Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol

by Creston Mapes

  Everett –

  After you were treated at the hospital in Dayton yesterday, Mary didn’t think you should travel far and agreed to bring you here to my home in Grayson, Ohio. It is just east of Dayton and should give you adequate privacy during the media coverage.

  In case you didn’t figure it out yet, you have a broken nose! You’ve been quite heavily sedated, and more pain medication is here, should you need it. Don’t worry about upcoming concerts. Mary is handling everything with Gray Harris. I am at work, will be home around five-thirty. Help yourself to food in fridge and pantry.

  For now, rest.

  Fondly,

  Jerry Princeton

  I picked up the bottle of pills prescribed in my name. One every four to six hours. I tapped two into my hand, found a glass, and swallowed them with tap water. Then I put the orange bottle in my pocket and casually opened a cabinet here and there, hoping to find a bottle of wine or something to wet my whistle.

  On top of the white refrigerator, I noticed a maroon Bible and a small, black hardbound notebook. I got the books down. Leafing through the worn Bible, I noticed that many of its words and verses had been highlighted with yellow and orange markers; others were underlined and circled in ink. Words were written up and down the margins. The black notebook appeared to be Jerry’s personal journal. I put both books back as they were atop the fridge.

  Opening a door in the kitchen, I looked down several steps into a clean two-car garage. Jerry had a nice workbench, with lamps, cabinets, and shelves full of tools. Next, I opened the door to the pantry, found a box of Ritz crackers, and helped myself, taking the box with me.

  I peered into the small dining room, then walked into a nicely decorated study, with a maple desk, a comfortable reading chair and ottoman, and a wall full of books—complete with a rolling library ladder. One wall was filled with unique paintings, watercolors and oils.

  There was a painting of an orange sunset, a fisherman repairing a buoy, sea oats at the beach, and one of a lighthouse at night. Another showed Jesus and his disciples in a boat, surrounded by a raging storm. Christ stood with his arms stretched skyward, and the sun began to shine in the background. Words were written in calligraphy below: “He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, ‘Quiet! Be still!’ Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.”—Mark 4:39.

  So this is where Jerry gets his peace… Even the tough Marine is a sheep.

  Heading back to the family room, I found the remote control on the arm of the couch and turned on the TV. Flipping through the channels, I stopped at CNN Headline News, thinking I might see something about the events of the past two days.

  During a commercial break, I pulled up the white T-shirt Jerry must have loaned me and examined several spots that were particularly painful. Slowly lifting the tape that covered a large bandage on my left side, I saw a red welt about the circumference of a softball. It was hot to the touch. Several ample purple and yellow bruises decorated the middle of my chest. Reaching behind me, I felt another warm lump on my lower back.

  “Real news. Real fast. This is CNN Headline News with Linda Stockton and Chuck Richards…

  “Management for the heavy metal band DeathStroke announced today that it will cancel at least the next ten shows of its forty-eight-city Rowdy tour. This news comes one day after fourteen-year-old ninth grader Olivia Gilbert of Xenia, Ohio, was struck in the head by a microphone stand thrown into the audience by DeathStroke lead singer Everett Lester at a concert before thousands of people at Dayton Arena.

  “The young girl remains in a coma, in guarded condition at Good Samaritan Hospital.

  “Fifteen other people were treated and released from local hospitals after suffering from breathing difficulties, cuts, and bruises sustained in a riot and stampede that ensued when Lester passed out onstage, and the concert was abruptly cancelled.

  “Further developments have revealed that Lester was badly beaten by the Xenia girl’s father when attempting to visit her at the hospital. Unconfirmed sources say Lester sustained a broken nose, cuts, and abrasions in the tussle.

  “Numerous reports indicate that Lester was intoxicated before the concert began and continued to imbibe openly during the show. Dayton police have questioned numerous people in the case and have said they are looking for Lester in order to question him. However, his whereabouts at this time are unknown.

