With my long-suffering boyfriend behind the wheel, white-knuckling a jammed-packed Sunset Boulevard, I danced in my seat doing a striptease (literally), for him and anyone who might glance over. No one did—outside the car or in. Joe’s eyes never left the road. He fought rush-hour traffic and my nymphomaniac advances all the way to the hotel.
“Pull over, let’s fool around.”
“No.”
“C’mon, it’ll be fun—”
“No. Just, no!”
I left him alone but continued dancing in my seat. At the Bel Age, Joe retrieved my clothes from the back seat and floorboards, tossed them at me, and stormed into the hotel.
“You’re no fun,” I shouted, laughing to myself, untangling my bra and getting dressed. The valet guy waited outside, expressionless.
In our room, we immediately crashed out. Joe was up before me—a first—still acting bristly. I still didn’t know why. He went to Rick’s without me and was gone so long I called to check on him. There was a woman’s voice in the background.
“It’s no one,” Joe said. “A friend from my building. We’re watching the game.”
“The blonde woman who has a crush on you?”
“Yeah, so?”
“You left me alone in a hotel room all day to spend time with another woman? Really?”
“Back off,” he snapped. “Don’t tell me what to do. It’s none of your business who I hang out with.”
“Never mind… Forget I said anything. Do whatever you want, Joe.” Then I hung up.
•••
Whenever Joe went from zero to sixty like that, I reacted like a flooded car engine—I both revved up and stalled, at once. Confrontation of any kind sent me straight back to childhood.
Discipline in my home had been verbal, never physical, beyond some half-hearted spankings (that even my six-year-old brain could tell my dad was uncomfortable giving). Dad rarely raised his voice, and when he did his bark had no bite. Mom’s tone was different. More bobcat than hound dog, her reprimands drove home what a burden I was—or, at least, that’s what it sounded like. Like my behavior was somewhere between tiresome and maddening, my presence unwelcome at best. She had five kids and a lot of individuation to keep in check—what her generation called discipline. I called it something else (silently, in my head) but it was effective nonetheless.
My mother was a child of the fifties, a Daddy’s girl and obedient Catholic. Being tidy and correct was integral to her identity. Being devout led to a large family. She envisioned a Norman Rockwell existence. I gave her Pippi Longstocking on acid—a toddler so strong-willed I once screamed myself purple rather than relinquish my favorite (unwieldy) stuffed animal so she could change my diaper. The ensuing meltdown, to hear my mother tell it, was a display of such unrestrained rebellion as to be incomprehensible to her. My eyes rolled back into my head and my lips turned blue. I don’t recall the incident, but it sounds like me—someone who’d sooner kill or be killed than release whatever security blanket I’d found as a stand-in for what my mom couldn’t give me.
From her perspective, I had a temperamental problem that was her duty to eliminate. From mine, the problem was less about my reactive temperament than her rage and depression, which I was reacting to. I had a temper, this was true, and also anxiety, shame, and confusion. The more she tried to squelch their expression, the more entrenched those emotions grew. Lacking any other coping mechanisms, I learned to stuff my feelings and dissociate from them. To be honest, I thought I was kind of a genius for figuring out how. Anyway, the bits that leaked out in her presence were nothing compared to what I held in. In that respect, her disciplinary style could be called a success.
I was chastised for falling and scraping my hand, then berated for giving myself subpar first aid. (I’d neglected to dig out the last few pebbles and snip off a lingering wisp of torn flesh.) I was punished for peeing my pants when the neighbor boy forced me to walk to the corner store with him and wouldn’t take me to a bathroom or show me the way home. I was reviled for putting my shoes on the wrong feet when Mom was in a hurry to leave for church. If I missed a spot with the Windex, threw a striped blouse in a load of whites (it was half white, after all), or clumsily dropped a roll of Charmin in the toilet bowl as a kid, she’d eviscerate me in a dagger-sharp tone—What’s wrong with you? Can’t you do anything right? Why must you make my life so hard? I tried to do better at reeling in my feelings and clumsiness. One night, she let me join her and Dad in our new swimming pool, after dinner. I don’t recall where my siblings were, but I was beside myself at sharing a rare bit of fun with my emotionally elusive mom. I splashed around goofily to get her attention, promptly thwacking her hard in the eye. She didn’t say a word that time. She didn’t have to. I was mortified. I just couldn’t do anything right.
