A Stray Cat Struts (27 page)

After four or five hours of moderately hard walking, we arrived on the outskirts of a tiny village with an adjacent field that, we were told, was used as a landing space for choppers. The guide left us, and we were standing around in a dirt field talking to some local kids, sharing the last of our granola bars with them. There was a certain amount of faith involved here, because if the helicopter didn't turn up, we really had nowhere to go and no gear to even camp out with. Another one of those “How did I get here? Why did I agree to this?” moments was upon me.

We waited for a couple of hours, really doing nothing in the middle of nowhere. With no warning and out of nowhere, a brightly painted, shiny orange-and-blue military-looking Russian-made medevac helicopter appeared and landed in front of us with a great roar of the rotors, creating a huge dust cloud. We threw our little bags into the back and climbed in.

The crew inside of the helicopter consisted of a big military-looking pilot, a local-looking Nepalese woman as copilot, and an average-looking guy, who I would later learn was a medic, sitting in a jump seat behind them with a doctor's bag open and ready on the floor in front of him. All were wearing headsets and were very focused. The rest of the large interior was empty, and I figured it was originally built to transport tanks and that a private company had bought the old Soviet-era military helicopter and retooled it for a service for injured climbers. They didn't know why they were stopping here and looked a bit relieved when they saw it wasn't a medical rescue emergency situation.

We had a breathtaking ride through the mountains. The pilot was really driving, and it was in no way a walk in the park for him. It seemed like we were very near to the sides of the mountains a few times, and I could see the powdery snow being blown off the cliffs when we got close. The whole ride took an hour or so, and the relief of not having had to slog back down the mountain was intense. We were three happy campers. A taxi into town found us back in the comfort of Hotel Yak & Yeti.

The first hot shower and shave in two weeks was a relief and a treat. A soft bed was welcome, too. We had a good nap, and when we woke up, we went for a stroll around the neighborhood around the hotel. There's a big U.S. embassy and the palace grounds, but it's surrounded by squalor. We found a place to eat pizza and went back to the hotel. We had been living on power bars, bananas, and cooled-down boiled water for two weeks. Many of the trekkers had gotten sick, but Garrie and I didn't eat the local fare and toughed it out with near starvation. Maybe it all hit us at once, but that night we were both violently ill. I was worse—this was a time when sharing a room was uncomfortable. It was the sickest I've ever been, and I asked Garrie to call the fixer guy, get a gun, and shoot me. I spent two full days either on the bathroom floor or in bed, in a fevered daze. We finally called the hotel desk and asked for a doctor.

An hour later, a young guy in a tracksuit knocked on the door. The doctor was a local guy who had trained in England and returned to his hometown to help the locals. He rode a scooter all over town and treated the poor. He had a little black bag and a lot of knowledge. I trusted him right away. I had no choice. He gave us a couple of injections and charged twenty-six dollars. He must have had the right stuff, because we both got much better by the next day.

The others returned three days later, and by then, I was in tip-top shape. We had a visit to the cancer ward of the Kathmandu hospital. The money we raised on the trek through donations had been used to purchase the first mammography and internal radiation machines in the country. There was a ceremony where we met the doctors and the mayor. We then went to Durbar Square in the middle of the city, where the police held up the traffic in the city's biggest square while we played a thirty-minute concert on a ramshackle makeshift stage. This kind of thing may happen all the time in LA or London, but in Kathmandu, it's a major, unique event.

