Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

It was rebellion turned on its head—strippers and rockers tearing up a hotel suite at 3:00 a.m. with Sharpie pens. I had no idea what this guy would do next.

  Joe jumped up. “Wanna see my moonwalk?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Wait, what?” The Michael Jackson thing? Seriously?

  Rick chuckled and shook his head like he knew what was coming. I prepared myself for more eccentricity. What I got was the sorriest excuse for a moonwalk I had ever seen.

  I’d been fairly quiet, taking Joe in like a foreign film minus the subtitles. Was it a mystery? Art film? Slapstick? Who knew? But his jerky, self-conscious “moonwalk” was too much. His boyish face, contorted in concentration while raking shoe rubber across the carpet, had me doubled over in giggles. I pulled myself together for fear of embarrassing him. Instead, I’d spurred him on.

  “Wait, wait!” he cried. “Watch this!” He leapt onto the windowsill—a wide, smooth surface for a better glide, and pane of glass away from a six-story plunge.

  “Careful,” Rick cautioned, before turning back to Vicki. At that point, it seemed clear the performance was for me.

  Joe’s windowsill moonwalk was as bad as the carpeted version, yet I couldn’t look away. Whether a brilliantly conceived anti-seduction or authentically clumsy charm, it hooked me. I was not a playful or silly person. I’d grown up in a small house with overworked parents and rambunctious siblings. Roughhousing was a no-no. Drawing and jumping on things was a good way to get a spanking. Once, at age two or three, I’d jumped on a tall, round table to impress the babysitter with my agility. When I fell and gashed my chin, my parents rushed home, where neither the babysitter nor I could explain what I’d been thinking. I knew even then that, as far as Mom was concerned, the sooner I grew up and calmed down, the better.

  Joe’s brand of childlike glee had long been suppressed in me. Amidst his many attractive features I spotted one of my discarded parts, and the effect was mind-blowing. I may not have understood chemistry then, but I knew it when I felt it. Like a veil lifting, a moment of clarity came as a voice in my head, stating with complete authority that this man before me was the man I was meant to marry. And, just like that, I was in love. I’ve met my soul mate, I thought.

  Joe stepped down and walked toward me. I was too nervous to make eye contact, but when he ducked behind my chair and started rubbing my shoulders, I knew he felt it, too. Maybe not the “soul mate” thing, but something. Our spark filled the room.

  Vicki nudged Rick, looking over with a smirk. I blushed. Joe laughed, then moved to the couch and lit a cigarette. (I was on my third.) The court jester disappeared and we chatted idly with Rick and Vicki. When a plate of cocaine materialized, Joe offered it to me.

  “No, thanks.” He looked so surprised, I tried to explain. “I had a problem with speed a couple of years ago—crystal meth, I mean. Anyway, I quit all that kind of stuff.”

  Joe smiled. I don’t think he knew what to say. It was the first thing he learned about me—I didn’t do cocaine.

  •••

  I’d been offered blow twice before. Both bumps were small, just enough to make me alert and completely nonsexual. Snorting coke killed my sex drive, an effect I did not care for (nor, coincidentally, did either of the men who’d given it to me).

  Speed had been different, heightening my arousal while demolishing everything else. My spiral had started upon leaving home at seventeen, when routine drug dabbling turned into intravenous meth-bingeing for a life-threatening, eye-opening, eight-month period of insanity. I’d blown tuition grants on drugs, turned my back on friends, pissed away my future, and nearly wound up dead. I quit cold turkey around the time I got hired at Sugar’s, where I was soon introduced to crack though a new fuck-buddy coworker. Our weekend binges turned into three-day runs, until my lust for Freddie’s drugs overtook my lust for Freddie. Thankfully, another dancer caught his eye, ending our fling and my crack habit, both. I’m done with drugs, I’d thought, relieved—well, hard drugs anyway (no reason to go overboard).

  Two years had passed and I hadn’t touched them, though Joe didn’t pry into all that. He asked standard stuff, like where was I from and what was I studying. Raised in San Diego, I’d moved to West Texas in high school, then to Austin to attend UT. Though I’d switched to community college, my goal was a film degree. I told Joe I wanted to work in cinematography, a white lie based on my inability to say I want to be a screenwriter without cringing for the overreach.

