"I liked my acid, I enjoyed it" he was always almost misty about his past life in the eye of the storm. Orgies, drugs, parties, for a few years-one in particular-he could do no wrong. And he spent his year of glory a mile high.
She couldn't tell if it was the success he missed, or the drugs.
Now he had days where he couldn't look anyone in the eye or leave his house. But back then, everyone wanted a piece of him. His autograph, his kiss, his drugs, his parties. He was at the center of all the photographs, the bull's eye, the focal point.
When they drove into LA now, she could sense it was a ghost town to him. A ghost of himself. She knew scenes from Gidget, sun and sand and surf. And your only job is to say stuff and smile for the camera.
Nowadays, he had to scrounge for every dollar. And even then, last night's take didn't even make gas money. California is huge and requires a lot more driving than New England, but still, it was not a good sign. She was out of money, and knew he was saving every last bit for his retirement. His house bills were sky-high and he was thinking of selling the Farmhouse back east. His parents had left it to him, but it was more of a white elephant, and worse-he loved it.
She still made sure to stash the change from their rest stops in the glove compartment and places he'd never look. She had $40 in her wallet, that would take them through dinner, breakfast and lunch until they hit his friend's house tomorrow. Credit cards would take care of the motel, but still, it had to be cheap. The kind of place where the rugs smelled and she was afraid to let the sheets touch her skin, in case of bedbugs, fleas or just the dirtiness/flith of other guests. But when she reached for her stash, it was gone.
"Where's my money?"
"The guys needed a few bucks for smokes"
"But that was MY money. Our emergency money!"
Who were these "guys" anyway? The band hadn't been in his car for more than a year. He was giving her/their emergency money to strangers? To those groupies who were plotting to write his bio and then presented him a contract giving him 45% royalties for his own life story. They seemed to be out of the picture now anyway, but she expected he had slept with her, and that a paternity suit would arise quickly. He never wanted to reveal his hysterectomy, as he called it. The thing that prevented his entry into fatherhood forever. Just in case a kid showed up that he actually liked and wanted to claim.
They drove up to a toll booth that was asking for something just beyond their means. $4.50. Maybe they could scrounge up $2.00 among the pennies on the floor. Even after he tried his best to charm the tolltaker-who would not be charmed- she could only come up with $1.83.
His ATM card had stopped working. She had assumed at first that he was being cheap. Then that he had just forgotten his PIN number, stupid old man that he was. And then she found a slip, $6. There must have been other accounts. And some of those were frozen from a past wife or for legal issues. She wanted to curse a guy like him for not lining the roof of his car with $50 bills when he had them available.
She offered up the change with the nicest smile she could bear. The tolltaker just gave them a stare. And then pulled out a form. "You could mail this when you get home. But make sure you . . ."
He stepped on the gas.
"Why did you do that?!?!" Anticipating police sirens.
"Putting a stamp on it would increase the toll by too high of a percentage,"
"So they'll send you a ticket. If they don't arrest you. Or stop you at the next toll"
"They'll send me a ticket, so what? Bernie is used to giving away my money"
"So, now it's gonna cost ten times what it would have cost if you had just accepted that piece of paper!"
"$1.83, that's all we have?"
"And the $40 for food, we could've"
"You have 40 bucks?!?!?"
"Yeah-"
Their eyes met.
And they started to giggle.
A little release of pressure.
Which lasted until later that day. A truck stop with a restaurant. Closed. And they couldn't start the car.
She would have walked away, if there was anywhere to go.
By the time the car was towed to a (cash only) garage, it was too late and too far to get a motel. They both crashed in the greasy waiting room, on a green plastic pseudo leather couch with stuffing coming out. She curled up in a ball that would hurt her shoulders for the next day. As if she had the weight of the world on her. The weight of this tour that would never end.
This was the thin line between "Plenty" of Money, and enough to make life miserable.
Master of Disaster by John Hiatt
She couldn't tell if it was the success he missed, or the drugs.
Now he had days where he couldn't look anyone in the eye or leave his house. But back then, everyone wanted a piece of him. His autograph, his kiss, his drugs, his parties. He was at the center of all the photographs, the bull's eye, the focal point.
When they drove into LA now, she could sense it was a ghost town to him. A ghost of himself. She knew scenes from Gidget, sun and sand and surf. And your only job is to say stuff and smile for the camera.
Nowadays, he had to scrounge for every dollar. And even then, last night's take didn't even make gas money. California is huge and requires a lot more driving than New England, but still, it was not a good sign. She was out of money, and knew he was saving every last bit for his retirement. His house bills were sky-high and he was thinking of selling the Farmhouse back east. His parents had left it to him, but it was more of a white elephant, and worse-he loved it.
She still made sure to stash the change from their rest stops in the glove compartment and places he'd never look. She had $40 in her wallet, that would take them through dinner, breakfast and lunch until they hit his friend's house tomorrow. Credit cards would take care of the motel, but still, it had to be cheap. The kind of place where the rugs smelled and she was afraid to let the sheets touch her skin, in case of bedbugs, fleas or just the dirtiness/flith of other guests. But when she reached for her stash, it was gone.
"Where's my money?"
"The guys needed a few bucks for smokes"
"But that was MY money. Our emergency money!"
Who were these "guys" anyway? The band hadn't been in his car for more than a year. He was giving her/their emergency money to strangers? To those groupies who were plotting to write his bio and then presented him a contract giving him 45% royalties for his own life story. They seemed to be out of the picture now anyway, but she expected he had slept with her, and that a paternity suit would arise quickly. He never wanted to reveal his hysterectomy, as he called it. The thing that prevented his entry into fatherhood forever. Just in case a kid showed up that he actually liked and wanted to claim.
They drove up to a toll booth that was asking for something just beyond their means. $4.50. Maybe they could scrounge up $2.00 among the pennies on the floor. Even after he tried his best to charm the tolltaker-who would not be charmed- she could only come up with $1.83.
His ATM card had stopped working. She had assumed at first that he was being cheap. Then that he had just forgotten his PIN number, stupid old man that he was. And then she found a slip, $6. There must have been other accounts. And some of those were frozen from a past wife or for legal issues. She wanted to curse a guy like him for not lining the roof of his car with $50 bills when he had them available.
She offered up the change with the nicest smile she could bear. The tolltaker just gave them a stare. And then pulled out a form. "You could mail this when you get home. But make sure you . . ."
He stepped on the gas.
"Why did you do that?!?!" Anticipating police sirens.
"Putting a stamp on it would increase the toll by too high of a percentage,"
"So they'll send you a ticket. If they don't arrest you. Or stop you at the next toll"
"They'll send me a ticket, so what? Bernie is used to giving away my money"
"So, now it's gonna cost ten times what it would have cost if you had just accepted that piece of paper!"
"$1.83, that's all we have?"
"And the $40 for food, we could've"
"You have 40 bucks?!?!?"
"Yeah-"
Their eyes met.
And they started to giggle.
A little release of pressure.
Which lasted until later that day. A truck stop with a restaurant. Closed. And they couldn't start the car.
She would have walked away, if there was anywhere to go.
By the time the car was towed to a (cash only) garage, it was too late and too far to get a motel. They both crashed in the greasy waiting room, on a green plastic pseudo leather couch with stuffing coming out. She curled up in a ball that would hurt her shoulders for the next day. As if she had the weight of the world on her. The weight of this tour that would never end.
This was the thin line between "Plenty" of Money, and enough to make life miserable.
Master of Disaster by John Hiatt
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