We were there for one more day, and I still had a small personal itch that hadn't been scratched. James, Stash, and I went to the very local and underfunded Kanti Children's Hospital for a visit. This place is a haven of hope that everyone should see once in their lives before the next time you complain about not having a good parking spot or having to wait in line at the supermarket. A whole small neighborhood has sprung up in the parking lot and surrounding area of the hospital. The parents and siblings of the sick children move to be near them and visit every day. Many of them are from the countryside and cannot go back and forth to the city every day. They take jobs that allow them to stay near the hospital and some have market stalls in the parking lot that cater to other families of the sick kids. No child is abandoned by his or her family, and the whole gang comes every day to visit the sick one. We did a tour of the hospital, and it affected me like nothing else ever has. The conditions were appalling, and although the doctors, nurses, and staff are trying very hard, the poverty of the whole country pervades everywhere. They didn't have enough paper towels or soap for the doctors to wash their hands as often as they wanted. Dirt showed through part of the floor, and they couldn't keep the electricity on all the time. Still, the kids had positive energy and were thrilled when we brought some simple coloring books and small toys to the ward where the sickest kids were undergoing chemotherapy. I gave them some of my T-shirts. We had a good cry in the lobby and organized some steady shipments of basic stuff by encouraging our friends to go to a bulk store and send the stuff to the hospital. It's harder to organize this than you'd expect, and I hope it's still going on to some extent. I know it was happening for a while, because we were getting pictures sent to us. It fulfilled my own need to see things up close, to make a small, relatable personal difference, and to give one toy to one kid, as the whole concept of a radiation machine is way over my head.

I came back to LA and had a strong gratitude vibe going for a while. I made a bond with the new people who were on this trek and reinforced an existing bond with a few of the others. I was happy I did it but said I'd never do something like it again. This was true for two years until I got another call from Mike, James, and Shannon saying we were doing Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa. All of this over again, with rhinos and giraffes, too? Sign me up for another adventure.

 

21

A New Chapter

In 2009, at Brixton Academy, London, there was a life-changing incident for me. The Stray Cats had played a show and were saying good night to the audience. We had a scorching gig, and as is often the case with a gig in a major town like London, there was much relief on the stage when it was finished. The next week was to be easy, gravy shows in Manchester and Glasgow, and we were going to finally make it to Ireland.

I had already jumped off and over the drums, ran around the stage, and had an all-around fun show. The drill was the same every night. I'd walk to Lee's side of the stage, say good night to those folks, walk to my side, and say hello to my people, and then we'd all meet in the middle, take our bow, and be gone. Everyone does it in a more or less similar fashion.

On the way back to the middle, a combination of things happened in a split second that would change everything. An audience member tried to hand me something that I reached for—this never happens; I ignore this type of thing 99.999 percent of the time—the front of the stage curved a little on the right side, and the heel of my boot caught a groove in the wooden floor. I remember a brief sensation of falling before I hit the floor. I had fallen off the stage about ten feet straight down. I must have put my right hand down in an attempt to break my fall. I broke my arm instead. I remember a couple of security guards helping me up by pulling on my arm, and at that point, I knew something bad had happened. I got back onto the stage and took a bow with the others. Brian remembers me saying, “I broke my fucking arm.”

Once I was in the dressing room, my wrist and hand really started to swell up. Another original buddy, punk rock legend Charlie Harper from the U.K. Subs, took his bandana off, got some ice, and wrapped my arm up. I had the feeling he had done this before. A rock-and-roll medic came to the rescue. A bunch of true pals were at the show and had already made their way to my dressing room. Glen Matlock, Captain Sensible, Mick Jones, Mike Peters, the late, great Gerry Harrington, and Peter Golding were all waiting for me. I'm told it was the first time that a member of the Clash, the Sex Pistols, and the Damned had been photographed together. I think I was in a mild shock. I did think that this was an excellent rock-and-roll who's who moment, and Gerry took a classic photo of all of us in my dressing room. What is out of the frame is my right wrist, swelling up like in a cartoon, wrapped in Charlie's bandana, the ice quickly melting, soaking my sleeve and leaving a little puddle where I stood.

