I idolized Belushi, though I can’t really say I hung out with him. Belushi didn’t really hang out with anybody. He drank and did his drugs and when he talked, he didn’t talk to you so much as he talked at you. “You” being the audience of millions he constantly saw himself before. This little gig of mine was a great way to meet people. It wasn’t long before I earned the reputation as “that kid who knows everybody.” I liked my new title and it led to some interesting situations. I was good at making introductions. A well-known record-business A & R guy named Mark Williams approached me one night in regard to one of the Zero One’s regulars, David Lee Roth. I knew him because he was always at the club.
“Uh, hey, Bob,” he said. “I have this couple here from England and they really want to meet David. Do you think you could hook that up?”
“Well, yeah, I think I can. But David likes to be prepped before he meets new people. What can you tell me about them?”
“They play in a band called New Order. You remember Joy Division, right? This is kind of an outgrowth of that.”
“Never heard of New Order. Joy Division was so great, I don’t think I’d want to hear anything that followed it.”
“They’re awesome, Bob. They really want to meet David. They’re right over there,” he said, and pointed to a pasty, nondescript English boy and his dewy girlfriend who stood off to the side. “That’s Stephen Morris and her name’s Gillian Gilbert.”
“Let me go find David,” I said. Mark gave the thumbs-up sign to his English friends and I saw the chick bounce on the balls of her feet and clutch her hands to her chest like an overexcited schoolgirl. I searched every corner in the joint and couldn’t find David. Someone said, “I think he’s in the bathroom,” and jerked a finger toward a closed door. “The bathroom” wasn’t technically a bathroom, although it did have a sink. It was more of a storage room that housed some cleaning supplies and a mop and bucket. What the fuck is he doing in there? I wondered. I knocked. “David? Are you in there?”
“Just a minute, man!” a familiar voice boomed from behind the door before it creaked open an inch. David peered out, looking every inch the rock-and-roll god that he was, if slightly bug-eyed at the moment. “Hey, Bob. Come in, come in,” he said, his face cracking into a huge grin. I slid through the door and there was David with the Disco King, a guitarist who had set the dance-music template with his chart-topping band. David Lee Roth might have been the rock star in the Zero One, but the Disco King was the real badass musician in the place. There was a big bag of coke in the room and David and the Disco King were in good spirits. Each wore a sheen of sweat that was, no doubt, the effect of the night’s ration of white powder. “Hey, man. There’s a couple of English people who want to meet you. They’re from that band New Order.”
“New Order? I love those guys!” said David effusively.
“They’re good,” said the Disco King.
“Well, I never heard of them. Let me go get them.”
I left the confines of the storage room and went and found Gillian and Stephen where I had left them. They were giddy at the prospect of meeting a flamboyant American rock star. They didn’t really make them like David in England, at least not anymore. Of course, they didn’t really make anyone like David here in America either. “Okay, it’s cool. Follow me,” I said.
“Is he nice?” Gillian asked.
“Oh, he’s great. He’s David Lee Roth. You’ll love him.”
I shepherded them into the little room. “Bob, shut that door,” said David, and I slammed it hard since it didn’t fit in the jamb all that well. With five of us crammed in the tight space, there was barely room to turn around. Introductions were made and the small talk started. Everybody loved everybody else. Then David pulled out the magic bag of coke. “Who’s in?” he asked. We all were and spent the next hour dipping into it and babbling about anything and everything. The thing with coke-spurred conversations is that even if they’re mundane and essentially hollow, they seem, at the time, incredibly deep and profound. Who knows? Maybe it was, but I have my doubts. Other than the Brits’ thrill at getting an audience with David Lee Roth, what made up that night’s summit topics were likely forgotten the next day. Little meetings like ours, no matter how pleasant and engaging, can’t last forever. Despite the fun we all were having, after an hour or so in the tight grip of that little room, with the temperature rising from everybody’s coke-elevated body heat, it was time to move on and grab a cold drink.
“Hey, Bob, get the door,” said David. “We could all use some fresh air.” I gripped the knob to give it a twist and pulled. Nothing. I pulled again. The door was stuck. “Hey, Bob, quit fuckin’ around,” said David.
“I’m not kidding, man. This door’s stuck,” I said, and I wiggled the knob and pulled with both hands to emphasize the problem.
The Disco King kept his cool. “This ain’t good,” he said, but showed no panic as he leaned casually against the wall. The English girl, Gillian, seemed to come down with a sudden case of claustrophobia. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes widened like a cat’s during a thunderstorm and her breath came in short, sharp gasps. “Oh, my God,” she said quietly. Stephen didn’t say a word and faced the situation with typical English stoicism. Then David attempted to lighten the mood. “I wonder how much oxygen we have left in here,”
