My Appetite For Destruction (7 page)

Dan told me I could have the set for a hundred bucks. But when I showed up to pay, his father walked into the room and told me he wouldn’t allow me to take the cymbals unless I gave him another $25. I looked at Dan, but he had his eyes glued to the floor. I couldn’t believe it. His old man was fucking loaded but it didn’t matter. What a prick! The rich eat their young before parting with a dime, and old man Scheib just looked at me like I was some lowlife shit weasel, a flea market refugee to be bullied into giving him more than I had agreed to pay.

What could I do? I wanted a real drum set more than anything else in my life, so I anted up the extra dough, took everything home, and set it up in my bedroom. Giving Scheib the extra twenty-five turned out to be a pure waste of money because the cymbals cracked the first time I played them. They were such pieces of shit, they didn’t even have a brand name on them.

As for the drums, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. I was great on books and pillows, but now I had a drum set where you had to coordinate one foot pedal with the other foot pedal and both hands, and I was like, “Oh my God, what do I do now?” So, I visualized myself at the Starwood, putting myself in that same hallowed spot where I had seen all the drummers perform. I put on eight-track tapes of the Doobie Brothers and Boston, closed my eyes, and just listened. After a bit, I tried to play along smartly, because I didn’t want to let down my fans.

Or I should say “fan,” because Jamie was the only one there and he was my audience. In his eyes, I could do no wrong, and that must have helped, because I quickly got the hang of it. And just like your first car, you never forget your first instrument. I played the hell out of those drums, pounding on them with such ferocity that I’d break the whole set down to the ground during each practice, then pick everything up and reassemble it all. A couple weeks later, I jammed with Dan Scheib again, and you know what? His eyes popped. I could tell he thought that I had gotten a lot better.

M
y first week at Chatsworth High, I met a girl named Lisa. She was a pretty hot-looking senior with long brown hair, a big smile, slender legs, and cute little teacup tits. I had to ask her out. She had a car and a job, which meant she was the perfect catch for a sophomore like myself. Of course Mom and Mel’s rules still applied, so I would sneak out of my bedroom window after dinner and meet Lisa. My heart would be pounding so hard, giving me the best pure high. I miss that more than anything else—the great buzzes I’d get from the simplest things.

Before you know it, the booze and the drugs have muscled their way in to replace the natural buzz, then they make it impossible for you to enjoy any kind of joy at all, because you’re all torn down, dead inside. You have no clue how you got so out of touch with the simple pleasures. If kids could just maintain a knack for capturing the natural highs in life, then the other crap would turn them off. Drugs would just bore them shitless when compared to a genuine high.

I’ll never know how long I would have lasted at Chatsworth because I got blindsided only six weeks after I enrolled. Well, I guess that’s my answer: six weeks. The only positive thing was that I happened to be there just long enough to get my driver’s license out of driver’s ed class. Back then, you could get your license when you were fifteen and a half.

I never saw it coming. I was in homeroom the day two police officers came into school asking for me. Some fucker had narced me out for smoking weed before class. Such a fun way to start off the day: being led away in handcuffs in front of my classmates.

You never forget your first kiss, your first car, or your first time in the slammer. I wasn’t pissed—okay, maybe a little—but I was mostly stunned. The cops were going all Joe Friday on me, making it sound like I had just been caught with forty kilos of primo bud in my locker. After spending what felt like a whole day in a holding cell, I started to get worried. Maybe these guys actually were determined to make an example out of me. With my luck, it seemed possible that whatever the maximum penalty was for getting high before school, I was going to find out. Turned out I was only locked up at Devonshire police station for three or four hours before they called my parents, but it seemed like forever.

When Mom finally came to pick me up, the police captain told her that there would be no record of the arrest, that they were just trying to give me a good scare, which I guess was their policy for first-time offenders. I, of course, didn’t know this, and when I got in the car, I went a little overboard with the “Please forgive me—it’ll never happen again—I’ve been such an idiot” routine. But it didn’t really make much difference because Mel had already issued his edict before Mom came to get me.

Mel said no way I was welcome back in the house, so I was taken to a foster home in Pasadena. There were all these crazy kids running around, screaming at the top of their lungs. I never felt sorry for myself, it was just “This sucks. I’m out of here.” So I called Lisa and said, “Woman, you gotta come rescue me.” Within an hour she was there to pick me up right outside the home. The lady running the place was freaking out, all yelling after me: “You’re not allowed to leave. Come back here. I’m calling the police!”

W
e were just like Bonnie and Clyde. We laughed and tore off down that dirt road. I can still remember the unbridled freedom I felt as we sped away. That night I realized that home for me would always be where I was loved for what I was, not what I could be molded into. I told myself that home was an illusion anyway. We all die alone, and the people who learn to be their own good company are the ones who have the best shot at being happy.

Lisa was so very cool. She was always up for anything, and I loved hanging with her. We would drive to Malibu Beach and park up by the cliffs. We’d party in the car, push the seats down, and slide them way forward. We’d screw in the backseat and then pass out.

That summer Lisa took me to the U.S. Festival in San Bernardino. We went on Sunday, the heavy metal day. Opening the show was Mötley Crüe, who were well on their way to becoming superstars. I remember studying every move Tommy Lee made that day—the way he counted off the next song; the way he twirled his sticks; the way he used those sticks to point at the audience, then at the other members of the band. Those drumsticks became extensions of his hands.

Most important, I studied the way Tommy smiled that day. He was always beaming. I got chills. That was gonna be me. I couldn’t stand musicians who looked so serious up on the stage, like they were constipated. If you want to look that way, go get a fucking root canal. Playing music is a pleasure and a privilege. Tommy showed me the way, and that was to be my way. Thanks for being an incredibly positive inspiration, Tommy.