I took a taxi with Pete back to his house in Chelsea, where I've stayed a hundred times. The plan had been to go by train to Manchester the next morning and do the gig at the Apollo, which was sold out in advance. When we got back to Pete's, I unwrapped my wrist for the first time in a few hours. It didn't even hurt that much, but I could tell things were not right. It was very bad and a bit shocking to look at. We walked down to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital on Fulham Road. I had walked past the place a thousand times before but had never gone in. I must have cut an odd-looking figure having my hair piled high and still wearing stage makeup. I signed in at the emergency room desk, and we just sat. After a little while, I was taken for x-rays; Pete stuck with me the whole time. The results were not good. My wrist was broken in three places, and one bone had been reduced to dust. By then, it was about 4:00
A.M.
, and I was exhausted and bewildered by what had happened in the past few hours. The doctor wanted me to come back at 8:00
A.M.
; he would do the operation then. I told him I couldn't do it; I needed to get to Manchester and turn up at the hotel. In hindsight, I should've just stayed in London and done it that way. He was a respected surgeon who was on rounds that night and wanted to help me. He put on a temporary cast and told me that I needed to have it done soon to avoid any permanent damage. So now I had fear on top of shock and disbelief.

I had never been in a cast before, and the whole thing didn't seem real. I stopped at the desk on the way out and asked about the payment. I told them I had a USA-based credit card, but I could get the tour manager to wire cash or that my buddy, who was English, could pay them with his credit card. They told me there was no charge and that if I were to have chosen to do the operation with my admitting surgeon, the whole thing would have been on the cuff. I told them again that I was American; the nurse told me it didn't matter. One thing I had to give the British: they were prepared to take care of me even though I wasn't one of their own. Can you imagine an English guy coming into an American hospital at 2:00
A.M.
, wearing makeup, and telling them a story about falling off a stage and wanting help? There would be cops and questions within two minutes, and the guy would still be sitting there with a broken arm. They never grilled me about my story or even asked for ID. In a typical light rain, we walked the three blocks back to Pete's house and sat in his kitchen in silence.

I had spoken with the tour manager and told him to tell the others. I still had to go to Manchester the next day and be examined by an approved doctor sent in by the promoter to affirm that I couldn't play. This would guarantee that the cancellation insurance for the tour would cover the accident. I was also holding out hope that I could somehow do the last few shows.

The next morning, Mikey Peters, who had stayed in London and lived in the Manchester area, picked me up in a taxi and took me to Paddington Station to catch the train to Manchester. Chris Monk, the Damned's European agent, who was at the show the night before and had also stayed in London, was along, too, and was a big help to me. The whole train ride, I was trying to think of ways to do the show. I thought about taping a stick to my casted wrist or wedging a tambourine in there. Mikey just smiled and nodded. He knew the inevitable truth that there was no way I could do a show in that condition.

We made it to the station and then the hotel. Apparently, there had been some announcements on the radio telling the fans about my accident in London and about the probable cancellation of the show that night at the Manchester Academy. At the hotel lobby and bar, there were fans crying and asking me if I could play the show in the cast. A doctor had to push past the fans; he came to my room and confirmed that I had a broken arm. He was a little embarrassed, as his diagnosis was obvious, but there was red tape to get through to make sure everyone, besides us, would be paid for the last part of the tour. This thing was officially over; I could not do the remaining gigs on this tour.

The plan was to go back to LA and get the operation there. A doctor friend of mine had arranged for a top-notch surgeon to do my arm right after I landed. The original ticket was booked with us all leaving from the last tour stop in Ireland. I still had to make it to Dublin, where I had a first-class ticket to take me back home. When I hit the floor back in London, we had each lost a lot of money, so to book a whole new decent ticket through Manchester was financially impossible. A couple of the crew guys who were going back to LA helped me with the luggage, and I made it to Dublin for the final leg of my long, arduous journey.

I was sitting in my seat on Aer Lingus when the last interesting part of the story happened. Through my haze, I recognized the guy in the seat next me. It was the actor Colin Farrell. He definitely looks and carries himself like a movie star. He looked at me like a lot of people do. He knew I was somebody but didn't know exactly who. After I introduced myself, he knew right away, and we quickly discovered five people we both knew. He asked me about my giant cast. I told him the story. He thought that if it had to happen, it was a pretty cool way to get a broken arm. That members of the Clash, the Damned, and the Pistols were all there and that it happened in front of a live audience were all mitigating details. I appreciated the positive spin. I would try to remember it in the darker days ahead.