  Joe was in town for the T-Bird Riverfest, held every Memorial Day weekend on the banks of the river near downtown. The only local music fest I’d attended was Woodshock in ’85, a two-day punk thing. That was back when things were good, before the meth addiction and the mugging. I’d dropped out of the scene the following spring, after being beaten and robbed by my dealer and his posse. Since then I’d hit up a few Stevie Ray Vaughan all-age shows, but having lost my fake ID in the mugging, I’d made little effort to explore Austin’s vast music scene.

  The Fabulous Thunderbirds were ubiquitous, their bluesy pop all over the airwaves. I’d met (and gotten handsy with) their drummer, Fran, one night at Sugar’s, but the only other name on the lineup I recognized was Carlos Santana. I figured Joe must really know his way around a guitar to share a stage with that dude.

  “Please come,” Joe said. “I’ll leave a backstage pass at will call with Vicki’s.”

  I had to bite my lip to keep from beaming. We had a second date—this thing had legs.

  Joe pulled me onto the couch as Vicki and Rick made room. I was face-to-face with my soul mate and this time I would not look away. When he kissed me it was soft and sweet, and that’s where it stayed—until I bit him. Just a nibble, really, on his upper lip, but since I disliked that move myself, I wasn’t sure why I’d done it to him. Maybe I wanted to stir things up, like jumping on a table or window ledge, as if being edgy would make me seem special. I think I thought it would impress him. I must have; I kept doing it.

  The third time, Joe smiled. “You like to bite…okay then.”

  “No! I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I really don’t.” He laughed and I laughed with him, scolding myself in my head—Stop being an idiot. Do not screw this up! We kissed again and this time I followed his lead, but sharing the couch soon began to feel awkward and frustrating. I suggested going somewhere private.

  Joe led me to the suite’s adjoining bedroom where I kicked off my shoes, flew to the bed, and waited for him to jump me. And waited and waited, because jumping was not Joe’s style. His approach was so unrushed as to be cautious, even tame. I was way ahead of him, pulling, pressing, and grinding with multiple maneuvers that all came up empty. I didn’t get it. Why was he holding back, controlling the situation instead of responding? The more wound up I got, the more he restrained himself. I was all for extended foreplay, but this wasn’t it, as my every lip lock and hip grind was countered or restricted. He seemed intent on cooling my jets, which defied every instinct I had.

  It was downright Sisyphean, with me as the boulder, raised up repeatedly only to roll downhill again. After what felt like an hour of running in place, Joe went to the bathroom, then called for me to join him. And that’s when things got weird.

  “Let’s look at each other only through the mirror.”

  “Um, what?”

  “It’ll be sexy, trust me.”

  I had no idea what to say. I shrugged. Whatever, dude…sure.

  He lit a candle—finally, a gesture I recognized—and turned out the light. Flickering shadows danced on the walls as he positioned me at one end of the long counter and himself at the other. As we held each other’s reflected gaze, I wondered what he was thinking: if he thought my eyes were as uniquely beautiful as I thought his were, if he was aroused by this exercise or could tell that I wasn’t. I tried to ask, but he put a finger to his lips, so I shushed and played along. Nothing he’d done thus far negated the windowsill exp
erience. This is the man you’re meant to marry. That hadn’t changed. The rest was details.

  Back in bed it was more of the same: I still wore most of my clothes, and Joe’s manner was still withholding. Did I miss a memo? Had the rest of the world found a new way to “do it” and forgotten to tell me? Never had I had a more frustrating experience. The man had abandoned the universal, tried-and-true, baseball diamond method: kiss, pet, grope, penetrate. Score! This bathroom-mirror shit was practically un-American.

  What the hell, man?

  But I couldn’t say it. I thought I would embarrass and lose him in one fell swoop, that I couldn’t communicate my needs without automatically discounting his. I didn’t know any other outcome was possible. I bit my tongue for the rest of the night, not saying what I was thinking: Can we please fuck normally now? I never said it, not once, for many years.

  When it was time to go, he asked for my number. “I’ll see you at the show later, but just in case…”

  I wrote it next to my name on the legal pad he’d thrust at me—Kristin. Joe did a double take. “That’s how you spell your name?” Vicki had introduced me as Kristi, and like most people, Joe had assumed I spelled it with a “Ch.”

  “Yeah, why?”

