Storms (25 page)

Two minutes later, Lindsey reached back toward Richard, who was sitting in the row behind us, and grabbed the flask of Jack Daniel's. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was washing down a suspiciously large white pill. Looking to my left, I saw Stevie's purse lying open, revealing a bottle of pills on top of her myriad makeup items.

Stevie's penchant for pills to help her sleep, diet, relax, or get zonked was a well-kept secret within the band. With a mental shrug I assumed that Lindsey was taking one of her pain pills or tranquilizers, for which he had a fondness. In the excitement of being at the AMAs it didn't even cross my mind to ask him what kind of pill he was taking, or where he'd gotten it.

Suddenly music surged out of the orchestra pit. Grabbing Lindsey's hand, I felt his fingers tighten on mine. We looked at each other and I could see excitement and fear gleaming from eyes that were—thanks to the Jack Daniel's—more than a little crossed. As I reached over to give him a quick kiss, Dick Clark of
American Bandstand
fame walked across the stage and greeted the audience, and the show started.

The band members and their significant others paid little attention to the “lesser awards”—meaning, to us, Awards for Which Fleetwood Mac Was Not Nominated—as they were presented. Choosing instead to whisper, giggle, and squirm in our seats as we waited for the big awards to be announced, we didn't even stop to think about how rude we must have looked to those watching at home. Because, hey, it was
our
night and the Fleetwood Mac family was growing used to insulating ourselves from the opinions of others. As the band's fame had grown over the past months, we'd been establishing our own world, and anything that didn't fit or that we didn't like had absolutely
no
place in it.

The evening slowly progressed and huge television cameras swung our way repeatedly as they panned the front rows of celebrities. Vials of cocaine were dumped on the backs of wrists whenever the lights darkened, and a lot of sniffing was heard up and down our row—as it was in surrounding rows, cocaine being the drug of choice for large events. It seemed to be a requisite accessory for not only musicians but record company executives. At social functions a vial of illicit white powder was as likely to be found in a guest's pocket as a pack of cigarettes.

Next to me, Lindsey was starting to slur his words a bit as he whispered sarcastic remarks to me about any and everything. He was hysterically funny, but I was a little bit concerned about how wasted he appeared to be. I gave another mental shrug as I told myself that there was little I could do about it. I assured myself that he was just nervous. Once they'd won or—God forbid—lost, he'd be fine. After all, I'd seen him “party” after the concerts and he was, shall we say, a “pro” at it. Or so I thought.

Finally it was time for the award for Best Band of the Year. Fleetwood Mac's main competition was, of course, the Eagles. With the release of
Hotel California
, the Eagles had been in a dead heat with the band all year. The album had actually managed to knock
Rumours
out of
Billboard
's numberone slot for one short week when first released, but much to our glee,
Rumours
was back on top within seven days. The Fleetwood Mac family was on friendly terms with the members of the Eagles, who, along with Boz Scaggs, had toured off and on with the band during the tour for the 1974 album
Fleetwood Mac.
And all of them were still remembered fondly by the members of the family. Stevie thought of some of the Eagles with a little more than fondness, having struck up a close friendship with Don Henley that was a constant
topic of delicious speculation among us all. But business was business and a professional rivalry remained hot between them and “the Mac.”

Glancing over at Lindsey, I saw that he was staring at the stage with a glazed look in his eyes as the announcer read out the list of nominees. As he held fast to my arm, his face was pale and a nerve twitched in his cheek. Placing my hand over his, I tried to psychically communicate calm to him as the entire row of the court of Fleetwood Mac held its breath.

“And the winner is:
Fleetwood Mac!”

A huge smile broke across Lindsey's face as I screamed, Stevie gasped, and Mick and John pumped their fists in the air in a classic show of victory. Christine's raucous laugh almost drowned out the roar of approval from the music industry figures sitting behind us. Leaping to their feet, the band members hugged each other and headed for the aisle and the stage.

