Flea and Anthony and almost everyone else I knew pointed me toward rehab. “You have to go, man,” they said. “Look at yourself.” The thought terrified me. My identity was wrapped up in being wasted. It was who I was. It was what made me uniquely me. “Fuck you guys! You’re supposed to be my friends. You should be supportive! I never said shit when you guys were slamming dope.”
“Because we were addicts, Bob. Now it’s just you.”
Those words stung. True, we had all been addicts, but Flea had cleaned up right after we had all moved into La Leyenda. Anthony had stuck with it longer, but he had managed to kick his habits recently. They hit even harder when, alone at night, I listened to those demos I had recorded for RCA. I couldn’t escape the horrifying fact that drugs and booze were ruining whatever skills I had as a songwriter. Worse, I had started to not care. I liked to pretend I was still having fun and that drugs somehow made me cool. Weren’t all rock stars supposed to be wasted? That my friends couldn’t handle the lifestyle just showed how much stronger I was than them. That’s what drugs do sometimes. They can convince a man that wrong is right and right is wrong. When he wakes up in the morning and is dope-sick and miserable, he doesn’t say, “This stuff is killing me.” No, he bangs up a shot, and as the sickness eases he tells himself that he’s never felt better in his life. Suddenly, he’s Superman.
And then I got the phone call. Professionally, I may have felt fucked up, but on the surface, everything else was seemingly great. I had a cool pad in Mount Washington just north of downtown. I slept a sound, dreamless sleep in the custom-made bed Christian Brando, Marlon’s kid, had built just for me. A preternaturally sexy Playboy model shared the mattress with me. It was almost perfect. Or at least it was until six o’clock that morning, when the phone on the nightstand let out a shriek and I bolted upright. The sun had yet to break the horizon but it was close enough to fill the room with that weird blue glow that isn’t day and isn’t night. The phone screamed again and Ms. Playboy let out an annoyed little moan and burrowed deeper under the covers. I grabbed the receiver. A call at this hour is never good. “Hello?” I said. It was more of a question than a greeting.
“Hey, Bob! What’s up?” said a cheery voice on the other end.
The voice was familiar, but my sleep-fogged brain couldn’t quite place it. “Who is this?” I asked.
“It’s me, man. Al Kooper. Have you heard the news?”
Oh, God. Somebody’s died, I thought. I hesitated. Did I really want to know? “No, dude. I’ve been asleep. It’s six o’clock in the fucking morning here.”
“Your boy got fired, man,” said Al.
“Huh?”
“Buziak’s out. Gone. Big investigation or something over there.”
“What the fuck does that even mean, Al?” I asked.
“It means you better figure out something fast,” Al replied. I said good-bye.
It was too early to call Bob at RCA, so I killed time as best I could. I drank coffee and smoked cigarettes and watched CNN, but the time still dragged. At nine o’clock, I called his office. The receptionist put me through right away. He picked up. “Are you okay?” were the first words out of my mouth.
“Yeah. I’m fine, but I guess you heard. I’m not going to be overseeing your record anymore. In fact, I’m not going to be around to protect you anymore. The drugs, Bob. The inability to write a hit. People around here don’t have confidence in you. You should probably call Danny and Nick right away,” he said.
“They can wait,” I said. “How are you?” I asked.
“Bob, when guys like me get fired, we get lots and lots of money. I’m fine. You need to call Danny and Nick now,” he said again.
“Hey, I don’t care if RCA drops me,” I said. “I have a firm three-album deal. They’ll owe me a lot of money if they do that.”
“Call Danny and Nick,” he said one more time. Click.
I can’t say I was surprised when RCA dropped me. I
