by Jim Fusilli
I WAKE UP AND IT’S morning. The sun is blazing. My head feels like it’s about to split apart. It takes me a while to realize that my jeans and underwear are missing. I find them in the corner of the room on the floor.
“Johnny?” I call out.
But there’s no one there but me.
I stumble out and into the day. The maid is there cleaning up the mess; she lets me use the phone to call a cab. “Where to?”
Why, to Johnny’s. I walk past his room to get to mine and as I do, his door opens. A strange woman emerges. I have such a splitting headache I can barely look at her.
In the bathroom I open the cabinet to get the aspirin and shut it and see myself. Only then do I notice the red half-moon prints on either side of my neck. That’s when it comes back to me in a rush, someone on top of me. His fetid breath and his nails digging in, choking me until I black out.
“Is that you, Julie?” I hear Johnny asking just outside the door.
I blink. It is, and it isn’t. I tell myself it couldn’t have been him. He’s here, I was there, he has someone with him, and he’s never even looked at me that way.
I’m shaking when I emerge. “How did you sleep?” he asks. “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“When did you leave?”
“The party? Late. You could use some coffee,” and he is heading for the kitchen to make it for us. I hear him relaying the good news. As promised, Capitol Records wants to sign us.
I go back inside and shower. I clean every pore twice. By the time I step out, I decide that if it happened, it couldn’t have been him. And whatever happened, it was my fault for getting so drunk and passing out. I decide, the best thing I can do is forget about it.
THAT FIRST DAY IN THE recording studio is surreal. Like Christmas in July, that is if Christmas means you get to try out every guitar you’ve ever dreamed of playing. I pick an aqua-and-white Fender Stratocaster. And we rehearse endlessly. They want to release a single with a B-side and it’s all incredible, including the producer who has worked with all these famous musicians and is full of compliments, what a unique sound we have, how talented we are, what a privilege it is.
I learn later on, that’s what they tell everyone. It’s called grooming the artist. As in, sucking up so you can get the most out of them.
At night, to get to sleep, I get drunk and high and finally drift off. But in the middle of the night, I wake shivering and shaking. It’s summer in LA and Johnny doesn’t have air conditioning so it’s stifling in that room. Yet, for me it might as well be the Arctic Circle.
IT TAKES A MONTH FOR them to get the single polished and perfect, and then they release it and we go out on tour in support. We are booked into pretty decent sized clubs in the Midwest to begin with. The label backs us up; there’s radio play and a ton of interviews. They keep adding dates to the tour.
As for Johnny, he finds a new girl in every port. Meanwhile, Eileen hooks up with Nick, one of our roadies. Tara prefers the groupies, or as we call them, Tara’s boys. They all have the same kind of look: long hair and sensitive, slightly hangdog expressions. I can’t bear the idea of having someone touch me. I lie and tell them I met a guy back in LA and I’m staying true.
BY THE TIME WE ROLL into New York, it’s December. It’s freezing. I can see my own breath. And the city is even crazier than I imagined. All this traffic and noise and grime and all the people walking intently, they are clearly on the way to somewhere important.
“Are we staying at the Chelsea?” I ask Johnny eagerly.
“Sorry, no can do.”
The Chelsea might be historic but it’s also been getting some bad press, what with the sad tale of Sid and Nancy. He’s booked us into the Hilton in midtown. Boring. Bland. But it’s the last stop on our tour and that night we’re playing the Palladium.
OUR SET LASTS FORTY MINUTES and we come back for three encores. The last one is a surprise to me, Tara and Eileen have come up with it without saying anything. I know it, of course: “Sympathy for the Devil.”
I let loose and it’s wild, the bouncers are dragging kids off the stage but they’re like jumping jacks, they keep popping right back up.
Afterward, there’s a party at the Factory in Union Square only a few blocks away. When we leave by the side door, it’s snowing. What could be more perfect, I think. I open my mouth and a flake lands on my tongue and melts away. I follow along at the back of the pack and then, it’s easy for me to slow down and peel off without anyone else realizing.