  He stared deep into my eyes. “I had a daughter… She died years ago. Her name was Emma. Her middle name was Kristin.” I didn’t know what to say. “It’s a sign,” he continued, and I knew he knew. Maybe not the whole soul mate and future husband thing, but a hint, a whisper of it. A divine nudge had taken place.

  I was so relieved I babbled the entire drive to Vicki’s about how perfect he was, how perfect we were together. The poor girl looked more worried by the minute.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” she said. “He is a rock star, after all. The long distance and touring…well, you know. You can’t have expectations.”

  I refrained from announcing my plan to spend the rest of my life with him. Besides, I had worries of my own: the sexual compatibility thing, plus one other. The voice had been very clear. This is the man you’re meant to marry. Not going to—meant to.

  •••

  The next day, I followed Vicki through the makeshift backstage area at Auditorium Shores. On our left was the river; to the right, a string of RV dressing rooms. Vicki was looking for the one with our guys inside (our guys!) as I took in the scene.

  The day was cloudy and damp, though thankfully not too warm. Beyond the partition, thousands of fans awaited, passing joints, playing hacky sack, and chasing their kids through a maze of picnic blankets. The pleasantness didn’t call to me. In the egalitarian punk scene such dividers were anathema, but damned if I didn’t appreciate the extra breathing room on our side of it.

  Roadies and technicians hustled this way and that. Industry insiders hovered like gnats around cocksure musicians and pretty, young women in headscarves and sundresses. I wore my usual: boots and jeans. But fashion was easy in Austin; it was their breeziness that eluded me.

  Joe’s trailer was at the end of the line and Vicki announced our arrival with the same lone rap from the Radisson—their secret knock, I’d since learned. Joe came to the door, making my heart swell with those eyes, that mop, and every inch of him resonating as thoroughly as the night before. Daylight hadn’t broken the spell, after all…and yet something seemed amiss. A furrow in his brow caused me to hold back, just as Joe shot Vicki a tense, imploring look.

  A figure appeared behind him. Was it Rick? No, it was female—petite, stylish, beautiful.

  “Vicki!” she squealed. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  At once, all three of us—Vicki, Joe, and me—scrambled to adjust. Joe ducked inside the RV as I stepped behind Vicki and tried to blend into the scenery. Vicki rushed over to hug her friend, who I assumed to be Joe’s ex.

  “Lisa!” Vicki exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were coming!”

  I turned away and fumbled for a cigarette, pretending to look for a friend across the grass. Lisa beckoned Vicki inside, but she found an excuse to debrief me first. I’d been right—Joe’s “ex” (however much that term applied, I had to wonder) had made a surprise visit. Vicki had no choice but to abandon me before Lisa realized what was up—that the befuddled figure outside the RV wasn’t a casual acquaintance Vicki had run into, but Joe’s invited guest and soul mate.

  “You okay?”

  I took a hard drag on my cigarette, exhaling with a nod. “I’ll be fine.”

  As I marched backward through time, the pretty, privileged VIPs faded from my view. Only the image of Lisa remained, that one glance enough to burn her image into my brain—the petite, entitled vibrancy that put my mediocrity to shame. Lisa looked perfectly at home backstage. She was the kind of girl who belonged there and knew it.

  Meanwhile, I entered the belly of the beast, winding through the crowd to secure a spot near the stage. I had no reason to stay, beyond a compulsion to see this tragedy through, to get a full picture of what I’d almost had before it slipped through my fingers. I half hoped I’d hate Joe’s music. It would be a small comfort.

  I don’t recall a single note of the bands that played before him. Eventually it was Joe’s turn and his roadies sauntered out. The drummer settled in behind his kit. Rick approached a mic. Lisa appeared at side stage, confirming what I’d seen—head-to-toe perfection. She looked like the singer for the Bangles, except prettier, and nothing like a woman going through a breakup. I’d seen sadder faces on beauty queens.

  When Joe stepped out, the crowd exploded. Everyone had the piece of him they wanted—bandmates, girlfriend, and fans. I felt myself fall away like an eyelash. Then one of the first songs—maybe the first—jarred loose a faded memory. I grabbed hold and followed it to a six-year-old mental snapshot. I’d heard “Life’s Been Good” on the radio many times, yet until now I hadn’t connected it to that ancient carpool memory. Something about the tune, in relation to Joe, sent a shiver through me. Like a switch flipped, a light went on. It was the song I’d heard at fourteen. The one that made my heart hurt. That made me think, I know him and he knew me.

