My Appetite For Destruction (4 page)

Josh had a pack of cigarettes and shared them with us. We all hit it off quickly. One of the girls had the Marcia Brady look: long, straight blond hair. The other had the lengthy, curled-back bangs that Farrah Fawcett made so popular at that time. As we talked and laughed, we made our way over to a construction site. We entered one of the half-built houses and looked around. There was just the stud framing supporting some Sheetrock walls and a ton of that cheap multicolored foam padding you see when you rip up wall-to-wall carpeting.

The place had a nice homey feel to it, and it was obvious other kids had hung out there. Someone had tipped over one of those big wooden spools for a makeshift table and dragged over a bunch of cinder blocks for seats. There was even a Led Zeppelin mural spray-painted on one of the walls. It was the four symbols for Page, Plant, Bonham, and Jones included on the inner sleeve of the fourth album. On another wall someone had spray-painted a crappy version of the Blue Öyster Cult logo. Once inside, we casually walked around as if we were thinking about buying the place, then paired off into separate areas. Josh disappeared first with Farrah, leaving me with Marcia Marcia Marcia.

Marcia was the prettiest young thing. The lipstick and light blue eye shadow made her look a bit like a windup doll, and I began to fantasize about what lay ahead. As she peeled off with me to find a quiet place, I could hear her steady breathing turn fluttery, expectant. I was suddenly, acutely aware of a sweetly fresh fragrance wafting off her body. I inhaled deeply, feeding off the seductive bouquet. It filled every pore in my body and made me so hot. Flush with excitement, I ducked into one of the smaller rooms, then turned to face her. Without hesitation she collapsed into me, surrendering completely. Her motion caused her long blond hair to fall forward against my face and shoulders. I thought I was going to lose it right there.

In one thumping heartbeat we were stretched out on a partially unrolled section of carpet padding in a half-built house, moaning, groping, sucking face, and praying it would never stop. I moved in closer to Marcia and she eagerly embraced me. I kissed her again and again, and she returned each kiss fully. Without thinking, I just seemed to know what to do next. In fact I swear I never had a single thought during the entire time. It was strictly, gloriously physical. After kissing our lips raw, we took a breath and I sat up, completely confident as I undid her belt. As I yanked on her jeans I heard the fateful word: “Wait . . .”

“Oh shit!” But she just smiled and asked me not to pull down so hard. She just wanted to help me get her pants off. She kicked off her sneakers to reveal these brightly colored rainbow-striped socks—so cute! Now her kisses were bolder, more urgent. As her thin white legs wrapped around mine, the full scent of her body hit me and I felt ready to burst.

From then on everything accelerated. She was so eager, so wet, that we were instantly one. The taste of her skin was both salty and sweet. We moved awkwardly at first, then got into a primal rhythm that couldn’t have lasted more than a dozen seconds because I just exploded. I made this weird yelping noise that didn’t even sound human.

This was my first time, and I think it was hers too. Afterward, she seemed to be equal parts nervous and excited, but all I remember was this enormous relief that there was no blood, and to a lesser extent, that I had performed. Yes, it was “mission accomplished” (though I had no aircraft carrier to string my message across). Honestly though, I was never nervous. Maybe that’s because it was all over in a magic minute. I lost my virginity to my Marcia, a girl whose real name I’ll never know. To this day, chilly, damp afternoons bring me right back to my first time.

A
t home, my older brother was withdrawing further, becoming a genuine recluse. My mom actually talked to the friends that I had, who were mostly older kids. She asked them not to hang out with me as much and spend some of their time with my brother. After all, they were my brother’s age and they went to the same school. I don’t know why, but this didn’t really bother me. I never had trouble making friends, and Kenny could have them all. I’d just go out and make more.

They actually did my mom the favor and started hanging out with him. It worked out, because my brother had some new friends and I still got to hang out with them. Mom was fine with my being out later on school nights because I was with Kenny. In fact, my not being possessive with my friends ended up paying huge dividends because a few houses down, some of them were in a garage band.

