I wouldn’t have been surprised had Rocky left with her. Though never an affectionate cat, in Austin he’d been playful. Every morning he’d attack my feet through the bedsheets, then would sit on my chest, tickling my nose with his whiskers. After the move, he quit all that. At Blairwood, Rocky viewed the goings-on with distrust and aggravation. I gave him gourmet cat food, limo rides to the vet, and a huge yard in which to frolic, but my cat was unhappy and I knew it. He kept his distance in LA, entering the bedroom only when Joe was out of town, and not to play or sit on my chest but circle the futon, restlessly, as if to say hurry and pack before that man with the bad white powder comes back.
•••
It wasn’t just friends and pets witnessing my descent. One night, we ended up at the house of Charlie Horky, the owner of our limo company. Charlie was a doughy, clean-cut guy that I secretly thought a bit shifty, though I liked his wife, Marcy, who was unpretentious and kind. That night, too strung-out to follow the conversation or tolerate indoor lighting, I slipped into the backyard.
Riding out the tail end of a monster, I felt like death warmed over. Joe failed to either register my condition or care enough to do anything about it. My only option was to wait until he wanted to go home. I sat at the edge of the pool and dangled my legs in it. Marcy appeared and pulled up a chair, then proceeded to confirm my top fear: that I wasn’t hiding anything from her.
“Are you feeling okay?” she asked gently. “I mean, you’ve only recently moved to LA and I wonder if you’re finding it…overwhelming.”
“I’m okay, thanks.” I was impressed by her boldness, as much as I wanted it to stop.
“You don’t seem like it, though. I don’t mean to be intrusive, but frankly, I’m worried about you.”
I had no idea what to say. Frankly, I was too. And?
“Do you think about your future? Where’s your life going, Kristi… Do you know?”
The few times I’d been around Marcy she’d seemed happy and composed, like she had it all mapped out. In my twenty-four years, I’d never once known where I was going, much less how to get there. I’d fielded questions like hers before, from well-meaning peers, nosy strangers, and frustrated relatives. They were the same questions I’d asked myself as a kid—unanswered so long, I’d stopped asking them.
We didn’t talk about career planning in my family. By the time I was fifteen, we barely talked at all. I was told, “You’re going to college.” Not asked, “What interests you?” or, “How can we parlay your talents into a career?” I’d never met with a guidance counselor. I’d gone to UT because UT had let me (and done so, very cheaply). My parents hadn’t gone to college, my grandparents either. As for its tangential benefits—the art of critical thinking, a lifelong network of connections—my family had no awareness of such things, so how could they inform me? But I needed that. For someone with low self-esteem and minimal self-belief, something beyond you’re going, period would’ve been helpful, to say the least.
I did not know what my future held, only that life in LA was better than it had been anywhere else. “I’ll figure it out,” I told Marcy, making circles with my legs, creating waves in the pool, hoping I appeared unconcerned.
Marcy was silent, elbows on knees, wringing her hands gently. The rock on her finger was at my eye level, and to me it looked bigger than the moon.
•••
We got invited to the Magic Castle on Halloween—a real coup in LA—and I threw together last-minute costumes (a football player and cheerleader) in the spirit of the exclusive club’s big night. After navigating the mansion’s labyrinth of hallways, we ordered a round of drinks and were treated to a private magic show and short palm reading.
I was fascinated by psychic ability. Among the fakes and charlatans, surely some spoke the truth, and I had a good feeling about the Magic Castle’s palm reader. I arranged to meet her for a longer reading at a coffee shop in the Valley. There, she studied my palm for a long while. When she finally spoke it was earnestly. “Listen carefully. Sock away as much money as you can. Save every penny. I can’t stress this enough, you need to be better prepared.”
She didn’t elaborate and I was too unnerved to ask.
Her other predictions were banal; I’d have two careers, two kids (possibly adopted), and two marriages “of the heart” (not necessarily on paper). Were that all she said, I’d have brushed off the doomsday business easily, but the rest was eerily spot-on. “You have resentment toward one parent for something they didn’t give you. You love detail and organization, but can be lazy. You have a positive nature, yet don’t believe in yourself. You’re too giving and should practice better self-care. You’re a good person for travel, which you do a lot. You’re creative and should have a creative career. You missed your first opportunity, but another will come along. Your sex life is very kinky and you have an extremely high sex drive. You don’t do moderation at all.”
