moved in, and this time without coke to enliven the process. Still, I loved being helpful. Joe needs me more than ever now. He’d said so himself.

&n
bsp; •••

  For most of Joe’s rehab, I was careful not to drink in front of him. One day, he gave me the okay to have wine with lunch.

  “You sure?”

  “I swear.”

  I had one with every meal thereafter. Sometimes two. Also on flights in from Vegas and sometimes at the hotel bar, waiting for Smokey to arrive with Joe. I’d been terribly remorseful the day they’d caught me after one too many, drunkenly ranting at the bartender. But I wasn’t scolded. Joe and Smokey waved me off like an errant child, too stupid to know better.

  The reality of my behavior came to me in spurts, then faded just as quickly. I’d tolerated so much worse from him over the years. Back at Hazelden, I’d spoken my truth to Dr. Oh through anguished tears. He drinks too much and it embarrasses me. I knew how gut-wrenching confrontation could be, but I was not afforded the same courtesy. There were new rules in play—hell, the whole game had changed, and no one bothered to tell me. Joe was fighting his own demons, with no time to manage mine. For Smokey, it was easier to let me dig my own grave than to lead me to safety.

  At home, in Vegas, there was no one to speak up, and yet I quit calling Sid and Gavin. I quit cocaine entirely, and then I doubled down on my drinking. It happened so fast it scared me, so I turned to the resident expert, peppering Joe with questions. Is it hard to abstain? Why not moderate? Where does willpower fit in? What does therapy have to do with it and what are AA meetings all about? Every response was some version of “It’s complicated” or “It’s hard to explain.” Finally I asked him point-blank, “Do you think I need help?”

  He said I had to answer that for myself.

  If that was the kind of wishy-washy shit they dished out at Exodus, I’d pass. Not that it mattered, because rehab was time-consuming and expensive. I had a lease to fulfill and credit cards to pay off. The responsible thing was to work. At the club, where booze flowed like water.

  When Joe’s rehab stint was over, I started meeting him at the house. Visits were calm, quiet, and mildly affectionate, though not intimate in the slightest. We didn’t discuss anything of substance and he remained achingly emotionally distant. I told myself everything was fine, but I had a hard time believing it. One day I broke down and asked him.

  “You never want sex. We barely talk. Why am I even here?”

  For a moment, the old Joe reappeared, my soul mate and best friend. He pulled me close and spoke with emotion. “You’re my family, Kristi. I’m going through a lot right now and it’s scary. That’s why I want you here. That’s why I need you right now.”

  I heard “want” and “need” but ignored “right now.” I pretended he’d never said it.

  He was busy with the Eagles, preparing to tour. I did not join him at rehearsals, but when Felder came by the house one day, his presence noticeably lifted Joe’s spirits. Like Timothy, whom I’d known for years, Felder was genuine, warm, and friendly. As for the other two members, I had only secondhand stories of petty conflicts and arguments that made Henley and Frey sound like the two most childish men in LA. Joe said the band was a democracy with two kings and called them the Egos behind their backs. The level of dysfunction in that band made my relationship with Joe seem downright healthy.

  •••

  The tour launched in May, with a soft opening in April—a private concert for media and industry folk at Warner Brothers Studios. I was excited to attend until Smokey greeted me in LA with more disdain than I’d felt from anyone, ever. His body language and vocal tone conveyed the immense burden of my presence. Then, after three years of handling my travel arrangements, he suddenly acted like getting me to the gig was a massive, even offensive, inconvenience. The attitude was cutting, but rather than bleed out in front of him, I pretended not to notice. I let Smokey stick me in a cab like a stranger.

  At the venue, I went straight to Joe’s trailer, one of five in a cozy circle like a camp of stagecoach wagons. Outside them, a handful of guests milled about, a contrast to the usual backstage mayhem. Joe was more nervous than I’d ever seen him, and I quietly racked my brains for something inspirational. Then Felder arrived and nailed it. Breezy as could be, like heading to a ballgame, he stuck his head in and smiled. “Ready, buddy?” Receiving a pained look in reply, Felder’s grin only widened. He motioned at an invisible something in the vicinity of Joe’s nose, then whispered seriously, “Hey man, I think you’re showing.”

  Joe chuckled, breaking the tension. He stood up with resolve.