When Kenny and I dropped in, my eyes bugged. I thought they were the coolest kids in the world. They were all tuning up their instruments and playing with their amps, and they all had long hair. I really looked up to all of these guys and treated them like they were gods.

They played Rush, Frampton,
REO
Speedwagon, Humble Pie, all the big rock tunes of the day. Hell, I knew them all; I was a rocker. The drummer had a blue translucent drum set and I remember he would roll joints on the snare drum. They had two guitars, a bass, and drums. It was so fucking loud. It was the first time I felt the actual, physical crush of live rock music. I fell in love with it instantly.

During one of their rehearsals, I did a beer bong with them. It was the first time for me. For those of you who grew up in a convent, a beer bong is a funnel attached to a tube. You put the tube in your mouth, and they pour an entire beer in the funnel. This forces you to swallow it in one gulp.

I was a wild man, determined to impress them all. I chugged six Olde English 800s in a row. I can still remember them cheering me on:
Ad-ler. Ad-ler. Ad-ler!
I felt like I really belonged. I smiled and laughed, proud I was able to entertain guys I so admired. When it was time for me to head home for dinner, I grabbed my bike. I had a yellow ten-speed at the time. I hopped on, pushed off, and watched in horror as my foot completely missed the pedal. I fell right off doing a header into the lawn. I was so wasted.

Two of the guys heard me fall and rushed over. “Where’s your brother?” Kenny had wisely taken off, probably after my first beer. So these guys helped me up and walked me and my bike back home. When we got to my house, they set my bike down, rang the doorbell, and ran off. To this day, I wish I had run off with them.

A
bout a month later, my mother was having a Tupperware party. I came in shit-faced out of my mind and said real casual, “Hey, Ma.” There were about a dozen sweet old ladies right there in the dining room. I smiled; they smiled back. I thought I was so slick, fooling them all.

But then I felt a little shaky. I grabbed the back of the couch to stop from keeling over. Suddenly I power-booted all over the place, right in front of them. Technicolor Yawn, the Big Spit, Ralph-a-Roni. It’s amazing how much more you can puke up after you think you’re finished. I saw the nub of a hot dog in there that I’m pretty sure I’d eaten two days ago.

These women went from shifting uneasily in their seats to wanting the fuck out of there. They were afraid I was going to fill up the room with vomit and they’d drown. They certainly had a right to panic, because it felt like I yakked for a half hour.

Judging by the frozen look of horror on their faces, I was the girl in
The Exorcist.
Hell, I may as well have been Satan himself. Then Mel flew into the room. He completely lost it, swearing up and down, screaming like a drill sergeant that I was grounded for life.

So there I was, sick as a dog. They sent me straight up to bed. I had been skipping school every day for about a month by that point, and as luck would have it, the day after I ruined my mom’s party (and sofa), the school called my home.

That’s when my dad, Mel, who was still livid about the barf, blew a gasket and screamed at my mom: “That’s it. It’s either him or me.” I found out her choice the next day when I came home from the 7-Eleven where I had snuck out for a Slurpee. It was the only thing I felt I could coax down at the time; I was so hungover and dehydrated.

I turned the corner back to my house and . . . what the fuck? Mel had taken all my stuff and dumped it on the sidewalk. My clothes, a football, a couple of eight-tracks, and whatever else I owned was now all outside. I went in to ask what was going on, and all I remember was my dad and me getting into a big argument and his chasing me around the house.

But although I was screaming back at Mel and telling him what a totally unreasonable, heartless jerk he was, I knew deep down this day was coming. And while I’ve picked up lots of sympathy points over the years by telling people my parents kicked me out on the streets when I was only eleven, I had probably pushed them past the limit more quickly than your average juvenile terror.

So I guess it was time for me to leave. That was it. They paid the bills, they called the shots, so I was out of there. My grandpop, Stormin’ Norman, came and picked me up. He helped me put my junk in his car.