I left, promising to heed her advice, but having no job or paycheck to save—no incoming pennies whatsoever—I did the next best thing and got a credit card. Then, because I didn’t do moderation at all, I got two more.
•••
I was no psychic, but I’d had premonitions, most in regard to Joe. Recognizing his voice on the radio six years before we met was the first. The others were less remarkable.
Whenever Joe traveled without me, he’d call home at random times—noon one day, 3:00 a.m. the next—so I never knew when to expect it. And yet I often did, sometimes to the minute, with a sudden urge to reach for the phone seconds before he called. More than once, I’d woken from a dead sleep with my hand hovering over the receiver, as if I could feel him dialing, right before it rang. One night, he’d stayed out all night without calling, something he never did. I was asleep at home, dreaming he was with Lisa. I woke up and he wasn’t there, so I called Rick.
“Sorry, babe,” Joe said, when Rick gave him the phone. “Lisa came over and I guess we lost track of time.” He assured me nothing inappropriate was happening and I said I believed him. (There was no way to know, and I’d learned to pick my battles.)
“You’d like Lisa,” he said the next day. “If you met, you’d be instant friends.”
I raised an eyebrow—Sure, babe. That’ll happen. A few weeks later, it did. At a party in Santa Barbara I looked up and there she was, as beautiful as I remembered. Also as likable as Joe had promised, despite being at the tail end of a monster (when no one is at their best).
Recalling Stevie’s graciousness, I offered Lisa a bump. Then, after accidently spilling most of Joe’s stash in the toilet, I burst out laughing—cackling, really—despite that I was now just as fucked as Lisa. I’d been monstering myself and fading fast. Now we had barely enough coke left for us both, much less Joe, who was waiting in the hall. Oddly, my fate barely fazed me; I enjoyed Lisa’s misfortune that much. I also couldn’t help but like her and the cognitive dissonance got to us both.
First priority was getting to our dealer. I offered Lisa a ride with nothing but good intentions, then spent the next ninety miles messing with her head, describing my every sleep-deprived hallucination. The poor girl grew more unsettled with every camel, rhino, and ostrich I saw outside the car. Maybe because I was driving at the time, going sixty miles per hour. I made it up to her at home, dumping out a string of hog rails without asking Joe. I thought it only fair he let me control our stash, considering what he and Lisa had done behind my back last year.
For the most part I took a philosophical view, that no one person could be all things to their partner. I had to accept that I wasn’t everything for Joe. Not to mention vice versa.
•••
My fling with Terry Reid began in the fall of 1991. I’d met the English singer the previous year at a dinner with John Entwistle. After I moved to LA, he started coming by the house, first with Rick and then on his own.
Terry was blithesome and
boyish, with a thick British accent and no end of wild anecdotes. He was a rock legend and huge talent, though not a household name. Back in the day, Led Zeppelin had tried to recruit him, but at sixteen he’d been too young to tour legally. “Mum wouldn’t sign the permission slip!” Terry would exclaim with every retelling of the story. He’d recommended Robert Plant for the job and the rest, as they say, is history. The tale was legendary and Terry told it often, as something of a calling card. I found the habit endearing.
Terry wore his heart on his sleeve. He wasn’t cagey or a game-player. Joe’s affections were unpredictable. From boundless to aloof, or just plain mean and feral, the inconsistency eroded our stability. Smokey was bearlike and fearless, had a way of making me feel safe, but he could also be cold and out of reach—polar bearlike, really. Terry was all puppy. I needed someone to nurture, and that boy needed nurturing.
Joe sensed our heat and would sometimes leave the room to eavesdrop on us through the intercom. There was nothing untoward to hear, just billiards, poker, and my smooth, slow brushstrokes through Terry’s long, silky hair. He’d vent about his stalled career, and I’d lend a sympathetic ear. We didn’t acknowledge our attraction, even when Joe left the room. Until one day…I did.
