Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  For the rest of the night, Joe was the center of attention, literally surrounded shooting pool on a table he’d gifted the biker club himself, years earlier. I was not offered a turn or a seat to observe, instead being slowly nudged into the next room. I took a seat on the U-shaped sofa where three bikers passed a joint that I declined every time it came around. When their urging took on a sour note, I took a short, quick toke. Go along to get along, I thought. No harm done.

  I was wrong.

  In no time, I was disoriented, spacey, and addled in a way pot had never made me. I hightailed it to Joe, bumping into furniture all the way.

  “Hey, babe…you okay?”

  “I don’t think so,” I whisper-croaked.

  Joe alerted Butch who immediately took me to his apartment, practically carrying me upstairs, while Joan secured their dogs behind a flimsy plastic barrier. I lay on the couch with one eye on them, but they curled up on the linoleum, as disinterested in me as I was them. When equilibrium returned, I found Joe and Butch downstairs watching TV. Underdog Buster Douglas had just knocked out Mike Tyson, the previously undefeated world champion.

  •••

  In March, we hit the road, starting with four sold-out gigs in Ohio. Despite snowy conditions, the bus was warm and cozy for me and the nine men inside: band, crew, and Joe’s opening act, Jack Tempchin.

  By now, just about everyone in Joe’s circle had conveyed approval of our union, the lone holdout being Chad, his drummer. Over eighteen months. I’d come to know Chad as thoughtful and even-keeled. He could take as long as he wanted. Meanwhile, Jack and I formed a playful bond. His glass-half-full attitude was infectious and offset my nagging awareness that Chad’s reticence was not unfounded.

  Joe wanted to move in together but hadn’t set a date. I had to get my coke use under control, he said. (Whether he planned to himself was not a topic I felt entitled to broach.) I agreed I must do better and cobbled together periods of restraint, each sabotaged by a binge I never saw coming. In Ohio, I did well and Joe was at my side every minute not onstage—once, even then. In Detroit, he yanked me from my perch atop an equipment case, to the mic, where I stood spotlit and in shock, a smoldering cigarillo awkwardly at my side.

  Joe grinned. “I want you to meet my girlfriend,” he said, to a smattering of applause. “Is it any wonder I play so good? Just look at her!” I covered my beet-red face as the crowd exploded. Later, Chad pulled me aside to say he was glad I was with Joe. “It really does seem like you’re good for him.” I told him I hoped to be half as good for Joe as he’d been for me.

  In mid-March I went home for a few days, then rejoined the tour in New York. As I entered Joe’s room, he grabbed my hands and pulled me toward him. “I missed you so much,” he said in a tumbling rush. “I’ve decided I’m ready to live together on a trial basis.” He rattled on without pause, going so far as to suggest a fall wedding in Europe (where he had tentative tour plans). I smiled and nodded. For no reason I could fathom, the moment felt wholly unreal.

  Joe was the romantic, and I, the practical one. While the concept of soul mates was real enough to me, the realities of commitment were alien. Joe was the marrying kind—he’d done it three times—whereas my longest previous bond had lasted four months. I sometimes inquired into Joe’s breakup history, in an attempt, I suppose, to bolster our immunity. Asked about his most recent divorce, he said they’d argued about Christmas decorations, specifically the foil condom packages he’d hung on the tree in lieu of traditional ornaments. Jody hadn’t seen the humor and they’d divorced soon afterward. Obviously, there was more to it, but my takeaway was clear.

  Don’t expect him to grow up. Don’t try to curb his behavior or keep up with it. Be on his schedule and wavelength naturally. Taper off cocaine, yet remain high-energy. Be responsible, empowered, and strong about drugs, yet submissive sexually. Neither buzzkill nor cokehead should I be, just toeing the line in between. Oh, and also have a baby, please.

  •••

  Around that time, Smokey Wendell became Joe’s new tour manager. They’d worked together briefly in the seventies before Smokey was hired by John Belushi. (Tasked with keeping the comic off drugs, Smokey by all accounts did, quitting shortly before the night of John’s fatal overdose.)