M
y grandparents had a small two-bedroom apartment in Hollywood about twenty miles from my parents’ place in Canoga Park. After their children grew up, they each preferred having their own bedroom. Since there wasn’t a third bedroom for me, my room was the bathroom. I kept my clothes in there, and a little clock radio, and that was it. The record player was in my grandfather’s room, so I kind of adopted it as my own. Grandpa worked at a bakery, and he would leave for work early in the evening, so I’d always be hanging out in Stormin’ Norman’s room listening to my records.

It was hilarious. My seventy-year-old grandfather slept in this room that I had covered with pictures from teen magazines, mostly rock stars like Aerosmith, Boston, a lot of Kiss, Bay City Rollers, even Shaun Cassidy and Leif Garrett. I dreamed of being a teen idol. Grandpa never complained about my decorating, and Big Lilly never complained about the noise. I would sleep on their sofa bed in the living room.

Grandpa would come home from the bakery at five in the morning and he’d have a shot of whiskey. I’d be drowsy but I’d always ask, “Hey, Grandpa, how are you?”

“Just fine. Just fine. Hey, Stevie, wanna snort?” He called a shot a “snort.”

I’d politely decline: “Nah, Grandpa.” He’d always offer me a shot, do one himself, then go in his room. He’d close the door and go to sleep. Snort.

I
n June ’78, I saw my first concert. My cousin Karen won tickets over the phone from the radio station 93
KHJ
. She called me up and asked, “Stevie, how would you like to see Kiss at Magic Mountain?” My jaw dropped. She knew Kiss was my favorite band. I told her how much I’d love to go. The next day she picked me up, and we drove out to the amusement park. We were totally into it when we noticed there were camera crews setting up. They were filming Kiss for what would become their cult-classic film
Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park
. I was a part of Kisstory!

That night I saw a lot and learned a lot about rock music. The most important thing I took away from the concert was an appreciation for how much the studio version of a song could take on a life of its own when it was performed live. It was the same song, same lyrics, same chord progression, but it was totally different, having a unique and often superior energy all its own.

When I returned home, there was no question. After the garage band experience and now seeing Kiss in all their glory, rock ’n’ roll was for me! I begged Big Lilly for a guitar. She surprisingly put up little fuss and within a week, I had a Sears department store guitar and amp combo. Unfortunately, I didn’t spend much free time practicing my new guitar.

Now that I was back in Hollywood, Big Lilly insisted I enroll at Bancroft Junior High. After classes, I would join all the local teenagers and ride bikes and skateboards at Laurel Elementary School, where they had all these cool ramps and dips and big embankments that the riders would race off.

One day I skateboarded up this ramp, taking off at a pretty good speed. While in the air, I attempted a 180 and messed up big-time. My head
slammed
down against the pavement—skateboarding helmets were not even in existence back then—and it felt like a bomb went off in my head. I was in such pain, bordering on passing out. As these two kids were walking by, they saw me hit the ground. They ran over to see if I was okay. One of them asked, “Dude, are you all right?”

I remember half rolling up to face them, holding my head. “Yeah . . .”

“Well, let’s try to be a little more careful next time.” They kind of snickered as they walked off. I went home with a huge lump on my head. This is probably when all the brain damage started.

A
couple of days later I was raising my own special brand of hell in class. My history teacher happened to have an apartment in the same building where I lived with Big Lilly. I tortured this poor woman relentlessly. See, I knew that she wouldn’t want to get my grandmother all upset by telling her bad stuff about me, so I would take full advantage of that situation and fuck with her all the time.

One day, I had her chasing me around the classroom. I was crazy, running around the desks and stuff. She chased me into an adjoining classroom and the teacher in that room was in some other kid’s face, pointing and shouting. “You’re a loser, a bum, that’s all you’re ever going to be!” I thought that was amusing. “Hey, another kid who gets teachers to lose it.” We looked at each other and just kind of smirked.

When the school day was over, we sought each other out. He said he recognized me from a few days earlier. I didn’t make the connection at first, but here was the kid who asked me if I was all right when I smashed my head.