  “Insiders say the parents of Olivia Gilbert are considering filing charges against the bad boy rocker. For more, here’s CNN’s Byron Pinter…”

  “Good evening, Linda and Chuck,” said the handsome black reporter, standing outside Good Samaritan Hospital. “Dayton police are investigating this case, which could lead to aggravated assault and other charges against Lester—even manslaughter, should the young girl die.

  “Meanwhile, her father has made it clear he wants Lester punished for his actions. Gilbert could file suit against Lester right now for battery, compensatory damages for the wrong done to his daughter, and hefty punitive damages—designed to dissuade the guilty party from repeating his actions.

  “Although Gilbert is anxious to file suit, his attorneys may advise him to wait until Lester is brought to trial by the Dayton district attorney, if indeed he is. This way, Gilbert’s attorneys could use to their advantage all of the pertinent material gathered in the case by the district attorney’s office—including evidence, witness transcripts, and factual data.

  “We’ll keep a close eye on this one, Linda and Chuck. For now, this is Byron Pinter reporting live from Good Samaritan Hospital in Dayton, Ohio.”

  Setting the black bag on the floor in my room, I lowered myself onto the chair, found my phone, turned it on, and held down the button programmed with Endora’s cell phone number.

  “Endora Crystal,” she picked up, sounding as if she was on speakerphone.

  “It’s me.”

  “Where are you?” she hissed.

  “Sounds like the cops are looking for me.”

  “Them and everybody else. Are you okay?”

  “Pretty banged up.”

  “You poor thing. Where on earth are you? I know you’re not at your sister’s.”

  “What am I gonna do? This girl’s in a coma.”

  “Everett, you need to listen to me very carefully,” she said, pronouncing every word slowly, systematically. “This may be the most important conversation we ever have. Do you understand?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You need to get yourself to the Dayton police and cooperate with them—however they want.”

  “But…”

  “I’m not finished,” she yelled over the sounds of traffic. “Then…we’re going to get you back in the studio to finish Freedom. We’ve cancelled ten concerts so we can get that monkey off our backs. You can sing, can’t you?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Once we’re done with Freedom, hopefully you’ll be well enough to finish the Rowdy tour.”

  “There’s a girl in a coma, Endora! Do you live in the real world? My nose is broken!”

  “Gray and the attorneys are handling all the legal stuff. All of it. Okay? To you, it doesn’t exist.”

  “That girl exists! I saw her… She may never be the same.”

  “She’ll make it,” Endora said coldly. “I really feel she’s going to make it.”

  “We’re talkin’ aggravated assault, battery…”

  “Everett, I just hung up with Gray.”

  “Manslaughter!”

  “No suit has been filed,” she shot back. “The district attorney hasn’t charged you. And if any charges are filed, our attorneys will get you off. The worst you’ll have to do is pay damages.”

  “How do you know I’m not at Mary’s place?”

  “I called her,” she said, followed by a deep drag on a cigarette.

  “When?”

  “She knows where you are, doesn’t she? Why are you
keeping it such a big secret?”

  “I need to figure out what to do…”

  “I just told you what to do! Don’t be freaked out and don’t go on some heavy guilt trip about this thing. Remember…judgment, condemnation—they’re lies from hell, Everett. Don’t be hard on yourself. Move on. Rest in the security of knowing that your friends are going to get you out of this mess. Soon it will all be just a blip on the screen.”

  “What else did Mary say?”

  “That the two of you went to visit the girl at the hospital, and that’s the last she saw you. Listen, I don’t care where you are, as long as you do what I tell you! Number one: Go to the Dayton police. Number two: Call Gray and tell him how soon you can be back out to The Groove. Is two more days enough?”

  I stared blankly out the window at the falling darkness. It reminded me of the shade of my soul.

  “Well…you decide,” she snapped. “But make it quick. We need to finish this record. Tina says sponsors are chomping at the bit to bid on the Freedom tour. That thing could launch as early as a month after the Rowdy tour ends. Listen, get some rest. You’ll feel much better in the morning. And leave your phone on! I want access to you.”