  Joe said Smokey had been in the Secret Service for ten years. He placed full trust in him, so I tacked mine on, too. Smokey seemed capable, fearless, and smart—even smarter than he let on, I thought. He was pleasant to be around and easy on the eyes—tall and strong with olive skin and short, black, silver-threaded hair. His softly handsome features and jovial demeanor belied a smoldering intensity—another asset, I figured.

  Smokey had more on his plate than tour managing. The drug situation, for starters. We crossed many state lines, and some by the skin of Joe’s teeth (i.e., Hawaii), and needed someone on our side who was cunning and savvy. Smokey was also privy to the private aspects of our relationship—there was no way around that fact. My presence on the road affected Joe’s work and if we took a negative turn, Smokey dealt with the fallout. He had to know when to step in, when to butt out, and how to enforce peace all around. He had his work cut out for him. Sometime mid-tour, Joe stopped talking marriage and cohabitation and started stirring up shit, picking fights and pointless arguments. I’d finally been embraced by his inner circle, only to be ostracized by him.

  In New England, the band played a brutal schedule of seven shows over five nights. Rick’s wrists were killing him, Chad’s hands bled, and Joe’s vocal chords were shredded. He rose to the occasion for every performance, but offstage he was impossible to be with. The whole band avoided him. One day, he laid into me for no apparent reason in front of Rick and Smokey. I was humiliated and unable to defend myself against his nonsensical accusations. Then he turned and targeted Smokey, accusing him of outlandish things before storming from the room. No one said a word. Smokey riffled through his briefcase and Rick stared at the floor. I waited an hour, then found Joe in our room, calm yet unapologetic. I didn’t try to reason with him; I just took advantage of the opportunity for angry sex, which, while not ideal, was at least fun for me. Afterward we fell asleep without a word, facing away from each other.

  Another time, in another hotel, Joe sent me to score a little pot from Jack. While I was there, Jack convinced me to smoke some, unaware of what a lightweight I was. At the elevator, I couldn’t recall which floor I was on, my room number, or what alias we were under. I tried to return to Jack’s but got lost looking for his room, too. I finally thought to have the front desk call Smokey, who returned me to Joe, frazzled yet horny—that’s just what pot did to me—which, inexplicably, pissed off Joe and sparked another argument.

  The worst, by far, was in Pennsylvania, a battle of wills from zero to Armageddon in two seconds flat. With so much resentment stored up by then, one snarky remark and my fuse was lit.

  “How dare you talk to me like that?!” I bellowed.

  The blowback was swift. Joe’s voice was twice as aggressive as my own, and before I knew it, I’d thrown the TV remote at him. It hadn’t come close to hitting him, yet without missing a beat, Joe grabbed a one-liter bottle of vodka and chucked it at me. It hit the wall behind me and shattered on contact, fat chunks of glass embedding deep in the plaster.

  “Are you nuts?” I screeched. “Seriously, are you fucking mental or what?”

  A screaming match ensued until I couldn’t take any more. I tried to leave, but Joe blocked my escape, which freaked me out and made me cry. This caused him to bellow louder, right up in my face. Frantic, I grabbed the nearest thing (a glass of red wine) and doused him with it. “You’re trying to drive me to the edge and I’m not going to let you!”

  We finally petered out, but I kept my distance for days, fearing the position I’d put myself in. Joe’s love could feel healing and euphoric, like a premium narcotic. But also toxic and explosive, it could send me into a tai
lspin. I’d been there as a kid and I couldn’t take it again—expecting healthy, safe, reliable love from someone who was incapable of it.

  I racked my brain for the cause of Joe’s anger. Two nights earlier, Gene Simmons had brazenly flirted with me despite Joe’s presence. He’d kissed my hand like he was savoring a pork rib, and though Joe hadn’t reacted then, he had just launched an Absolut bottle rocket at my head. The incidents may’ve been unrelated—I was done second-guessing him—but when I finally gave him a chance to explain, he made even less sense.

  “Blowouts are to be expected in a relationship. They can be healthy, even necessary.”

