Finally he said, “Have you thought any more about what I asked you?”
I nodded. “Baby, I don’t need to go to rehab, I just don’t,” I slurred. I was already high and he knew it.
“I see,” he said quietly as he packed up the rest of his things.
He put the suitcase next to the door and I just stood there. My stuff was already packed and ready to go but then again, where was I going?
I no longer lived with that rock star, my aunt had gone to Utah to save the Mormons, Tim/Flash and his band of losers was out of the picture and I had been on tour with a famous rock and roll band for the last several months and now it was over. But were we over too?
“So,” he said, “you’re not going with me?”
“I want to go with you but I don’t want to go to rehab, I mean…”
“Look Poppy,” he interrupted, “I care about you, I mean, I care about you, a lot, you mean something to me and I want you to be in my life, I really do, but I need a woman who is going to be strong for me and with me. I’m done with the drugs baby and I gotta let something go…” his eyes filled with tears.
I began to panic, felt my insides curl up, and began to die. “No baby, please don’t do this, please…” I cried and hugged him.
He held on to me like it was the last time he was ever going to see me. “Ya gotta rise above baby, cause below it’s only getting worse…please, for the last time, come with me…let me take care of you…save you…us…”
He said us.
At that particular moment, I had already done several lines of coke, drank a half a fifth of Jack and smoked a joint. No, I wasn’t going into rehab, I was going straight to Hell.
I just stood there crying, begging, and dying.
“Well,” he said sadly, “I guess I got my answer. Maybe it wasn’t real after all, was it?”
It was real and I was a fuck up, a junkie, a whore, a groupie, a piece of shit who was letting my rock star walk away from me, from us.
I was so strung out, I didn’t even hear the door shut behind me and I don’t know how long I stood there before I realized that he was gone.
I went into the bathroom and threw up.
Several hours later, I was still on the bathroom floor having passed out from the drugs and the pain.
I crawled up, got to my feet, and went back out to the main room. My eyes were so clouded with black tears and black mascara that I couldn’t see straight. My head felt like a bullet had passed through it and at that moment, I wished someone had blown my brains out. What was left of them anyway.
I was shaking and couldn’t breathe and I didn’t know if I was having an anxiety attack, an overdose or both. Either way, I didn’t care, I wanted to die.
There was an envelope on the bed that I hadn’t seen there before. It simply read “POPPY” like the first envelope he had left for me so long ago.
I didn’t expect much but read the letter anyway:
“Babe,
Talk with yourself and you’ll hear what you wanna know…life in time will take you where you wanna go…
The offer still stands…I’ll be out in about six weeks…find me…”
There was an open plane ticket to Arizona and a brochure on the rehab center with a sticky note attached that read, “Standing offer for Elizabeth ‘Poppy’ Bishop”
He had paid for me to get clean and the offer was open and on the table.
There was also $5,000 cash in the envelope. He trusted me that much, but did I trust myself?
No, I did not.
Hitting Rock Bottom is Hard on Your Ass
Devastated, I left the room with my suitcase, envelope and addiction still intact. I was now in the possession of a round trip open ticket out West, a paid stay in a rehab facility, a love note from my rock star and $5,000 cash to get me there. Oh boy, I smelled trouble a brewin’.
I left the hotel and walked out front to a warm Connecticut breeze. It was still night and why I didn’t just stay in the hotel room since it was paid for until the morning, I don’t know. I was a fucking mess.
A limo pulled up in front of me and for a moment, I thought it was him. My him.
I stood there and watched as the window rolled down and there he was staring at me, that other rock star.
In my haze, I had forgotten that the two bands had been on tour together however, my rock star’s bodyguards had kept this punk away from me and this was the first time, in a long time, I had really seen him.
I mean, I passed him in the halls backstage and stuff a few times but he was over there and with other people and I didn’t really look at him. My eyes were not on him anymore. They never were really.
Disgusted, I turned to walk away and I heard the limo door open.
“Wait, wait,” he said, sounding sober as a judge, “come here, I’m not gonna do anything, I just want to talk.”
He looked around, “Where’s your sex fiend boyfriend?”
“Leave me alone,” I said, “just go away, okay, fuck off!”
He laughed, “Still got the Poppy temper I see. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I was pretty shitty to you before and I was an asshole, I know, I was a prick and all those other nasty words your mama used to wash your mouth out with soap for saying. I get it, okay, I fucked up?”
I sighed. This was the last bit of shit I needed tonight. What timing!
I closed my eyes and my head began to swim. I wanted to drown at that moment, to die in my misery…I felt myself black out as he caught me before I hit the ground.
I was awake enough to know that I didn’t want to get into the limo with this clown again so I woke myself up and stumbled out of his filthy grasp.
“Wait, where are you going? Come on…you can barely walk Poppy! Get in and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“Arizona,” I mumbled and I made my way out into the night.
I must have passed out and I woke up backstage at the arena. I don’t even remember how I got there.
“She’s coming around,” a man said.
“Poppy, are you okay, wake up, it’s me George.”