Whatever it was Joe said or did that propelled me to start up with Terry, I only remember being glad for the excuse. Grateful for the self-righteous anger that would override my guilt. Except it didn’t, and instead of passionate and free I felt anxious and jumpy from the moment Terry touched me. I’d invited him over when Joe wasn’t home, but I couldn’t bring myself to go very far. “No problem, love,” Terry soothed. “We’ll have another go, another time.”
I nodded, wondering what the hell I was doing.
•••
Despite the fights and the affairs, I was deeply in love with my boyfriend. As his birthday approached, I was determined to do something special, but Joe wasn’t biting.
“What’s to celebrate about turning forty-five?” he grumbled.
“Plenty, but that’s beside the point because you’re forty-four.”
“Yeah…forty-four now, about to turn forty-five.”
“What are you talking about, dude?”
He gave me a look. “What do you mean what am I talking about? Dude.”
“Joseph!” I laughed. “You’re forty-three. You were born in 1947 so in 1991 you turn forty-four.” He sat up in bed and cocked his head, doing silent mental equations. “Happy birthday, honey,” I said, pleased with my gift—one whole extra year of life. Also a flask, bought the next day and engraved with his birthdate (in case he needed it for the math).
To me, Joe was young and impervious. Other than requiring more post-monster recuperation than I did, he never complained of middle-aged aches and pains. He didn’t have six-pack abs, but he had gymnast arms, track-star legs, and unfailing sexual energy (despite his claims to the contrary). His sensitivity about aging made me feel protective, but the feeling came and went. Later that month, my ambivalence came to a head.
We spent Thanksgiving on the road. I’d just finished a room-service brunch and lazily began to pack. Joe bantered with Smokey through our adjoining room doorway. Outside, parade floats passed by. Balloon characters floated past our balcony. When Joe stepped out for a better view, Smokey stepped into the room, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me into him. He had me pinned to the bed with his fingers inside me before I knew what to do. I squirmed free—silently livid—aghast at the brazen move.
•••
Christmas had always been a big deal to me. Shopping, gift wrapping, mall decorations, holiday muzak, and light displays; sipping eggnog while listening to Bing Crosby, signing glittery cards with the Grinch or Snow Miser on TV for company. Some people succumbed to depression around the holidays. I succumbed January through October, then became joyful for eight weeks running. For Joe, it was the opposite, and I deferred to his wishes. Instead of celebrating the season that year, we’d monster through it.
That didn’t stop Gary, our crazy English dealer, from appearing in our driveway like a manic Father Christmas with a miniature pig named Elvis as a present. Joe was delighted, of course—he loved animals. I was conflicted. “We can barely take care of ourselves!”
Joe doted on Elvis for a week before admitting I was right. We passed the little guy off to my friend Billy Bacon, singer for San Diego swing band, The Forbidden Pigs, who took good care of him. It was Joe and myself I worried about. That we were incapable of raising that sweet little animal… What did that say about us?
By December 23, I’d yet to stop monstering long enough to Christmas shop. Then CLS sent over a driver named Y, a consummate professional and tidy butch dyke, who took swift, efficient charge of my life. She blazed a trail through the mall, weighing in on gifts for half a dozen strangers (my family members), then propped me up at the register as I handed her my wallet to pay for it. When everything was wrapped and mailed, she deposited me at home. I thanked her, apologizing for my sorry state. Are you kidding? That was the funnest fare I’ve ever had. She left and I fell asleep for eighteen hours.
I expected to spend Christmas Eve drinking wine and playing cards with Joe and our friend Sean. Out of the blue, at 8:00 p.m., Joe declared I should have a tree—lights, baubles, the whole shebang.
“Honey, that’s sweet, but it’s a little late…don’t you think?”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said with a wink.
Once again, CLS made a Christmas tradition happen, enlisting driver Norm as our eleventh-hour tree shopper on a mission. “A tall one,” Joe told him, as if ordering pizza. Glancing at our ceiling, “I’m thinking a ten-footer.”