The Chelsea is right nearby. No one will miss me.
I STAND IN FRONT OF the hotel and gawk. To get inside I would have to buzz and I don’t have a reason. So I crane my neck and try and imagine which one was Patti’s room. There’s a black metal latticework that looks like a row of balconies. The snow is really coming down and crystals catch in my eyelashes. The clothing I’m wearing is soaked in sweat. My mom would admonish me: “You’ll catch your death.” Is it possible to actually catch death, can you trap it in a net then tuck it into a jar like a lightning bug?
And then, without warning, I start sobbing. And can’t get myself to stop. My vision blurs. I’m gasping. “Please oh please,” I manage to get out, and I have no idea who I’m saying it to.
I’m losing it completely when two women step out of the bar next to the Chelsea. One of them shoves the other. Hard. She totters, but regains her footing, “What did you do that for?”
“I saw you making eyes at him.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were!”
They are both wearing leather mini skirts and high heels and one of them has on this white fur coat.
“Slut!”
“Says who?”
Wait, their voices. I realize those aren’t women just as one of them turns and sees me, and says, “What the fuck are you gaping at?”
“Yeah, bitch, what’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I mutter and hurry away.
ALL I CAN THINK OF when I get back to the hotel is running a hot bath and sinking into it. So, it’s a surprise when I open the door to the room and find Johnny sitting, yogi style, on my bed.
“Where were you?”
“I just went for a walk,” I say.
“A walk?”
“To the Chelsea,” I admit. “I just wanted to see it,” though I’m embarrassed. It all seems to silly, my devotion to her. And the way I broke down.
“You should have told someone.” Johnny is up and he’s moving toward me. “I was worried. We all were. You can’t just run off like that, Julie.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“Are you?” he asks and that’s when I realize he’s really pissed off at me. “It was fucking embarrassing not to have you there.”
“Look,” I begin which is when he slaps me. I put up my hand because it stings.
“Don’t you ever do that again, do you hear me? I’m supposed to be in charge of you, you understand?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
I can smell the funk coming off of him, the sour smell of sweat, the sweet smell of pot, the burnt smell of cigarettes, and of course, the alcohol. I try to move away, but he has me flush up against the wall. He’s leaning over me, and then I blink and it comes back, all of it, him on top of me, him breathing hard, choking me, and then jamming himself inside of me.
“It was you!” I say, as much in wonder as in horror.
Which is when he punches me in the stomach, once, twice, three times and I crumple and slide down onto the floor. They’re not stars you see, they’re little slivers of your brain floating away. He drags me by my feet across the rug and then he pulls off my jeans and rips off my underwear, one of his hands is over my mouth as he does it. I’m smothering and I try to squirm away, but I can’t.
I give up. I tell myself he’ll be done and when he’s done it will be over and then, and then, and finally he grunts and pulls off of me, stands up, zipping his jeans and s
ays, “You won’t forget now!”
I wait till the door shuts. Then I manage to stand and get myself over to the bathroom and sink down next to the tub, pulling off the rest of my clothes. I run the bath and get in. My body protests. There are stabbing pains, cold meeting heat but then it stops and I turn as red as a lobster. I put my feet up on the wall and slowly, surely lower myself until my head is under the water. I wait until I can see bubbles drifting up and finally I open my mouth and the water pours in. There’s a moment when I think I can do it.
That then it will be over.
I hold on for what seems like forever.
Only then, I can’t. Something else takes over and my body lurches upright and I’m retching, and coughing and wheezing and hanging over the side of the tub. It turns out I’m just another pathetic Lady Lazarus, rising from the dead.
THE RECORD COMPANY BOOKS US a private plane for the trip back. “They love you girls,” Johnny says. He has one of his women with him. Eileen has her roadie. Tara has Zach. “Isn’t he adorable?” she asks anyone and everyone as he gets her drinks and lights her joint and rubs her feet.
