Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  I rationalized my silence as loyalty. I defaulted to self-preservation. I wanted what they had without doing what they’d done to get it. I also wanted Arlee’s friendship, and in a circular bit of logic I had convinced myself she’d never befriend an addict. “Seriously, guys. I’m fine.” And with that, our connection ended.

  The light went out in Arlee’s eyes. I felt it like a power grid. “Okay,” she said, stepping back. “Good luck to you, then.” I felt their absence like a vacuum.

  •••

  I came from a long line of bootstrap-pulling, secret-keeping, emotion-stuffing Northern Europeans. We didn’t discuss feelings or personal failings. Anger, fear, confusion, self-doubt…what of ’em, kid? Suck it up and go milk the cows. My parents’ parents hailed from North Dakota and Minnesota farmland, the coldest areas of the country. Endurance was their way of life. My father and his five siblings shared a single outhouse. Dad delivered newspapers as a kid, the route, uphill both ways.

  I would make my ancestors proud. With willpower and inner strength, I shall moderate my intake. Whatever it took, I’d learn to use drugs right.

  •••

  One night, during a rare, relaxed evening at home, I heard the buzz of our front gate. Joe was busy on his ham radio or in the garage studio, and since our policy of late was to discourage uninvited guests, I ignored it. Two buzzes later, I put down my book and went to the intercom.

  “Who is this and what do you want?”

  “It’s Mark from Trader Jim’s. I have an appointment with Mr. Walsh.”

  “I don’t think he’s expecting anyone.”

  “Tell him it’s Mark from Trader Jim’s. I have the tea he ordered.”

  “Tea? Is this a joke?”

  Silence, then, “We met at [famous actor’s] party last week. I’m delivering Joe’s tea.”

  The guy was clearly nuts. Who the hell delivers tea door-to-door at 9:00 p.m.?

  Joe appeared. “Who is it?”

  “Something about a tea delivery.”

  “Weird,” he said, then he spoke into the intercom. “Hey, how ya doin’?”

  “Hi, Joe. It’s Mark from Trader Jim’s and I have your tea.”

  “C’mon in,” he said, opening the gate.

  “Joseph!”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what’? Who the hell is Mark from Trader Jim’s?”

  “Dunno, never heard of him.”

  Turned out he had, exactly as Mark had claimed—at a party where a famous actor had encouraged Joe to place an order with his prestigious underground pot dealer.

  Downstairs, at the bar, Mark popped open his briefcase to reveal eight or ten individual packages, vacuum-sealed and labeled like a selection of teas. I hadn’t known such varieties existed. Years earlier, in my teens, I’d smoked something called redbud sensimilla and danced around the living room with a man I barely knew, carrying on like the best of friends. It had felt more like MDMA than pot, which usually made me self-conscious. I wondered if Mark had any of that redbud stuff but for some reason didn’t ask.

  While Joe deliberated, I skimmed label descriptions—Perfect for a relaxing, introspective evening and to liven any social gathering—then chose one based on name alone, like a newbie at the horse track: Snoopy’s Revenge. How could I go wrong with a beloved cartoon dog?

  Easily, it turned out. A few light tokes of Snoopy’s Revenge brought on the worst paranoia I’d ever had. Like a bad acid trip, hallucinatory and weighted with certainty that everything in my life is wrong and will never be right again. I didn’t want to believe it, but when our nightstands, dresser, and walls came to life and chimed in—confirming the doomsday prediction in cold, cruel voices while speaking perfect English—what choice did I have?

  I turned to Joe. “I’m not doing so hot.”

  “Me neither,” he admitted. “This is…something else.”

  “It’s bad, right?”

  “It’s not good,” he said.

  “I’m scared,” I whimpered.

  “It’ll be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. Try to ride it out.”

  I knew he’d fix it for me, if he could. I loved him for that, but it wasn’t enough. The walls and furniture piped down in time, but a sense of despair lingered, and soon afterward I went to Gary’s alone. Behind Joe’s back, I MacGyver’d a pipe and didn’t put it down for ten months.