  “Are the guys ticked?”

  “They’ll get over it. They’re probably glad to have another few days off. None of us could believe you went to visit that girl. Great PR move.”

  “It wasn’t PR!”

  “I’m just teasing,” she said. “Do you need me to come to you?”

  “No…where are you?”

  “I’m in a cab on my way to a reading. A high-ranking official with the New York Stock Exchange in Manhattan… Hey, by the way, if I decide to stay over, can I crash at your place?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “You’re a doll. Be happy now, pumpkin! Everything’s going to be fine.”

  She hung up, and I held the phone in my lap and stared outside.

  It was the kind of yard where children would love to run and play hide-and-go-seek. Had Olivia ever romped in this backyard?

  The clock by the bed showed 5:25. Jerry was due home. I couldn’t decide whether to ask him to drive me to the Dayton police, to leave the house on foot and run from all this, or to take every pill in my pocket.

  The stench in my cell was overwhelming tonight. What I wouldn’t give for some fresh air. Ever since I was incarcerated on murder charges, and throughout the trial, my life had become abysmally sedentary. I couldn’t stand it. I was used to moving, going, doing. But now, I was either sitting in an uncomfortable, straight-backed wooden chair in courtroom B-3 or lying on this soft, lumpy mattress behind these chipped white bars.

  But I would say this—I’d grown in the past few weeks. I was forced to learn about trust and hope, about patience, about being content in the here and now. There was plenty of time to read, which is what I did most of the time when I wasn’t writing these memoirs. I also did several sets of sit-ups and push-ups when I got up in the mornings—just to keep the blood flowing.

  Although they wouldn’t let me have my guitar in here (Brian was working on that), I still managed to scribble down quite a few new tunes and lyrics. Perhaps I’ll share those with you later.

  The lights were dim in here. It was depressing. Like I said, the smell was always bad. At night, when the lights flickered off at 10 p.m., I could hear men crying, screaming…laughing wickedly. The sounds echoed off these concrete walls like bad dreams.

  I had a friend in here named Scotty; didn’t know his last name. He’d served four years of a twelve-year sentence for armed robbery. He had a wife and two young children at home and struggled with depression. Scotty was strung out on drugs when he did the crime and needed the money to pay for his fix.

  I understood. And I hoped I could encourage him.

  A large shadow crept up my legs and darkened my chest and the pages of these memoirs.

  I looked up to see the outline of Zaney’s massive body covering what little overhead light came in from outside my cell. He held a mop in one fist and a bucket in the other. Looking both ways, he set them down and pressed his pudgy nose between the bars.

  He stared in at me for what seemed like a minute.

  “I am anti-Christ,” he finally whispered. “So was Endora… You know that, don’t you?”

  My stomach tanked and I froze to the bunk.

  “You were doin’ so well, Lester.” He leaned his head back a few inches. “We were settin’ people free…legions of people! Through the wide gate, down the broad road—”

  “To destruction,” I said, surprised by my own words.

  He squeezed the bars next to each side of his head with both mitts and sneered at me. “That’s right…to destruction. And when you found that out, we started losing you, didn’t we?”

  He backed up, looked all around, then smashed his fat face between the bars.

  “We couldn’t let that happen, Lester. We couldn’t lose you. We had to do something.”

  “What are you talking about…Endora Crystal’s death?”

  “The ultimate sacrifice.”

  “I don’t know what you had to do with Endora, but whatever it was, it’s backfiring.”

  “We’re not done yet,” he spewed. “I told you, we will finish what we started. Sleep with your eyes open, Lester, and tell your lovely to do the same.”

  He picked up the bucket, grabbed the mop, and took several steps. “And don’t bother havin’ Boone call me to the witness stand.” He smirked. “After all, I’m the father of lies.”