As the five of them climbed the steps to the podium I noticed with alarm that Lindsey seemed more than a little unsteady on his feet. Since he was holding on to Stevie and Christine, I put it down to the three of them throwing each other off balance and watched with tears in my eyes as they accepted their awards. They radiated joy as they gave their somewhat garbled acceptance speeches and then triumphantly left the stage to cheers and thunderous applause. That was one award down and one to go.

Ten minutes later all five returned to their seats, absolutely glowing (and perhaps gloating) from their win. Lindsey slid down into the red velvet seat next to me, reached over and took my face into his hands, and gave me a kiss that seemed to last forever.

“I love you, Carol. I just want you to know that. I really, really love you. You're my angel, aren't you?” he slurred after he let me up for air.

“I love you too, baby. Congratulations, Lindsey! I just
knew
you were going to win!” I answered happily as I leaned back from him. Suddenly I got a good look at his hair. It was completely flattened on top! His normal halo of curls looked exactly like the trademark locks of Bozo the Clown!

“Um, honey? What happened to your hair?” I whispered as I reached over to fluff the top of his curls back into place.
Sheesh, I hope no one got a picture of him looking like that
, I thought.
He'd absolutely die if he could see himself!
I gamely tried to keep a straight face as I waited for an answer.

With a fond smile Lindsey informed me that he'd been wearing a hat backstage—and by the way, he really, really, loved me.

What the … is he totally stoned? I've never heard him gush like this in public
, I thought,
except that time we both took quaaludes at Mick's house. Oh my God, please no! No he didn't—no one in his right mind would take a quaalude before the AMAs!
My mind reeled in horror as I looked into his completely stoned eyes.

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary! What has he taken? Is it just the booze and weed?
I mentally slapped myself on the forehead as I remembered the suspiciously large pill that he'd washed down with Richard's flask of Jack Daniel's seconds before the show started.
I doubt that was a friggin' vitamin! Quaalude, tranquilizer, or vitamin, he's wasted—no doubt about it
, I said to myself miserably. As I snuck another look at his glazed expression, I knew that he'd downed, God help us all, a quaalude.

For those readers not initiated in the powers of a quaalude, a prescription drug of the 1960s and ‘70s, the pill's effect was literally mind altering. Manufactured as a pain pill, it was the side effects that made it beloved by all those who partook of illegal drugs. Quaaludes were the original “love drugs.” Their effect was euphoric, mellow, and, best (or worst) of all, the poor hapless soul who was stoned on a quaalude
loved
everyone and everything in sight. It was a great drug for sex (trust me on this), and a great drug for wallowing in complete hippie-like abandon.

Quaaludes were so popular that their abuse was a national epidemic in the U.S. Even though most of the people we knew bought them illegally, anyone could get a prescription from a friendly doctor. It was a sad day for a lot of rock ‘n' rollers (as well as middle America) when the alarmed U.S. government took them off of the market to stop their insane use.

Unfortunately, this was not soon enough to save Lindsey's ass.

As I looked at his lopsided grin, crossed eyes, and boneless posture, I knew that Fleetwood Mac's code of cool was in imminent danger of being blown right out of the water. Their lead singer and guitar player was completely whacked out of his mind. Knowing that it was far too late to do anything but deal with the situation, I propped his drooping head up against the back of his seat and kept a bright smile on my face while I mentally thought of ways to kill the fool who slipped him a pill.

Was it Richard? No, Richard wouldn't dare. He's too familiar with quaaludes to give one to Lindsey tonight, so who… ?
An image of Greg Thomason wearing a goofy grin as he grabbed Lindsey in a bear hug while whispering into
his ear flashed before my eyes. And I knew it was him.
He probably gave it to Lindsey right before we sat down! What an idiot!

Busy with keeping Lindsey upright in his chair, I was startled to hear the announcement for the nominee list for Best Album of the Year. As the album names were rattled off, I anxiously watched Lindsey, hoping and praying that he'd miraculously sober up. At that point I was ready to spit over my left shoulder and turn in a circle three times to ward off the evil eye—using childhood voodoo as a backup was, I've always said, better than fuckin' nothing. Closing my eyes, I did it mentally, double-crossing my fingers and sneaking another look at Lindsey. As he sat there with a look of benign love and appreciation on his face that would have made a Holy Father proud, I knew that neither my prayers, voodoo, nor crossed fingers had helped and I surrendered myself to fate. Because Lindsey was still completely, totally wasted.

