It took a while for everyone to get it together, and we each handled it differently. Al Jourgensen and his girlfriend Sean Yseult, the bass player for White Zombie and the daughter of an Ernest Hemingway scholar, went back to their hotel room and laid low. Gibby and I decided to go to Cedars and check on River’s condition. It was three o’clock on Halloween morning. Hospitals are spooky places to begin with, but the day and the stillness of the hour only compounded the unease. We parked the car close to the entrance so we could make a quick escape if one was needed, and we walked into the sickly, greenish light of the ER. The admitting nurse must have guessed by our clothes and hair that we were somehow connected to River because she asked, “Are you family or friends?”
I said, “Of River’s? We’re family.”
She looked stern and solemn and waved us past. I saw Samantha standing alone. She was crying. I knew just by looking at her that River was dead.
I went numb. It was so unbelievable. Gibby and I were in shock. River partied, for sure, but nothing at the level of the rest of us. How could he be dead? I wondered. I wanted to give my condolences to Samantha but realized there was nothing Gibby and I could do here. Our presence might only make things worse. To her we probably represented evil. The press didn’t know yet that one of Hollywood’s most promising young actors had just overdosed on drugs and died. Gibby and I went back to the car and sat there for a while as we tried to wrap our minds around the situation. The reality of this tragedy hit me like a sudden punch to the gut and I sobbed, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”
“This is going to be bad, man,” Gibby said.
“What do we do?”
“Where’s Frusciante?!?” we both asked.
It hit us like a bomb that John might be running loose. He was the weak link of our group. He was likely to say anything to anyone, even reporters—“We all love drugs! They’re great!” Gibby and I found a pay phone—those were still easy to locate in ’93—and called Depp.
“Have you seen John?” I asked.
“He’s at home. How’s your friend?” he said. Johnny didn’t know it was River who had been taken away in the ambulance.
“Dude, River’s dead!” I told him. There was a long silence, followed by a quiet “Oh, my God …” And then the phone went dead.
Well, it was a bit of a relief to know John was back at his house, but of all us, he was the one who could do some real damage. He was the kind of person who would argue—and be serious—that heroin was good for you … with a cop. There was no telling what he could say or do. Gibby and I realized just how vulnerable we were. We went back to my apartment and talked all night. The conversation went something like this: “Holy fuck!” We suspected the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department couldn’t wait to start arresting musicians and actors in connection with River’s death.
As a jaundiced dawn started to break, Gibby wearily said, “I’m going back home to Texas. I’m booking a flight.” He picked up the phone, made a couple calls, and was gone.
Al Jourgensen was on tour and had to leave anyway, and I found out he and his girlfriend had bolted too. I was on my own. By midmorning, the paranoia of sitting alone in my place had started to wear on me, so I went to the Viper Room. It was madness. There was media everywhere. Cameras, reporters, support teams. River’s fans had set up makeshift memorials. Red roses, white lilies, and multihued candles colored the dirty sidewalk where not many hours before River had collapsed. I stifled another sob. I loved River, and now he was gone and there wasn’t anything I could do.
Junkie self-preservation kicked in. I walked on and found a phone. I called Sal to find out if he had any news. He wasn’t happy to hear from me. “Fuck you and fuck your fucking friends, man!” was what he told me. Sal was sober and had a clear picture of what was going on. He knew that the Viper Room was over.
“Where’s Johnny?” I asked.
“Johnny’s gone, man, and, if I were you, I’d be gone too.” Click.
I started to panic. If anyone went down for this, it might be me. I was there. I’d scored drugs the night before. Sal was sober. I wasn’t. And now that everyone else had split, I was the only one left here in town. Depressed about River and freaked out for myself, I drove back to my place on La Brea and right in front of my building was a double-parked police prowler. That was not a good sign. I just kept driving.
I hooked a right on Third Street and headed east to the tree-studded hills of Echo Park on the edge of downtown. I didn’t know what to do. I went to my old friend Chris Hansen’s house and knocked.
He answered the door and I blurted out, “River’s dead.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s been all over the news. It’s so sad.”
“No, dude, you don’t understand. I have to get out of town. I need to get to my mom’s house in Oklahoma.”
I made a few phone calls, booked a flight, and borrowed some money from Chris, and he drove me across town to LAX, where I caught a plane and went to visit my mom, who had, a few years earlier, decided to leave California for the slower pace of the Sooner State. Very few people outside my immediate family knew that, and I thought Oklahoma could provide