  He managed a sick laugh and lumbered away, repeating the words, “That’s just my nature… That’s just my nature…”

  13

  MARY TOOK THE DAY off from her many real estate calls to pick up my attorney at the Dayton International Airport. Brian had flown in from New York to be with me as I turned myself in to the Dayton police department for questioning in the Olivia Gilbert incident.

  Jerry Princeton couldn’t have been more kind. He saw to it that I was well fed and rested at his comfortable home. We talked at length during meals and while watching ball games. It turned out that during his days in the service, he was a rock ’n’ roll junkie and even had a bent for DeathStroke music, in his rowdier moments.

  That first night, when Jerry returned home from work, he found me sitting in my room, staring out the window with the bottle of pain pills in my hand. He sat on the edge of my messed-up bed, and we talked about life, about family, about growing up, about love—and about his beautiful wife, Susan, who was snatched from him by cancer when she was just thirty-seven.

  That’s when Jerry had considered suicide…with his service revolver…right here in the same room, staring out the same window, wondering the same things: Why was life so cruel, so lonely? What was the meaning of life? Why was I here?

  I had known Jerry less than a month, and I considered him a warm and honest man. In fact, I had never been exposed to such love and interest from another human being; therefore, I wasn’t certain I could trust it. But Jerry had been on the front lines of war, he’d done drugs, he’d lost a young wife, he’d contemplated suicide. And yet…he was sane. He was standing. His life even seemed to flourish.

  Just by being there and being transparent, Jerry enticed me to open up and share things I hadn’t shared with anyone.

  “My old man and I argued all the time,” I confessed. “He beat me often.”

  “How did those skirmishes make you feel?”

  “Terrified…of the next time.”

  I cried, flooding his waiting heart with my deep-rooted feelings of inadequacy, hatred, incompetence, bitterness, and fear of man.

  Jerry listened. He related. We became friends.

  “I have so much rebellion inside. Even though I’m famous, I’m so lonely. There’s no contentment. I feel depressed and guilty all the time. It ticks me off.”

  “And you’ve become determined never to be hurt again, haven’t you?”

  “In a way, yeah. I live a defensi
ve life, that’s for sure.”

  “Maybe that’s why you developed a love for guns.”

  During one of our chats, Jerry explained in a casual, heart-to-heart way that God had come into his life when Susan died. He said that Christ could be my lifeline, too. Although I listened intently out of courtesy, I just could not get my head around what he was telling me; I couldn’t bring it into focus. It seemed far off, untouchable—something for other people. However, Jerry’s countenance and compassion toward me didn’t change as a result of my lack of response—and that intrigued me.

  He took the morning off from his job at Gladstone College to drive me to meet Mary and Boone at the Dayton police department. On the way, he told me he had seen Mary the night before at Good Samaritan Hospital and that his niece remained in serious condition. There had been no change.

  Mary and Jerry had seen each other almost every day at the hospital and had shared dinner and walks several times since the incident with Olivia. Claudia and Raymond Gilbert hadn’t filed charges yet and, to my knowledge, had no idea I was staying at the home of Claudia’s brother.

  Unbeknownst to me, Gray Harris flew in, rented a car, and met us at the police department. While Brian, Gray, and I met with a jazzed-up, four-person team of Dayton investigators, Mary and Jerry took off to find a good cup of coffee and enjoy a morning out together.

  I won’t bore you with all the details of the interrogation with the police. My initial impression was that they were four rednecks on a witch hunt. Then again, a fourteen-year-old girl lying in a coma had been injured on their watch—and they wanted answers.

  The three men and one woman plainclothes team of investigators escorted us into a dark, windowless, smoke-filled room where, just like in the movies, a lone overhead light dangled low over the table between us.

  With tape recorders rolling, I told the investigators how I had slept in late the day of the concert at Dayton Arena, my normal routine while on tour. “I was especially tired that day, because we had been recording in California, had flown in for a show in Toledo, then jetted down to Dayton in the wee hours of the morning.