I recognized the voice of George, one of the stagehands who worked with the bands. He was about 50, with white curly hair that he wore in a ponytail that reminded me of a piglet’s tail. He was a little whacky but he was a kind soul and I trusted him.
“What happened,” I slurred, “where am I?”
“You’re back at the arena.”
“Well how did I…why are you still hear, the tour was cancelled.”
“I know,” he said, “but I was hired to stay behind to set up the stage for a band who’s playing here tonight. How you got here, well you just showed up here and then zonk, you were out like a light. Luckily someone found you.”
“Oh,” I mumbled.
He knew that my rock star had gone to Arizona with the rest of the band, he also knew by now, that I had not gone with him. They all went, all except for the lead singer who was holed up in a local hospital. Someone had called him as my next of kin and he was sending a car over to get me.
Now what?
The car showed up and took me to the hospital where there was crowd of girls waiting around outside like a bunch of vultures.
When the limo pulled up, they got all excited and when I got out, they kinda moaned their disappointment although they all knew who I was.
“Oh my God,” they yelled, “what is she doing here?”
Please bitches get out of my way!
I made my way up to the third floor and was met by two guards at the door. They looked like local yocal police officers. So I told Sheriff Taylor and Barney Fife my name and they let me in and I gasped when I saw the scene in the room before me.
There he was, bigger than life, surrounded by a garden of flowers, cast on his arm and shoulder (is that how they fix a broken collarbone?) sitting up in bed in a silk flowered robe, writing on a tablet.
“Poppy! Come in gi
rl and have a seat.” Even though it was the middle of the night, he was as alive as he was onstage.
“Good morning glory,” he said in his usual chipper tone. “What’s your story?”
Can’t he talk like normal people? No, I guess not since he was far, far from normal people. From the guy who referred to women and men as ladies and genitals, I guess the answer was no.
“So, I see you didn’t make the trip,” he blurted out.
I was quiet.
“Hmm, I see said the blind man…what’s going on with you, you look like you’re mad at the devil…”
I shook my head, “No just mad at me.”
He was quiet for a moment, which was out of character for him. “Well, raise the rent and slap my granny! I’m glad you‘re here…maybe you can help me with this new song I’m writing…” he began to “shooby, wabby do be…”
Exasperated, I said, “Come on man, I’m so not in the mood for this shit. Why did you send for me?”
“Well, who else was gonna save your sorry ass?” he laughed. “I’ve made it pretty clear to you over the last few months that I’m glad to know ya Poppy. Sit down here and let’s have a talk, huh?”
Oh great, a lecture from the master, the ringmaster of the rock and roll drug world. However, I had to admit, except for the IV drip in his arm, he was the most lucid and sober I had ever seen him.
“Now, now, don’t be rolling those big ol’ green eyes up at me, let your big brother give you a little advice.”
He began to talk about my rock star, “My relationship with him is, in a hair raising kind of way, fraught with competition with an undercurrent of tension, jealousy, hostility that borders on homicidal lunacy, and I resent the mother fucker cause he is so much fucking better looking than me! It’s complex, I tell you, I hate the prick!” he roared with laughter.
He didn’t hate him, he loved him like a brother, he knew when he was hurting, and he was hurting flying out West alone, without me.
“Did you get the ticket and the money?” he asked.
How did he know?
He shrugged and said, “What can I say, he’s my wife, no matter how we fight, he does tell me stuff, good stuff…the right stuff.”
I just smiled.
“Go to him Poppy, let him rehab his fucking brains out, you check into the padded cell next to his and the two of you get clean, then fuck like rabbits okay? Tell me whatcha need and maybe I can go too…hell I‘m not far behind ya…” He smiled his big Cheshire cat smile.
Wow, this psycho babbling strung out drug addicted famous rock star lunatic was my friend.
“Ya know,” I chuckled, “I had all of your posters on my wall back home when I was a kid.” The time for being cool was long gone, just be real.
Without missing a beat, “Well I’m sure you did girlie, who wouldn’t want to look at this pretty mug every night before you laid your little virginal self down to sleep.”
Oh God, I got him started. He was wound up again!
“Tell me, did you touch yourself, down there, when you looked at our posters?” he giggled like a little boy, he almost squealed. He was so adorable!
“Hush up, I’d better go and let your bones heal.”
“Did you say something about a boner?”
Oh brother!
I leaned in to kiss him on the cheek and he let me without being a weirdo about it.
“Hey,” he said as I was walking out, “don’t feed me no line that you got somewhere to go, okay? I know you don’t for now. The driver downstairs is gonna take you to the plane, fly you back to Boston and you are gonna stay at my place, okay?”
I shuffled my feet. What choice did I have? I had nowhere else to go. Nowhere but Arizona but I wasn’t ready for that…not yet.
He was going to be laid up for six weeks, six weeks was the same amount of time that my rock star was going to be in rehab.
Six weeks, is also how long I had to get my shit together and make a decision, the right decision, the only decision.
I had been jonesing for quite some time. I needed to get high and get low and I wanted to fuck but the man I fucked was six weeks away. I hoped I hadn’t fucked myself in the process of being me.
