It’s how I found myself back, unannounced, on her doorstep one night. I rang the bell. No answer. I knocked. No answer. I looked up and saw no lights. It was early evening, so I planned to wait. I had to see her. I went to wait in the pub across the street and started to drink. We had just played the big Pinkpop Festival in Landgraaf, the Netherlands, on a bill with Living Colour, Lenny Kravitz, Rage Against the Machine, and the Black Crowes in front of more than sixty thousand people. I made a spectacle of myself at that show. I felt hopeless about the way things were. My plan was to kill myself onstage and become a famous rock-and-roll suicide. In front of all those people, I’d climb to the top of one of the rigging scaffolds and take a swan dive. But when I got up there and looked down, I chickened out. Fuck, that’s a long drop, I thought. I came back down as the band played and then went through my usual front-man histrionics once I got back onstage. I finished up the show by cursing Jesus. It felt right because the festival was held on Pentecost weekend. The crowd loved it. Our show was written about extensively in the European press. I was a celebrity and everyone in that bar wanted to buy a drink for the crazy, tortured artist. I accepted their kindness, but I didn’t really feel like talking to any of them. I kept walking outside to see if Françoise had come home. She hadn’t.
I went back inside for more pats on the back and more drinks from the locals. I started to chat with an older man. He was cultured and smart and I got along with him. He wasn’t like the rest of the crowd, who seemed unduly impressed that I had been in the press. We both kept drinking and, as will often happen in a drinking bout, we became best buddies four rounds in. But Françoise was still on my mind, and I walked outside again. My new friend followed me out and saw me peering at the houses across the street.
“Bob, my friend, at what do you look?”
I took a pull from my cigarette and launched into my story. “There’s a girl I’m in love with.”
“Ah, yes, love.”
“Well, she lives across the street. I’m waiting for her to get home.”
“This girl. What house is she in?”
“That one right there,” I said, and pointed.
A look crossed his face. Maybe he knew her. Maybe not. “This girl of yours. What is her name?”
“Françoise,” I said.
“Françoise?” He burst out in a laugh and embraced me. “That girl is my daughter!”
That I wasn’t murdered on the spot impressed me. “I love Europe!” I said. But Françoise didn’t come home and I had to get on the road and finish the tour. Back home, I tried to keep in touch, but being separated by a continent and an ocean makes the logistics difficult. It wasn’t like I could hop a train. What can I say? The truth is I like younger women. I always have.
But Colleen’s dad didn’t have a European outlook on my relationship with his daughter. Neither did the district attorney. This was serious business and I was threatened with statutory rape charges. I was dragged into the state of California’s legal system and I became—officially—a father. I was also ordered to pay child support once the baby arrived. It was a heartbreaking situation. Colleen faced her pregnancy alone. If she harbored hatred toward me, she never showed it. I was all set to do what friends of mine had done when faced with similar circumstances: run. The district attorney and the state of California made sure I didn’t. I wrote a song about it that appeared on Next Saturday Afternoon. I called it “Hang Tough.”
Got up this morning to go to court
The DA started telling me, “It’s time to grow up.”
To hang tough and be responsible to Colleen and the imminent arrival of our baby became my goal. There was a problem, though. Despite my noble, court-ordered intentions, I was in no kind of shape to take on that sort of role. The drugs and drink had too great a hold on me, and even the birth of a child wouldn’t be enough to loosen their grip.
Colleen gave birth in 1986 to a boy child and he was named Elijah. I tried my best to make the trip to Orange County to visit every month. I tried my best to pay what I could for his support. I tried to be a dad … and I came up short. I was a 10 percent father to him. I justified it in my head by telling myself that Colleen had several good men who were her friends and they could fill in the blanks that I left. It wasn’t as if Elijah wouldn’t have good role models, I told myself, and, despite my absenteeism, I loved that kid. When I’d see him, I was fascinated by the little critter. I would watch him play and think, Oh, my God! He’s just like me! It blew my mind, and yet, I still didn’t get it. I couldn’t get it. Even now, today, I don’t remember a lot of that time. I must have changed a diaper at some point, but I can’t recall doing it. I must have given him a bottle, but I draw a blank on that. I wasn’t healthy enough to be a parent, and Colleen knew it.
If I was in a good period and not completely incoherent on drugs and the party life, Colleen and Elijah would come up to visit. If I was on really good behavior, they might even spend the night. But it wasn’t until 1989, after my first attempt at sobriety, that I was allowed to keep him by myself for a