The entire flight west is one big party. Lots of coke being snorted and all that goes with it. But I don’t imbibe. I stay stone-cold sober. I sit by the window and stare out at the clouds.
WHEN WE LAND, JOHNNY O announces he has a huge surprise for all of us. The record company has rented us a house in Malibu. It has a practice room in it. Just wait till we see.
“It’ll get all your creative juices going, girls,” he tells us in the limo. “It’s just like I said. Johnny keeps his promises.”
IT’S QUITE A HOUSE. IT’S got a pool and private beach and a whole wing for Johnny. He buys himself a waterbed and has it installed and the ladies come and go. He gets a dozen pairs of authentic snakeskin cowboy boots. And a new classic ride, a British import, a Triumph convertible. He seems to have an endless supply of coke as well.
We are supposed to be working on some new material, or as Johnny puts it, “making us a hit.” He tells us that what we’ve been doing is great, but to get to be in the top ten on the radio? “Soften it up a bit is all.” A steady beat, nothing too driving; a catchy chorus, nothing too demanding; and of course the lyrics have to be extra special, clever without being so smart they go above the listener’s heads. “I’ll leave you to it then, ladies.”
ONE AFTERNOON WE’RE SITTING IN there working and Eileen says, “Has he ever talked to either one of you about the money?”
We shake our heads.
“We should ask him, I guess,” Tara says.
And we look at each other. It becomes clear that none of us wants to do that.
“Maybe we should find someone else to check on it for us,” Eileen suggests.
So we do. We find a lawyer. He has his investigator do a little discreet digging. He tells us the size of our advance. He shows us the Xeroxes the investigator has found, contracts we supposedly signed giving Johnny O complete control over all of our finances.
“But we didn’t sign those,” I say.
“It’s your word against his right now. Of course, once we go to trial . . .” His retainer is paid up front. It’s $10,000 to begin with. We don’t have access to our money, and I’m the only one who even has a family I can turn to. Or could. I think about my parents, I think about going back to them and asking for a loan. As if I can do that. I have to admire the genius of it; he’s got us exactly where he wants us.
ON THE WAY BACK FROM the lawyer’s office, we park at the Santa Monica pier and walk out to the far end where there’s a metal railing and a view of the ocean.
“What are we going to do?” Tara asks.
“We could quit,” Eileen says.
“And let him get away with it?” I counter. I stare at the horizon and I think about all of it, about chance and fate and how I could have been somewhere else, anywhere else, but no, I was there, that day and he found me. It was for a reason, it has to have all been for a reason. Then I take a deep breath and turn to them and say, “It’s not just about the money.” I tell them the rest.
Eileen goes pale.
“You too,” Tara says dully.
It’s like the nursery fable only in reverse. Three blind mice have been given back the gift of sight.
DID YOU KNOW THAT YOU can make daiquiris at home in a blender? All you need are the proper ingredients. For fun, pop in a festive paper umbrella. Then it’s like you’re really on vacation on some Hawaiian beach.
We lift our glasses and make a toast. “To us, Johnny.”
From our deck, the sunset turns the water blood red.
We clink, all four of us and drink to the dregs.
“We’re going to rule the world we are,” he proclaims loudly.
We agree.
“We have a surprise for you,” I say. Then we lead him back inside, right down the hall to his bedroom. We strip him down to his underwear. He looks happy, thinking he knows what’s coming next. He pats the bed vaguely. It rocks underneath him. Eileen and Tara step back. But I don’t. I lean in and ask him, “Why did you talk to me that day?”
His eyes can’t quite focus by then.
“What?”
“That day you met me, at the record store. Why me?”
He grunts. There’s that lizard-like smile. “Because I did.”
“Because you did? That’s it?”
I get nothing more.
“By the way,” Eileen tells him, “you’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me.” Only it doesn’t come out cleanly, the words slur and then he hears himself and asks, “What is this? What did you give me?” And the panic sets in. I start to back up but he’s too fast, he grabs me by my wrist and pulls me down to him. Hisses it at me. “Where would you have been without me, go on, tell me that why don’t you, you ungrateful bitch. I made you!” There’s spittle on the side of his mouth. His tongue darts out and freezes and I unlock his fingers as he falls backwards.