Three hours later, I placed ornaments with care while Joe strung lights and Sean steadied the ladder. Stepping back to observe, I was overcome with euphoria, like I’d felt watching Rian’s men paint our garage trim. I’d have sold my soul to hold onto that feeling. Instead, the opposite happened.
Mama Told Me Not to Come
My drug use had escalated to a new normal that was anything but. I no longer benefited from periods of forced abstinence in Austin. Extended breaks were nonexistent. In the past, I’d take a week off every month. By the end of 1991, breaks from cocaine averaged forty-eight hours, tops. Two days felt sufficient to reward myself; then I’d be off and running again. Three years had passed since I’d snorted my first line at the penthouse—a momentary indulgence to extend playtime and bond with the man I loved—but now it was a wedge between us. I was on it more often than off. The scales had officially tipped. My “recreational” pastime was no walk in the park. Every stroll a marathon, every hill Kilimanjaro.
To break the cycle, Joe planned a road trip. We’d escape the temptations of LA in a rented RV and travel up the coast in search of organically sourced enjoyment. We’d camp, hike, smell the roses, and count the stars…whatever it took to retrain our brains and reset their blown pleasure gauges. We stocked up at Ralphs with healthy snacks: celery sticks, trail mix, tuna in water, and family-size bags of multigrain Sun Chips. A six-pack of Rolling Rock found its way into our cart, and since beer was basically harmless, two bottles of Chardonnay joined it. Wine with dinner was sophisticated (even with a tuna sandwich) and if Joe brought a lone liter of Absolut, well, wasn’t that the very definition of moderation? I trusted his judgment, and to prove it, placed a bottle of Patron next to it.
The cocaine was Joe’s idea. The mushrooms, mine. Quaaludes were a no-brainer, as these were the good shit—the genuine article, all but extinct in modern times. (Leaving them behind would’ve been the real crime.) We also brought pot, which wasn’t my idea (pot was never my idea), but an inclusion I supported as the least toxic substance on board by then. The MDMA I’d been hoarding could go bad any day—or not, I wasn’t sure, but erring on the side of caution I brought it anyway. The X was stored in an old prescription bottle with six hits of the General’s acid, and since trans
ferring contents seemed needlessly inefficient, I packed the container as is—LSD included. That’s when Joe decided to hire a driver, one of his roadies who was capable, experienced, and less cokehead than stoner. We planned to taper off, not quit cold turkey, and couldn’t afford to spread our supply any thinner.
On the way out of town, we stopped at Rick’s, where I met porn star Jeanna Fine and her young fiancé. Joe and Jeanna had met before. I’d seen the Polaroids tacked up in Rick’s studio—innocuous shots of him and Joe with Jeanna and Savannah (another porn star and Jeanna’s sometimes girlfriend), fully dressed, and smiling for the camera. I’d seen Jeanna’s films on SpectraVision, where her latest releases were always in rotation. She was even more striking in person, both outside and in. Her soft-spoken partner was edgy and handsome, with long dark hair and tattooed skin. As a plate of hog rails made the rounds, I bonded with our new best friends. We hit the road with them aboard, nary a second thought nor toothbrush between them.
Our RV entered the northbound freeway with three sex industry veterans at its table, swapping stories of our insider experiences—my tales of fun and profit from the Texas strip club scene, and their breakdown of the highly competitive porn industry. With Jeanna’s exceptional professional success came exceptional pressure to maintain it. Plastic surgery was de rigueur in the business, yet her plans for a fourth nose job shocked me. She had dazzling teeth, supermodel cheekbones, and a warrior princess jawline—compliments she accepted without false modesty. I was starting to wonder if porn star Jeanna Fine were the most down-to-earth woman in LA, when her fiancé shared his plan to start a production company. “Once Jeanna’s contract is up and I quit using speed.”
“He’ll write the scripts and I’ll star in them,” Jeanna said with pride.
“That’s a great plan, isn’t it, Joe?” He was in the front seat, watching the road, not answering. When he spoke, it was to announce our stop in Santa Barbara. At a cute little road motel, the men brought in our luggage while Jeanna and I sat on the bed talking. When she offered to brush my hair, I thrust the brush at her and happily spun around.
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