  •••

  My memories of the first half of 1993 are spotty. I recall moments, not infrequent, of intense love and joy, followed by explosive arguments. The roller coaster we’d been on suddenly compressed to the sharp angles of an accordion—up, down, up, down, rocket skyward, plummet to earth. Our transitions came out of nowhere. We defied the laws of physics.

  Initially, I hid in my bathroom to cook up and smoke. Having thrown out my old pipes, I made new ones from cashew jars—squat glass urns with wide cork toppers, collected over the years from so many Plaza hotel minibars. For stems, I broke one of Joe’s antique seltzer bottles. The subtle glint of its interior glass straw had tantalized me for months. One day, I got sloppy and used Joe’s study to clean my pipe at his late father’s desk. I poured the rinse onto a plate of glass, then lit it to burn off the alcohol. The resin left behind could be scraped up and smoked, often for the best hit of the bunch. Joe was clueless about such things—resin hits and the like—so the sight of me starting a bonfire in his study both confused and terrified him.

  “What the hell are you doing?!”

  “What? Oh…just prepping the resin, why?”

  “Because you’re going to burn down the house!”

  He banished me from the study and forbade me from setting fires anywhere under our roof. I saw his point and apologized, but he wasn’t through. Racing upstairs, he ransacked my bathroom, turning up two sooty spoons as evidence of my ongoing betrayal.

  “Look,” he finally sighed. “If you insist on smoking that shit, stop hiding out like a crackhead. Do it openly, no more locked doors.” Grateful, I offered to do a sexy photo shoot (between crack hits, of course), prancing and posing throughout the house while he followed, more distraught than aroused. I should’ve felt guilty, but didn’t. It was wrong, yet also freeing.

  I was out of my mind. The sweet, cerebral stripper and earnest student Joe had fallen in love with was gone. A psychotic crackhead had taken her place, and he was afraid to take his eyes off her. I remember one afternoon smoking rock after rock while Joe lay on the sofa with an arm across his eyes. My hits were good and strong that day, my stash abundant, and yet I missed my playmate. In a burst of sanity, I decided that as soon as I ran out, I’d quit that shit for good. The thought made me happy.

  Just then, Zak walked in the room.

  Joe was vigilant about securing the house, keeping the doors locked and gate closed, but had forgotten both that day. Zak had let himself in and was quietly looking from me to Joe and back again. I stashed my pipe where I stood, behind the bar, too late to be slick about it. Joe glanced up at Zak, sighed, and shielded his eyes again.

  “Hey, guys. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure, sure,” I said, in a high-pitched voice. “But, uh…we’re kind of in the middle of something.” My comment made zero sense in that setting.

  “Okay, well…I’ll come back another time, then.” He shuffled out, giving me a sad look.

  Zak had not led a sheltered life. He’d been surrounded by musicians and drug use since he could walk. He was nobody’s fool, and he cared deeply about his friends. I felt bad for worrying him, but I reminded myself I’d be quitting soon. I’d make it up to him then.

  I told myself the same thing, a week later, about Rian, our friend and contractor. He was playing chess with Joe at the bar while I alternated between hits in my bathroom and visiting them downstairs. Joe must’ve filled Rian in at some point, because when I
joined them next, his expression was drastically different. Later he pulled me aside, telling me about a pal of his who’d gone to the ER with a tiny piece of Brillo stuck in his throat. Rian’s cautionary tale both touched and annoyed me. I don’t know when the disconnect occurred, but I could bounce from self-loathing to self-righteousness in a blink, and sometimes I didn’t bounce back. I didn’t like being underestimated.

  Around that time, Joe agreed to let me redecorate one room—a hallway—and I threw myself into it, consulting with Rian on paint brands and brushstroke techniques. I sensed he thought I was in over my head, but he wished me well and left. (After viewing the finished project, he exclaimed, “Kristi, this is professional-quality painting!”) I hung an antique wedding kimono on the wall and placed bamboo tables on either side, with Japanese art and other knick-knacks. I felt real pride, walking through that hall a dozen times a day. I’d envisioned something and created it! No big deal to a guy like Joe, but I was hurt that he didn’t mention it. He had bigger things on his mind. I wanted praise for my hallway. He wanted me not to die.