Once again
Rumours
was in a dead heat with
Hotel California
and the tension was so thick in our row that even Lindsey's benevolent priestly radiance failed to cut through it.

“And the winner is: Fleetwood Mac's
Rumours!”

“Oh my God! You won, Lindsey—you won!”
I screamed as I leaned over to hug his limp body. A look of tenderness was on his face, as though (of course) all he was feeling was
love.
All around us chaos erupted as Mick, John, Christine, and Stevie leaped to their feet. Laughing and crying, they started heading for the aisle as I desperately pulled at Lindsey's sleeve to try to get him on his feet. None of the other band members paid any attention to the fact that their guitarist seemed to be on another planet. Out of the five, he was the only one who was still seated, staring straight ahead like a Buddha on drugs. Which, I guess, was pretty close to the truth at that moment.

Suddenly he leaped up like someone had lit a firecracker under his butt and took off after the rest of his fellow band members. Already a full minute in front of Lindsey, they were all gathered on the left side of the stage behind the podium, posing and smiling for the cameras as they waited for him to climb the flight of about fifteen stairs to join them.

And then it happened. Lindsey began to ascend the stairs. His legs looked like they were made of rubber as he started to climb: first one stair, then the next. With each step his legs were getting shakier and looser as
though the bones were dissolving in front of everyone's eyes. A stunned silence fell over the auditorium as every living soul watched Lindsey's progress in morbid fascination—for it was apparent to us all that the newly crowned guitarist of the American Music Awards' Best Band of the Year was running a 90 percent chance of tumbling backward and landing on his ass in front of millions of TV viewers.

Too stunned to move, I started praying again. Praying that someone—
anyone
—from the band would go to his rescue. And, once again, my prayers went unanswered.

Stevie and Christine, faces hanging slack in shock, stood in dead silence as they watched in horror his stumbling, bandy-legged ascent. Lindsey continued to climb, legs quivering … face beaded in sweat … looking like a character from a B-movie who'd been shot and was dragging out his last moments on earth as he mounted the steps to the pearly gates.

As if this spectacle weren't bad enough, Lindsey was not headed toward the podium on stage left. Instead, his superhuman effort was leading him to the
opposite
side of the stage. He was so cross-eyed, perhaps, that his line of destination was completely on the wrong side of the platform. Rising from my seat, I was on the verge of bolting to his rescue when, miraculously, he made it to the top of the stairs. Swaying and grinning like the Cheshire cat from
Alice in Wonderland
, he made a little bow toward his captive audience and waved hello.

Throughout this nightmarish exhibition I tried to keep a smile on my face. Frozen as it might be, at least it masked the sick feeling of dread that was coursing through me like electricity. At least I hoped it did. Just as I felt as though I might scream at the band, “For God's sake, go help him!” Mick and John raced across the stage and grabbed Lindsey by the arms, guiding him none too gently to the podium.

I went limp with relief from being paralyzed with terror over what was happening. Leaning my head back against my chair, I closed my eyes and counted the minutes until the band's return from backstage.
Thank you, God … Thank you, God … Thank you, God, for not letting Lindsey fall flat on his face
, I repeated like a mantra in my head.

As I heard the rustle of bodies moving back into the seats in my row I opened my eyes and prepared to help Lindsey sit down. That he'd need my help, I had little doubt. But, instead of Lindsey stumbling toward me, a
huge, swarthy man who looked like an aging porn star in a tuxedo loomed over me.

“Um, ma'am? You need to come with me. Mr. Buckingham needs you backstage. ASAP!” he said in a low, gravelly voice.

“He does? Is he OK?” I asked timidly as I stood up to follow him.
Now what?
I wondered as I followed him through a door by the side of the stage.
Surely the worst is over. I mean, Lindsey made it up the stairs without falling! All I have to do is get him back to his seat and he'll be fine
, I assured myself.