TARA WASHES THE GLASSES AND the blender, though what could they really find in it? His drink was special, still. We put them all away. We sit out on the deck and watch the moon rise.
One by one the lights in the other houses go out.
Captain of the swim team and Red Cross certified as a senior lifeguard. I worked at the local pool every summer, didn’t I? It takes all of us to get him down to the water’s edge. But once he’s in I use the fireman’s carry. There’s no need to keep his head above water. I swim out past the end of the rock wall. And let go.
HIS BODY WASHES UP TWO weeks later. The toxicology is inconclusive, but Johnny O’s reputation precedes him. No one’s surprised when they find the cocktail of downers in his system. It’s clear he went for a midnight swim and succumbed.
It’s a terrible tragedy. We are all beside ourselves with grief. We can hardly stand to talk about it. But somehow I manage to say a few words at his funeral.
After that, the requests pour in. Everyone wants to manage us but we tell them no. We say that none of them could ever match our Johnny. We prefer to take the reins ourselves.
THESE DAYS, INTERVIEWERS ALWAYS WANT to know the secret to our longevity as a band. “We like and trust each other” is what I tell them. “And we love playing music together. There’s no other secret than that.”
But honestly, the way musicians get taken advantage of it’s surprising more bands don’t do what we did.
Eventually they always come ’round to Johnny. I smile as I imagine Johnny writhing in that special corner of hell that is reserved for him and I say, “I’m not a big believer, but I like to think that wherever he is, he knows and he’s happy for us. It was his vision that pulled this band together in the first place and we owe him so much. I mean, honestly, where would we be if not for him?”
SHADEROC THE SOUL SHAKER
BY GARY PHILLIPS
OH FOR THE DAYS WHEN he could snort him a line of flake while some groupie was down on her knees, her head buried between his spread leat
her-clad legs, pleasuring him like he was a visiting pharaoh. Goddamn, that time in his room backstage at the Forum . . . the two big-titty blondes. Sheeet, the top of his head damn near blew off that night as they sexed him up, down, and sideways.
Churchill “Church” Gibson shook his head, regretfully cycling away from the glorious past into the stone-cold reality of now. He glared at the screen of his laptop as if it were an adversary. He put aside his coffee and tapped the keyboard and the music app replayed his most troubling track through external speakers. The green audio readout traveling from left to right as the music filled his compact home studio space.
He tapped a key again midway through to bring silence. The track was all right but it wasn’t killer. It merely filled space. None of the tracks so far were killer. No, that wasn’t quite right, two of them he was happy with . . . not in love with, but their shine only highlighted how lackluster the others were.
“Motherfuck,” he muttered. There came a momentary gurgle in the middle of his chest and he closed his eyes, centering his chi, breathing in and out slowly, summoning his mindfulness. He took hold of his crutch, sliding his arm through the bracket, latching onto the T-handle, and rose from his seat with a grunt. He walked over to his wet bar that no longer was stocked with Johnnie Walker Black, Majesté XO cognac, and blunts thick as a big mama’s clit and trés potent, as if laced with jet fuel. Now it was an assortment of bottled green and red concoctions of blended fruits and vegetables, vitamins and his various pills for blood pressure and what have you. He sighed and checking his Tag Heuer Carrera watch, a gift from Quincy Jones, took his meds. He swigged it down with some kind of kale-and-berry smoothie that while he would never actually like the taste, at least his tolerance for the stuff had grown.
“Those were the days, weren’t they, Church?”
Licking green foam from over his top lip, Gibson turned and gaped. There in his studio stood Shirley King. She’d been one of his backup singers once upon a time, one of the few who managed to make it across that twenty-foot expanse to the spotlight. He’d produced her first hit album. Then it got messy when they got involved. But, he frowned, hadn’t she died in that car crash in Paris? Higher than a 707 in ’02?
