Running with Monsters

listened in and turned to her brother and said, “I’m going to marry that guy someday.” We didn’t get married, but we had a long and happy relationship. She was thirteen when she heard that show. She was always very supportive. I had met Max a few years before when she was nineteen and I was thirty-two. It was instant infatuation. She was a pretty, wild girl and could match me bad habit for bad habit. But she found that the party-hard life wasn’t what she wanted for herself and she cleaned up. I wasn’t ready for that, and she seemed to understand. While she maintained her sobriety, I did my best to stay loaded. Through it all, she stood by my side, even when I’d engage in some questionable behavior. There was a famous rock chick who fronted a well-known band who had a taste for the narcotics. But as her fame and profile increased, sometimes it was easier for her to have me do the dirty work. She’d give me cash to go make a score and off I’d go to take a generous “finder’s fee” in product for myself, or, as I did more than once, use all that I had bought myself. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it.

“Bob, where’s the stuff?”

I’d stammer some lame excuse and add, “But you know I’m good for it.”

“You’re such an asshole,” she’d say with barely concealed contempt. “Now, if I give you some money, will you please go and get me a little something?”

“No problem,” I’d say.

“Okay, and no fuckups this time, right?”

“No, no, it’ll all be cool,” I’d say, unsure as to whether I’d run yet another hustle.

But after my bust, and my subsequent release from the clutches of the penal system, Max was there for me. She helped me along in my sobriety and she understood what I was going through. She had a great deal of empathy and seemed to know what I needed even when I didn’t. She gently prodded me forward. With her encouragement, I started to give some thought to music again. Music came back into my life, but in a strange sort of way.

I still played guitar, but not professionally. I’d play Dylan and Neil Young songs at home, but with no goal or purpose other than to entertain myself and Max.

“You really should start to play out again, Bob,” she said one night.

“I don’t know …” I trailed off, unsure if anyone other than my girlfriend would want to hear what I had to sing.

“Bob, you’re a musician. You can’t keep hiding from the world.”

“I’d need songs.”

“Well, write them. You’re just looking for excuses to not do this.”

“I’d have to start a band or get someone to jam with,” I said. “It’s how I work best.”

“I think I know somebody,” said Max. “He’s really good.”

That was a surprise. It was more of a surprise when I met the musician she had talked about. Josh Klinghoffer was a gangly fifteen-year-old kid in Chuck Taylor high-top sneakers. He lived around the corner from her. He was a friend of Max’s brother. I thought, What the fuck is this? He’s just a kid. Josh didn’t help himself either with his demeanor. He was so quiet and shy, he could barely look me in the eye when we talked. Even when he played music, on either the drums or the guitar, he kept his head down and his spindly teenage arms and legs tucked in tight. I thought at first that maybe this kid was autistic or something. But, no, he was just a diffident youngster who had a lot of talent. We started to have little jam sessions and we played a couple of covers gigs. I began to write again and Josh and I would record demos on a little four-track tape machine I had. All the bitterness and frustration of the previous years began to pour out of me, even if I only had three songs at that point. It felt good to write again, but I still had reservations about getting back into the game. I was a messenger now. A workingman. My music days were behind me. It was probably best not to set my sights too high.

One afternoon, after I had run all over town, my thirty-five-year-old bones feeling the strain as I delivered my packages—there’s a reason they’re called “delivery boys”—I saw a car parked in the lot where the Goldenvoice offices were. A guy I knew, Paul Tollett, the president of the concert promotion outfit, now known for the famous annual Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, was about to get into it. I had known him from my days on the music scene and I had a decent relationship with him, unlike with so many others. At least I was pretty sure I had never burned him. I was beat and thought I’d take a rest and say hello. Who knew? Maybe I could get a job with Goldenvoice delivering messages. I thought that might be cool.

“Hey, man!” I said with a smile.

It took Paul a moment to recognize me. “Bob?”

“That’s me. How are you, man?”

“Good to see you. Let’s go back inside and talk in my office. It’s noisy out here.”

The rush-hour hum and hiss of the traffic as it funneled through the artificial canyons of urban Hollywood made conversation difficult. I was glad to go inside, where the climate was controlled and cool, and I was even happier to take a few minutes to sit down in a comfortable office chair and take off a load. Paul sat across from me, his arms propped on his desk as he leaned forward. “So what’s up with Bob Forrest these days?” he asked.

“This is it, man. Workin’.”

“Working? Doing what?”

“Delivering messages and packages. You need anybody like that? It’d be cool to work for you guys.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“No.”

I gave him the rundown of my recent past and watched his expression. “So you’re not doing music anymore?”

“A little.