On rare occasions, as a little girl, I’d glimpse the truth of it—which one of us was in the wrong. Who was the first to break the terms of the universal mother-daughter contract, and which one of us, on at least one occasion, treated the other the way most people wouldn’t treat a dog. On a campout at Lake Mead, I’d needed to go potty, but instead of walking me to a private spot away from our three-family group, she led me to the far side of a rocky slope on the perimeter of our site. There she commanded me to poop on a big flat rock, a few feet from my preteen brother and uncle, fishing with their backs to us. I couldn’t do it, of course (my entire intestinal track ceased functioning at the very idea), and begged her not to make me, but she said I had no choice and walked away. I ended up pooping in the lake later on, unable to hold it anymore. One of my aunts read my face and announced to the group I was pooping. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stop, but everyone was watching. I looked to Mom in desperation and saw her awash in the same shame I was in.
Growing up, I came to understand the onus wasn’t on my parents to meet my needs but on me to need less. Eventually, I approached all relationships that way, trading cumbersome stuffed animals for adult-styled security blankets: booze, sex, drugs, money, men, adventure, and lust—sometimes, all at once.
•••
When Joe returned to the Bel Age, he suggested I go home to “regain perspective.” It wasn’t bad advice. I went to Sugar’s six nights a week, getting drunk on tequila, cash, and attention. I refused to call Joe, and when he called me I didn’t rehash things. Within a month, he was begging to see me.
He wanted me in Memphis for Albert King’s record release party. “Take the next flight out. Please, honey, I need you.” When I arrived, his abundant affection all but erased the painful separation. Before I’d had time to unpack, Joe bestowed his most romantic gift yet.
“I had Gary name one of his ducks after you.”
“What ducks? Gary who?”
Joe explained. His friend Gary Belz owned the Peabody, the hotel we were in, which was famous for the ducks that lived onsite. They spent their days in the lobby fountain and nights in a custom rooftop home. Guests gathered every evening to witness their march from the lobby fountain, down a red carpet, to the elevator. “I had Gary name one Kristin,” Joe said.
“Nuh-uh!”
“Uh-huh! Go downstairs and ask.”
I did. “Why, yes, we did just name a duck Kristin,” the concierge said. “By chance, was that in honor of you?”
“Yes,” I said, blushing a little. I was about to walk away when something occurred to me. “So, tell me…how many names do each of these ducks have, anyway?”
The concierge chuckled. “Well…you know. Most have more than one.”
“Ah,” I said, and we shared a laugh. “Okay, I see how it is.” The concierge winked and I headed back upstairs. In truth, I didn’t care if my duck had ten names. It was still incredibly romantic.
•••
Albert King’s party was an invitation-only gig, for friends and family mostly. Joe went early to visit with the guest of ho
nor. I arrived later with Kevin Allison, with whom I’d developed a mutual friendly tolerance. When Kevin introduced me as “Joe’s lady,” a young male employee rushed me to a front-row table. I’d have preferred to sit in back but there were no seats left.
I was no stranger to dive bars, yet I’d never blended in worse than that night at Club Unity. At Antone’s, it wasn’t uncommon to see Albert King–level greats playing any night of the week. It was less common (in fact, probably unheard of in Central Austin) to be the sole white patron surrounded by big, beautiful divas decked out in sparkling diamonds, sequins, lamé, and poufy wigs. I felt like a trespasser, like I didn’t have a right to be there. I decided to quit worrying about it and try to be inconspicuous. Joe sent word he’d be sitting in with Albert and would see me after the show. I sent word back: I was having a fine time.