  •••

  One night I stopped breathing. The saga began when Felicia showed up, fresh from rehab, bright-eyed and gushing about sobriety. I was happy for her, despite the craving her presence triggered. The sight of me triggered her, as well, and within minutes we left to score. I didn’t return for two days.

  Our escapades are a blank to me, other than repeated calls home to reassure Joe—A few more hours, that’s all. We’re almost done—like a mantra into the phone. I don’t know where I went or how I got home, but I can still see Joe in our driveway, equal parts relieved and enraged. He carried me to bed, exhausted and grateful, swearing that I was done for good. I fell asleep, giddy at the notion of waking to a drug-free life. Instead, I woke to Joe shaking me and screaming my name. Breathe, Kristi, breathe!

  “Where am I? What’s wrong?”

  “You scared the hell out of me!”

  “Sorry, sorry…I’m okay now, don’t worry,” I mumbled, then fell asleep and did it again. He shouted and shook me, then peppered me with questions to check my brain activity. “Bill Clinton is president. Jesus, Joe. Let me sleep.”

  The next time I dozed off, an angel appeared. A beautiful, loving female presence who whispered soothing, reassuring words to me, right before Joe slapped me awake again.

  “Wait, wait…I’m okay. You can stop.” Joe was crouched over me, straddling my legs, trying to pull me into a seated position. Too weak to push him off, I begged him to calm down. “She said I won’t die,” I repeated. “She said to tell you I’ll be okay.”

  “What are you talking about? Who said that? Felicia? How would she know?”

  “No, silly, the angel. She was just here. Didn’t you see her?”

  Judging by his reaction, he hadn’t. What’s more, a celestial apparition coinciding with the cessation of my breathing did not comfort Joe in the slightest. He dragged me into the hallway, to pace until I was fully awake. Then he made me drink a glass of fresh squeezed beet-and-spinach juice before allowing me to sleep. He got none himself, that night, watching my chest rise and fall till sunrise.

  I had always loved waking up to Joe’s love notes (rare as they were, by then). The one I found next had a different tone. I’M PUTTING MY FOOT DOWN, it read, each letter etched so deeply into an old file folder that its imprint went straight through the cardboard. YOU’RE GOIING TO STOP DOING CRACK WHETHER YOU WANT TO OR NOT. (CHECKMATE, LAURA.) It went on to state that he loved me, whether I hated him or not, and as for our marriage plans: STOP CRACK—WE’LL SET A DATE.

  •••

  I needed a break from LA, and Joe needed one from me. It was decided that I would visit Austin. Before I left, he gave me another note, in a softer tone.

  Kristin—I warned you when this adventure began that LA was tough. Remember? We have more to learn or we don’t stand a chance. I have to take care of myself a lot more responsibly. You’re so loving and dedicated, you make it almost too easy…I take way too much for granted.

  Working against us, he said, was our age difference, my insecurity (which he saw as his fault as much as mine), and the fact that he used to be wealthy with a bad habit of spoiling the people he loved. I was comforted to hear he thought we’d caught it in time. He professed desire to be a better man and a commitment clean up his own mess—instead of assuming that you’re around to do it. My job, apparently, was to get my “balls back”—I must have my woman tough. You are. That’s why I picked you. Though he hated me being on the pipe, he admitted to being a bad influence—always have been. He ended with instructions to keep my chin up and knees together. Methinks we’ll make it with some hard work. I do love you. Always have/always will, Joseph

  •••

  Years earlier, I’d bought Joe a variety of rubber ink stamps, phrases like Top Secret and Confidential, plus one custom-made of his favorite catchphrase: How Ya Doin’? He’d used all three in the margins of that somber missive. It made me laugh even as I cried.