  It was a private joke between them, the same one from the Hotel California video. The idea of coke residue on his nostrils—onstage and caught on film—had cracked Joe up, which can be seen in the live footage. This time, fresh from rehab and sober as a judge, it was even more ridiculous. I don’t know what Joe heard in Felder’s joke, but what I heard was: You can do this, buddy, remember? Let’s have fun…like we did before.

  •••

  The audience was small but pumped and I felt out of place among them. I stood in back, behind the last row of seats, observing from a distance. The performances were flawless and Felder’s flamenco-styled intro was truly brilliant, but I was an Austinite at heart and that level of polish just wasn’t my thing. I dug raw passion and spontaneity, funky tangents and freewheeling jams. That wasn’t the road Joe traveled now. Raw and freewheeling were no longer in his best interest.

  As proud as I was to see him up there, I sensed an untenable dichotomy. What it said about us remained to be seen—to me, anyway, if no one else. The writing was on the wall, but I couldn’t bring myself to read it. And Joe, bless his heart, wouldn’t make me.

  If I Needed You

  The Hell Freezes Over Tour ran through September without a break. I met up with Joe about once a month, the gap between us wider each time, an unscalable distance. Like any dependency, it was a one-sided attachment to something that was never coming back.

  The tour seemed just as spiritless. The concerts I saw did nothing for me. There were no group dinners or socializing. From what I could tell, the guys barely spoke to each other. Once, three band members ended up in the same elevator, then proceeded to pretend the others weren’t there. They ignored each other through the lobby, and outside, where they climbed inside separate transport vans. It was the antithesis of a Ringo tour. A twenty-minute bus ride with the All-Starrs was more uplifting than an entire Eagles concert. I’d take a Kiwi, minivan, pub tour over their big-budget spectacle, any day.

  Still, I was thrilled for Joe’s renewed success and couldn’t help hoping some forward momentum and positive energy would seep into our relationship. Why couldn’t we start fresh like his band (minus the strangers-on-an-elevator business)? But we didn’t. When the tour stopped in Vegas, I met Joe at Treasure Island and suggested a drive through Red Rock Canyon or up Mount Charleston. He seemed annoyed to be asked, opting for a long nap instead. Two weeks later, we met in Dallas for a show at Texas Stadium. I took my parents and sister, then right before it started I got stuck in a crowded passageway to the concession stands. Claustrophobia kicked in—my worst attack yet. My throat tightened and all I could do was whimper for help. A tall stranger noticed and took charge, barking at everyone to clear a path for me, but it was one in a series of panicked moments that had become my new, new normal.

  I felt stuck. Invisible and short on air. I lived in a bubble of anxiety. My once moderate fear of heights grew so strong that one look at the Stratosphere triggered vertigo while standing on the sidewalk. Eventually, a simple mental image of that freakishly tall building would make me nauseated and lightheaded.

  When I told Joe about getting stuck and having a claustrophobia attack, he sighed, annoyed again. Wounded, I ordered a bottle of wine from room service. The next morning, distracted and hungover, I left a very pricey pair of d’Orsay pumps behind (never to be seen again). On our next visit, Joe asked me to hold his custom-made earpiece, which promptly disappeared (eventually recovered fr
om the floorboard of his transport van, where I’d dropped it). Again, I wasn’t scolded, but Smokey and Joe exchanged a look that said everything.

  •••

  During a break in the tour, our visits returned to Blairwood. Joe’s mood improved and I took advantage of it, wheedling a reluctant promise from him to move me back in “eventually.”

  The house looked better than ever, but I was crushed to discover he’d let his ex-wife redecorate, having refused me the same for so long. Instead of acting hurt, I joked about it, then Joe surprised me by saying he should’ve been open to my suggestions back then. It made me so happy I baked him a pie—my first ever—and in the process I left two knife marks in his new kitchen table. Realizing what I’d done, I burst into tears. I knew in my heart we were just a charade. That despite my best efforts, I never be anything more than a bull in Joe’s china shop.

  In the evenings he attended AA meetings while I stayed behind, reading or watching TV. I kept pestering him to explain AA to me, but he was either unable or unwilling, so I finally asked him to take me. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said, and that was that. I never brought it up again. The next time he went to a meeting, I raced to Tony’s for a bottle of wine, then drank the whole thing before he returned an hour later. I did it every time, then would bury the bottles deep in his kitchen trash. As if that’s all it would take to hide my condition.