The place was jumping and drinks were flowing, with lively conversation at every table but mine. “That’s a beautiful ring,” I remarked to the woman on my left, whose ruby, sapphire, and emerald cluster covered half her middle finger. Her response was an equally impressive combo of gems: straightened spine, lowered chin, and slow, subtle side-eye. I stared ahead, committing to memory her spot-on body language (for the next time I needed to intimidate someone).
When Albert took stage, the room was united in thrall. When Joe stepped out to join him—as corny as it sounds—I fell in love all over again.
•••
He wanted to take Amtrak back to LA. Trains were relaxing and sleeper cars sexy, he said, which sounded great, until he invited a third wheel. Kip was a young, friendly, unassuming Yuppie who reminded me of Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties, minus the grating personality. I told Joe I didn’t mind, because how could I say no? We’d been at our best in Memphis—loving, carefree, and in sync. After Joe’s godlike performance at Club Unity, as far as I was concerned, he was the sexiest man alive. I got a duck named after me; I questioned nothing.
And Joe was right about train travel. The gentle vibration, whizzing along the rails, felt simultaneously futuristic and old-fashioned. Unfortunately, its erotic potential was stymied by Kip. Well, that’s how I saw it, but Joe had different ideas. In the bar car, he encouraged us to socialize, in a weirdly pointed way. Just ignore me and get to know each other. Kip and I complied, and since we were close in age, our conversation touched on college and high school experiences. Joe joked that we made him feel old. Later, in our sleeper car, he reintroduced the theme as a segue to his real agenda.
Instead of giving Kip the smaller bunk, Joe suggested he share the double bed with me. I stared, dumbfounded, as he explained: “I’m old and can barely keep up with her, but I want her to be satisfied. I thought you could ring her bell tonight while I conserve my energy.”
Ring my bell? Jesus fucking Christ.
Kip was even more surprised than I was, but also more agreeable. Sounds fun, I’m game—like we’d been paired up in a church picnic’s three-legged race.
I felt too on-the-spot to gauge my feelings, much less articulate them. Back in Sydney, I’d been gung-ho about Trevor, but we’d discussed the idea beforehand. Joe probably thought springing Kip on me would be erotic. It was the furthest thing from it, yet I seemed incapable of saying that. I also feared declining would make me a prude or a buzzkill. I’d gone cold, there was not a drop of arousal in me, and yet it didn’t seem like a valid reason to turn him down. Kip and Trevor were attractive men, with whom I had no real chemistry. Is that my fault? It must be. It was all so confusing. I only knew I needed to be sexually adventurous. I couldn’t risk boring my boyfriend, couldn’t risk being a B student. When it came to sex, an A-minus felt like an F to me. If that meant doing after-hours extra credit, so be it.
I parroted Kip: Sure, I’m in. It was easier than breaking rank. If Joe called all the shots then whatever went wrong was his fault, whereas taking a stand would make me accountable. Acting on blind faith was a remnant of my upbringing. Ignore your instincts. Defer to authority and paradise awaits. That night, paradise was an awkward, unsexy event that flattened all the magic we’d built up in Memphis.
•••
I flew to Austin to pack for Japan. While I was there, Abe’s band played Antone’s again. We hadn’t seen each other since that one night, more than a year earlier, but had stayed in touch through postcards from our individual travels. I considered Abe a friend and was a huge fan of his band. I’d just turned twenty-two, and Joe sent a dozen long-stemmed roses with a card that read simply: I love you. Twenty-four hours later, it took everything I had to peel my body off Abe’s and slam the brakes on our make-out session.
We’d connected like magnets after the show, stepping outside to catch up and gravitating to a discreet stairwell across the parking lot. There, I’d been overcome with equal parts lust and guilt, pulling him to me, then pushing him away, more indecisive than I’d ever been. I ravaged and refused him, over and over again, that sweet, sexy, incredibly tolerant, and increasingly confused man. Our chemistry was as powerful as ever. This thing with Abe felt like the fulfillment of my deepest longing—the gnawing, aching, vacuous hunger that never, ever left me. I’d fed it booze, drugs, and sex throughout my teens. But I was an adult now, a woman in love with a good—no, incredible—man, and yet still inexplicably half empty. The passion Abe stirred in me was the promise of satiety, albeit with a bitter aftertaste.