  My head was spinning.

  As if that weren’t enough, I now also had a fuller picture of Joe’s fame. Vicki had said “rock star” once or twice. It’s just that he hadn’t seemed like one—not this big of one. The crowd was gaga for him; this was bona fide stardom—a rarified space in which my silly fairy tale had no place. Rock stars didn’t fall in love with girls like me. I was a one-night stand and he’s never going to call me. What a slap in the face.

  Blind optimism wasn’t my style. I knew the score and what men saw in me. It’s not that I wasn’t a fun, cool chick. Quite the contrary—that was me to a T. The girl with few expectations, who didn’t ask questions or make demands. Amenable to one-night stands, I was a top choice for married men requiring discretion and emotional distance. I was even popular with wives and girlfriends casting their first threesome. I fit the bill as cute and sexy yet unthreatening, not “too” captivating. Not “Susanna Hoffs” stunning. I could be trusted to divest and detach, to go home afterward without being asked.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course Joe had wanted a fling. This was not my first rodeo, though it had felt different. The way I felt with Joe was like nothing I’d experienced.

  Thirty minutes in, I’d heard enough recognizable songs to see the writing on the wall. I went home and cried until the phone rang. A man on the other end told me Joe had reserved a separate room at his hotel for me. He would sneak away shortly to join me there.

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Kevin, Joe’s road manager,” he said. “Now get your ass to the Radisson.”

  Cruel Summer

  Kevin met me in the lobby and led me to the fourth floor with enough scowling and sighing to assure me the task was beneath him. He followed me into the room muttering about his thankless job, and I resisted the urge t
o point out that he’d have one less thing to do if he would go away and leave me alone. Instead, he peppered me with inappropriate questions and comments, all of which implied that I met up with rock stars on the sly regularly. I was still scrambling for a retort when Joe arrived.

  Kevin disappeared, and my tension went with him, as Joe showered me with affection beyond expectation. Gone were the previous night’s games and dodges as we consummated our connection the way I’d been wanting. Afterward, Joe lay on his back with one arm around my shoulders. I rolled on my side and pressed up against him, my head resting in the soft spot between his shoulder and chest.

  “I guess I should explain a few things,” he said and filled me in on Lisa. She’d been his girlfriend for four or five years before having an affair with John Entwistle—the bass player for The Who, who was now her boyfriend.

  “Why is she in Austin?” I asked, trying to sound offhanded.

  “Some breakups are quick and clean, I guess. Others peel off slowly, like a Band-Aid.”

  I thought of my high school boyfriend, our two-month relationship and six-week-long breakup. I asked Joe the only question that I thought mattered. “Do you want her back?”

  “It’s over with Lisa,” he assured me.

  I slid my leg around his waist and squeezed him like a seatbelt. We talked until Kevin returned with the now-familiar “secret” knock. He informed Joe that the party upstairs was not so large that his absence had gone unnoticed. “I’m running out of lies to tell Lisa,” he said.

  Dressing quickly, Joe promised we would be together again soon. “Don’t worry,” he said, holding my chin and locking my gaze. “I’ll make it happen. Know that. Trust it.”

  I did. Despite his lingering breakup and creepy road manager, I did—one hundred percent.

  •••

  I’d been in love once before, in high school. At twenty-one, Brad had been five years my senior and an engineer at DuPont. Preppy and all-American, he’d been the furthest thing from my type, but an irreverent wit and progressive intellect had quickly drawn me in. He’d been attracted to my punk-rock edge and my refusal to tone it down for small-town Texas. I’d tried not to be hurt about the cheating and to be open-minded about non-monogamy, but whether it was “evolved” or not, I longed for a conventional relationship. We’d managed to reconcile briefly, right before he moved to Austin. Devastated, I sobbed in bed as my parents comforted me, saying that if Brad and I were truly meant to make it, God would not have sent him away. It was their sole comment on the most anguished moment of my young life, and when it only made me cry harder, Mom rolled her eyes and left the room. Senior year I made the honor roll and graduated early. Every moment that year I wasn’t studying or binge drinking, I spent silently condemning love and questioning everything about my self-worth. The following year, I bumped into Brad on a street corner in downtown Austin. I was at the peak of my meth addiction. He was hand in hand with a new girlfriend—stylish and sophisticated, as unlike me as they come.