  I stayed at DK’s and worked at Sugar’s, where he was now the general manager. I reconnected with friends and traces of my old self—the independence and spark I’d once had. I earned some cash and drank some tequila, with barely a thought to cocaine—well, some, but that’s all they were: thoughts. Though DK was likely intended to keep an eye on me for Joe, I slipped out for a date with Charles. It was good to see my artist friend, always so encouraging. He asked about my life and gave great advice in addition to the passionate sex I’d been craving.

  I drove back to DK’s feeling torn. I liked the person I was in Austin, but my soul mate was in LA, and I felt incomplete without him. When Joe asked me to come home, I jumped at the chance and he showered me with affection. He had a new favorite game, imitating a dog food commercial, sniffing around my neck like a hyperactive puppy, then shouting, “It’s bacon!” It was goofy as hell and every time he did it I fell in love all over again. I could barely believe we were still together. I had no idea he felt the same.

  One night, I got a phone call from Texas. I took it in Joe’s office, leaving him in the playroom with our guests, though he eavesdropped from the hallway. The call was from one of my sisters, announcing her upcoming wedding, with lots of squealing on both ends. After our guests left, Joe asked if I was planning to dump him. He’d thought the call was a ruse, that my sister had just agreed to let me move in with her, giving me the green light to leave him.

  I gasped. “Are you crazy? I don’t want to break up! And do you really think I’d squeal about something like that?”

  “I don’t know. No, I guess not. Never mind.”

  •••

  All my years with Joe, I never understood how much he loved me. Even as a kid, I couldn’t fathom anyone feeling that way about me. Like a new color in the rainbow, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. He used the word “forever” a lot, but I assumed I had no right to expect him to put it on paper, despite his marriage proposal. We had made only vague plans—a backyard ceremony for close friends and family. I wanted Timothy to sing “Love Will Keep Us Alive” and Joe said that sounded nice. Unbeknownst to me, he’d asked Jim Fox from the James Gang (who was in the gem business) to search the world for its most perfect diamond.

  Due to a scheduling conflict, Joe couldn’t make the wedding in Texas, but the weeks before I left were blissfully romantic. When my car arrived for LAX, Joe walked me out and put something in my hand—a one-carat diamond, sparkling like crazy in the sun.

  “Have it set right away,” he said. “Then catch the bouquet. You’re getting married next.”

  I shrieked and threw my arms around him. He’d meant it. I held the proof in my hand and took it straight to a jeweler when I landed. The elderly proprietor checked and rechecked it. “Thirty years in the diamond business,” she said. “I ain’t never seen one this flawless.”

  The morning of the weddi
ng I called Joe at home and heard the familiar clicking of our bedroom extension. That particular phone was old and cheap and made a distinctive sound when the receiver was lifted. I knew the bedroom phone had been answered. What I didn’t know was who the woman was who answered it.

  “Who is this?” I demanded.

  Silence, as she put Joe on. “Don’t freak out, honey—”

  “Who is she?”

  “My ex Stefany, but nothing happened, I swear. I can explain!”

  He told a believable story. They’d spent all evening catching up, then crashed in our bed because the guest bed was covered in junk. I wanted to believe him, but it was a lot to ask, and he knew it, so from the moment I deplaned he kissed my ass like never before. Stefany, too, felt bad for worrying me. I’d learned to pick my battles, and this one seemed pointless. I shrugged it off and invited Stefany to stay for the evening. When we ran out of wine around midnight, I offered to run to the store, but Joe insisted I take off my engagement ring first. “Whenever you go out alone at night,” he cautioned, “leave the ring behind in my safe.”

  I took it off for the first and last time. I never saw it again. Before sunrise we were fighting—about what I don’t recall, only that it lasted a very long time. Forever, in a way.

  •••

  I started smoking crack again—a lot of it. Joe did a tour with Glenn Frey, and though I’m told I was there for most of it, I don’t recall a single show. I remember a few nights spent at home, racking up debt smoking crack and feeling awful about it. There was epic paranoia, also Feds in trees whispering about me. I heard them from inside (really) while crawling down the hallway on my belly. I had a crack pipe in one hand and a loaded gun in the other. I kept my finger on the safety, but whether it was on or off, I don’t remember.