I’d never felt so torn, chest to chest and all the rest, backed against a wall, overcome and overwhelmed: Don’t think—just feel and breathe. We inhaled each other, groping, gripping, grinding as I stopped and restarted a dozen times, and Abe let me, turning over the reins—whatever you need, whatever you need.
I needed to stop. We did, at the last possible second, before crossing that final boundary, the one specific act from which we could not turn back—as if penetration alone qualifies as cheating. I’d already gone too far, I told myself, but at least I hadn’t done that.
“I can’t do this to him,” I said, catching my breath, feeling like an ass. I couldn’t take it if he did it to me, is what I thought. “I love him too much,” is what I said.
Abe said he understood. I was glad one of us did.
•••
The flight from LA to Tokyo was over eleven hours long. One hour in, Joe offered me a bump. It was the first I ever turned down. Odder still was his insistence. Turned out, he had a lot on him—enough to fly to Japan and back without the aid of a jet.
“Well, that’s a switch.”
“What?” he replied, so plainly bewildered I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. It was like having my chosen lottery numbers hit the one time I forgot to buy a ticket.
“Listen,” I whispered. “At this moment, you and I are stuck inside an airbus, miles above the ocean, with a hundred strangers. Even if we could snort that much blow in ten hours, why?” But the role reversal was too tantalizing to waste. Being pestered for my attention was more addictive than cocaine. We spent the next few hours talking in whispers, writing “Dear Penthouse” letters, and swapping legal pads to pen sequels for each other. We played rummy to five hundred points, and made a list of hotel aliases. (“Mr. Edd” was put to immediate use in Japan.) But with seven hours left to kill, I reached for my book and Joe headed downstairs to wander the aisles of coach class.
Two hours later I found him, mid-row, center section, talking with a lanky, impassive man in his thirties. Pete was an oilrig worker from Houston about to spend six months at sea. We chatted about life in Texas and commiserated over long-distance relationships. He reminded me of a young Sam Shepard.
“Six months is a long time,” Joe said, and I agreed. Pete shrugged. It is what it is. Joe gave me a look. “We should help him out, don’t you think?”
I knew exactly what he meant, and this time was not entirely opposed. Not that I was horny—I wasn’t. The combo of cocaine and public transit had a definite cold-shower effect. But I was b
ored, and the logistics of Joe’s plan were intriguing.
The timing was ideal. Dinner service had been collected, the overhead lights dimmed. It was a half-full flight, most passengers asleep behind their eye masks. The crew was curtained off, oblivious to our threesome entering the lavatory one at a time. Within seconds, we’d struck the perfect configuration (one man standing, one sitting, with a cowgirl in reverse in the middle), but once the puzzle pieces were aligned (and adjoined), the novelty wore off. The men felt the same, and we broke apart laughing, shushing each other before slinking out, back to our seats.
We touched down in Tokyo with half a gram left over. Against Joe’s advice, I tucked the vial inside me, corked with a tampon. Going through customs, I felt sick with anxiety—cocaine-induced on every level. At the hotel, I snorted the last of it because Joe didn’t want any. He fell asleep while I fidgeted next to him for hours, hating myself.
•••
The next day was no fun for either of us. I’d gotten almost no sleep. We were both starving, but there was no room service. Or air-conditioning. Our first meal was at the rehearsal venue: stale chips, M&Ms, and eggs (hotplate provided). After rehearsal, we returned to the hotel with plans to attack the minibar, except neither of us had a key. The front desk apologized—every time I called—yet never sent anyone to open it. What the hotel did have were spiders, huge ones. Considering the size of everything else in Japan, it was almost funny.
Everything from bathtubs to bus seats were miniaturized. To others, they were downright microscopic. Clarence “the Big Man” Clemmons, wasn’t pleased. One day he returned from shoe shopping empty-handed. “They laughed at me, Kristi,” he said, morosely. “They took one look at my feet and laughed at me.”
Rock Monster Page 9
