Rock Monster by Kristin Casey

Author:Kristin Casey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rare Bird Books
Published: 2018-02-02T21:17:21+00:00

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 transferring 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.

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