There was a car waiting for me when I touched down in Boston. I had never been to the singer’s house since we met on tour and I wasn’t really sure what to expect. What I didn’t expect was that he didn’t live in Boston or even in Massachusetts for that matter, he lived all the way up in New Hampshire by the lake.
The house was beautiful but modest and had a Moroccan décor that fit his lavish and flamboyant personality. There were scarves, things that jingled and jangled, exotic plants and statues, family photos, a baby grand piano and there it was…his closet full of clothes…I could hear angels singing…I got wet down there and almost had an orgasm looking at all of the cool, gypsy rock star rags. My mouth was literally dropped open. Okay, now, I could die a happy woman!
There were no maids or butlers or no special bells that went off when I opened the door with the key he provided. It was not a rock star’s house but the house of a man with money who wanted to live by the lake in New England.
I went upstairs, found his bedroom, fell onto the bed, and fast asleep.
I woke up to the scent of Jasmine that was on a timer that went off at 6:00 pm. I thought, that was cool.
It was just getting dark out and I was sick, real sick. I needed a fix and I knew there had to be something in this house to get me off.
My rigs in my bag were all dirty, rusty and had been used too many times and yes, I know I should have thrown them away by now.
Come on, I searched in every drawer, every pocket, behind every book, where did he keep his stash? Something…anything…If you put it in a spoon, I would boot it. Where is his shit?
I began to shake, rattle and roll when I heard a knock on the door.
What the fuck?
I looked out through the curtain and I saw a black SUV in the driveway but I couldn’t see who was knocking at the door.
Hesitant, I called out, “Who is it?”
Nothing, then I heard, “Oh, who’s that in there?”
Sighing, I slightly opened the door and there was the statue David, I mean the Canadian rock star Deo. What the hell?
I thought I was fucking dreaming or spaced or something. What the fuck was he doing here? In America at this house, here, now?
“Oh,” he stepped back, and looked at me with a familiar look. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
I told him.
“Ah, well what are you doing here? Is ol’ what’s his name home? I heard he had a nasty tumble off a stage.”
I told him that I was house sitting and that he was laid up in the hospital for about six weeks.
He smiled a dirty smile and just stood there in the doorway.
Awkward!
Finally, I asked, “What are you doing here, I mean how do you know him?” Dumb question Poppy.
“Well,” he said in a condescending tone, “if you recall, my band was on the Canadian tour with them, remember? We became friends and he said to stop by when I was in the states. Well, I’m in the states and I am stopping by.”
Asshole!
I was gray, gaunt and shaking. I needed him to either get me high or go the fuck home.
“You all right?” he asked.
I nodded, “Is there anything else? If not, I’ll tell him you came by,” I said as I started to shut the door.
“Wait a minute, you look like you need a little something on the down low…am I right?”
I needed a lot of little something on the down low. I needed to fuck, needed to suck and needed to get high as a duck…man I was sounding like the lead singer now…maybe his house was rubbing off on me.
Looking at him, I couldn’t help but notice that he was fucking beautiful. He was prettier than me, I’ll tell ya. Head full of salt and pepper curls, strong Italian nose,
olive colored skin and the arrogance of a Frenchmen. Okay, I was horny as hell but no, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t do it.
Without saying a word, I slowly opened the door and with a whoosh of my hand, invited him inside.
I didn’t know this cat and didn’t even know if the singer really even knew him but he all but said he had something for me and although curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought him back.
He wasn’t really a rock star but a wannabe. Been there done that. His band played with some of the big boys and in Canada, they had quite the following but here in the US, no one knew who they were and couldn’t have cared less. They weren’t even that good in my opinion.
However, now I had become biased.
He looked around the large room and then found a big plush Papasan chair and made himself comfortable. Sure, have a seat!
I offered him a cup of tea even though I had no idea where it was or even if there was a tea bag in the whole damn place. However, I overheard the singer once tell someone that he enjoyed sleeping late and smoking tea but I didn’t know if he drank it or not.
Deo declined the tea, thank God, and cozied himself up in the big, fluffy chair and stared at me like I was a super model or something. Yeah, I was the poster child for stupidity and bad behavior.
Keep it together Poppy! You’ve been around good looking men before and although some of them may have you squirming between your legs, you don’t have to fuck every single one of them. Keep your eyes open and your legs closed.
He took out a bowl from his shirt pocket, filled it with green stuff and lit up. He passed it to me, squinted like Clint Eastwood, blew out the stale smoke and said, “So, what’s your story?”
I inhaled the poison smoke and although my lungs thanked me for the hit, my veins craved something more dangerous. I didn’t know him or if that was his thing so I didn’t ask. I had to be satisfied with this for now.
I also didn’t know if this was part of his courtesy bindle and he didn’t mind sharing as long as I didn’t take too much or was he hiding his real stash?
“No story,” I coughed.
He didn’t buy it, everyone had a story.
Lick and a Promise-Diary of a Rock Star Groupie Page 17