  I was too tired to argue or continue avoiding him (no easy feat on a tour bus, that). Sensing that I was ready to reconcile, he followed me around all day, professing his undying love. When he asked if I would meet his parents, that was it—he won me back.

  First, we had a business dinner to attend. Having grown more comfortable around industry big shots, when one of them cracked a sexist joke at my expense, I ignored it. Later, the same man called our room at the Plaza and invited himself over “to party.” Joe was out of earshot, but David Fishof happened to be over, so I covered the receiver and relayed the situation. David took the phone from my hand and hung it up without a word. That minor gesture meant so much, he may as well have slayed me a dragon.

  I’d been taking care of myself since my teens, and not all that well, quite frankly. Despite Joe’s unpredictable temper, I felt protected in his world. Smokey helping me back to my room and Jack’s purposeful positive attitude…these things were a big deal to me. Giving them up would defy my every good instinct.

  That night, Joe and I monstered, soothing our recent wounds with an all-night dopamine surge. I crashed at 5:00 a.m. and awoke twelve hours later, half panicked about meeting his parents. But George and Helen couldn’t have been sweeter, and after dinner and a Broadway show, we put them in a cab and I turned to Joe. “I think it went well, don’t you?”

  “They really liked you,” he said, emphatic.

  After the tour, we recuperated in Austin, renting movies and going hot-air ballooning. Joe went shopping and returned with matching “pre-engagement” bracelets. That’s not a real thing, I said, but I loved them anyway. He had a hernia operation scheduled in Minnesota. “Come with me, and when I’m healed we’ll go apartment hunting in New Jersey.”

  “Whatever you say, babe.” We were moving in together…

  I didn’t much care which city.

  •••

  A pre-surgery checkup at the Mayo Clinic turned up an “inconclusive” spot on Joe’s lung. They promised to call with results the next day. Get some sleep, they said. Try not to worry.

  Joe was a two-pack-a-day smoker. I smoked just as much. My grandfather—also a smoker named Joseph—had died in his fifties of lung cancer. His death had caused my devout grandmother to question her faith for the first time ever. I eschewed religion entirely, but when Joe asked me to pray with him, I did without hesitation. He also made me promise that if he had cancer, I’d get pregnant right away.

  “My son and you will be well taken care of—count on it.”

  “I’m sure we will,” I said.

  The spot turned out to be a calcium deposit. Joe said I was off the hook “for now” and I laughed harder than his little joke deserved—whew.

  We had time before surgery for a few days in LA, where Joe went cold and distant. I had just agreed to be cornered into motherhood, then bam—shut out again. Back in Minnesota, another 180. “I’m sorry, I’m a dickhead. Please, forgive me. I’m freaking out about surgery…and stuff.” I forgave him because the “stuff” he was referring to was big.

  Joe was checking himself into rehab. Smokey had talked him into it.

  I was proud of him and excited for us both. As much as I loved cocaine’s effect—the joyful confidence I couldn’t otherwise access—it was our main source of contention. For that reason, above all, the coke had to go. I was ready and certain I could quit, as long as Joe did.

  Joe was skittish the day of surgery. I lit him a final cigarette while he rummaged through his briefcase, retrieving a blank nametag and Sharpie pen. Fifteen minutes later, he entered the hospital with it on his chest: Hello, My Name Is Hernia Iglesias. I thought it was funny, but when no one else laughed, it riled me, and suddenly I didn’t want those pasty drones anywhere near my boyfriend’s intestines. Joe, for once, was cucumber-calm while I was ready to take a flamethrower to the place. Smokey held me back until it was over, and I rushed to Joe’s bedside supremely grateful for the stellar medical care. He was groggy and in pain, but smiled when he saw me. I held his hand for six hours as he faded in and out of sleep.

  Two days later, his docile side disappeared upon transfer to the dependency ward. Their “no phone calls” rule was a deal-breaker and he refused to be admitted, yelling at the staff and demanding to see me ASAP. I raced from the hotel to find him packing a bag. “Please, honey, give it a chance.” But he remained defiant until a doctor came to talk through his concerns and agreed to let me stay past visiting hours.

  Back at the hotel, I was too keyed up to sleep and hung out in Smokey’s room instead. For three hours he shared outrageous stories about Nixon and Ford in the White House, as well as wild times with Belushi and stints with Jimmy Buffett and David Crosby. Smokey was a gifted storyteller, and my steady stream of laughter prevented further obsessing on all the unknowns of Joe’s recovery. Still, I was relieved to know Smokey would fly home in the morning. Joe’s courageous, soul-baring overhaul was taking place right down the street, making it the worst time to acknowledge the primal longing Smokey stirred in me.

  If Smokey felt it, too, he gave no clue. In my head, a stream of images resisted my every attempt to force them out. Nothing good—absolutely nothing good, I told myself—could come of repeatedly imagining Smokey’s full, soft lips on mine.

  •••

  I woke early to meet Joe at a morning lecture on the science of addiction. It was surprisingly interesting, all the patients agreed. Later, Joe told me their group meetings were actually fun, but having me down the street was what gave him strength to stay on.

  Four years earlier, I’d kicked meth on my own, but not before reaching out to a trusted UT physician. The doctor had had a heart of gold, yet no experience with addiction. When he offered to check me into a mental health hospital, I bolted. Going through rehab alone was unfathomable. I’d stay in Rochester as long as Joe needed.

  The next day was Family Day, and Joe had listed me as his sole family member. At a large group meeting, I heard parents, spouses, and patients detail their painful struggles, but to me it wasn’t relatable. Their lives were falling apart in ways ours weren’t. Also, all the alcohol talk was frustrating. When would they teach us how to quit cocaine? Later, in a private session with Joe and his counselor, I was told it was my turn to speak.

  “Mine? I don’t understand…”

  “It’s important for Joe’s recovery to see how his behavior affects loved ones.”

  Under normal circumstances, confronting Joe would be a dream come true, but in that context, it felt like kicking a man when he was down. Dr. Oh assured me it could only help Joe, so I shared a story I thought not too damning about Christmas with my family. Joe had gotten drunk and been obnoxious. Everyone had pretended not to notice, but I’d been embarrassed. My voice cracked and I cut the story short, but Dr. Oh said I’d done very well.

  Joe agreed. “You did tremendous,” he said, in the hall, giving me a long, full-body hug.

  The next day Joe was pensive. He’d made a leather belt for me in art class, which I liked and fit me well. And yet, for a world-class musician, certified blacksmith, and ham-radio operator, childish crafts seemed…unhelpful. Joe checked himself out soon after. I said I understood and that he’d done tremendous. He said he loved me and that we didn’t have to move to New J
ersey.

  •••

  I went home for a few days, then met up with Joe in LA. He greeted me at the penthouse, where fresh air and sunlight streamed in through windows I hadn’t known could be opened. At ten days sober, he looked better than I’d ever seen him.

  That night, on the way home from a David Bowie concert, we scored a gram and split it. Joe was disappointed in himself but vowed to try again. One day at a time, we said. In the morning, we had coffee and ran errands. We bought groceries and made dinner in Joe’s kitchen—the first time we’d used it for that. Afterward, we went to Rick’s and did a bunch of blow. Then to the China Club with Jeff “Skunk” Baxter from Steely Dan and the Doobie Brothers. Wayne Newton was there and talked Joe into jamming with him onstage, classic blues and “Rocky Mountain Way” despite Joe’s reluctance to do his old stuff. Later, at home, he played me a new song in progress. It blew me away.

  We celebrated our two-year anniversary at L’Ermitage, and then Joe went to Australia. On his way home, he met me in Hawaii. He greeted me at the plane with a purple lei, then took me to a jewelry store, where he slipped an opal-and-diamond ring onto my left ring finger. “Someday, I’ll put a real engagement ring there. Till then, this means the same thing.”

  The rest of our trip took on a honeymoon feel, with romantic beach dinners, fruity rum drinks, sunset strolls, and ocean swims. We made love every night and I didn’t even think about doing blow. One day, Joe surprised me with a scuba lesson, something I’d always wanted to do.

  “Just don’t freak out underwater,” he said, “but if you do, it’s okay.”