T
hey’d only let me back in school if I agreed to see a counselor. He wanted to know about the recurring trouble at home and why I was skipping school. Even though Mel and Mom had relented and let me back in the house after the foster home fiasco and my weekend furlough with Lisa, it just wasn’t working out. I was just impossible and told the counselor so. I said, “Life at home sucks. I can’t stand it and I can’t stay there. If you can pay me three fifty an hour, I’ll get my own place and guarantee a C average.”

He said, “I can’t do that.” So I told him I couldn’t stay in school; I needed to work.

I had been home less than three months before I was kicked out and all my shit was on the street again. I should have asked Mel to install a revolving door on the front of the house. At least there were no extended tirades this time; it was just “Hit the road, loser.”

I couldn’t take the look on Mom’s face. Now, it’s not like I hadn’t seen it before, I just didn’t want to see it again. It meant failure, total failure, my failure. My repeated ability to screw everything up pummeled my parents to the point that now they just went through the motions without any feelings.

Mel and Mom had most of my stuff out on the front lawn before I got home. The worst was saying good-bye to Jamie again, his teary eyes, wet cheeks, trying to smile through it all. I don’t even want to think about it. He was standing in the yard and I knew if I went over to hug him, I was going to lose it. It was déjà vu all over again, loading up Stormin’ Norman’s troop carrier to take me back to Big Lilly’s, all four feet six inches of her.

Maybe it was because I had blown my last chance, burned all my bridges, and failed my family for the final time, but this banishment was the toughest to take (even though I pretended it was no big deal). For the first time I felt a distinct chill seep into my heart, an emotional vacuum that told me I would never be welcome back. No amount of time would heal this rift; forgiveness was no longer an option.

S
o there I was, back at my grandma’s. It was time to suck up to her big-time, because I realized there was no longer any safety net; she was the only thing between me and the streets. But when I looked at her serene smile, I realized it was all going to be fine. I could do no wrong in Big Lilly’s eyes and besides, she was in good spirits during this time. I guess it was because she hadn’t seen me in a while and, with her waning powers of recollection, had forgotten what a horror show I could be.

I decided I was going to make the most of her good mood. Within a month, by sucking up and doing small odd jobs around the house, I had bribed enough money out of her to buy my first car. It was a Chevy Corvair. It cost me $200, “as is.” Boy did I ever learn the meaning of “as is” in the classified ads the hard way. I bought it from some greaser dude in North Hollywood. He really did look like he combed his hair with axle grease.

I drove it out of the driveway and onto the road. I was smiling, planning to wheel by Saul and impress him with the new party wheels. I was already scamming on how to get enough money to stick in a decent sound system.

I made it about a block and a half down from the greaser’s place and the car caught on fire. I was so pissed, I got out and walked away. I just left it there burning in the street. It was my own eternal flame, a torch tribute to my stupidity. But I figured the people in the neighborhood knew who it belonged to, so let that asshole take care of it. That was one quick $200 wasted.

Out of the eternal goodness of her heart, Big Lilly took pity on me and gave me her old car, a blue ’75 Gremlin. The Gremlin was put out by American Motors and is one of the ugliest cars ever made. I used to think that American Motors only hired blind people for their design department. Otherwise, how else could you explain a car company that was responsible for freak shows like the Marlin, the Gremlin, the Matador, and that fishbowl on wheels, the Pacer? The Pacer was 90 percent glass. It was impossible to toke up in a Pacer. There was no place to duck behind if the police cruised by you. Hell, they could spot your roach clip in the ashtray.

Now, I have no idea why, but Big Lilly’s simple act of generosity got my whole family in an uproar. Everyone was against her giving the car to me. But what they really resented was that I was Big Lilly’s favorite. One day Mom’s brother, Uncle Artie, came over and ripped all the wiring out of the Gremlin because he was so pissed that she gave me the car. He must have done it at night, because when I went to start it up the next day, it was completely gutted.

Word soon circulated as to who the culprit (hero) was. And later, when I confronted him, he freely admitted it. This is just typical of the whacked-out relationships that ran through my entire family. So what the hell chance do I have to be normal when half my family was slaughtered by Nazis and the other half can’t bear to let anyone show the love?

But in the end it was totally cool because my grandma put all new wiring in it, and it ran even better than it did before. And that sucker could run. It had a stick shift and a six-cylinder engine that flew. I think it gave Grandma some pleasure to show that she couldn’t be bested.

Later, Saul spray-painted “Road Crew” on the side of the car. He used a cartoon he drew of a girl clenching a flower in her teeth, señorita style, while her boobs hung freely. Done in white paint, it looked pretty fucking cool. Later he got that same design tattooed on his arm. He was an amazing artist. We dubbed that Gremlin the Road Crew-zer.

N
ow that I had wheels, all I needed was a professional set of drums and the world would be mine. I found a gorgeous set of drums I really liked at Granada Hills Music Store. But they were going to cost $1,100. Before I could pick up the drum set, I had to pay for it. So I would go back there every week and put a little money down until it was paid off.

The store was actually a house on Fairfax and Santa Monica. Saul took guitar lessons every day there, and I would go in the drum room and mess around with the drums, getting a feel for them. The salesperson at the store showed me the intro to Ozzy’s “Over the Mountain.” I thought, “If I can learn to play that, I can play anything.”

One time we were at the Fairfax Music Store, where Saul was checking out the red BC Rich Warlock that he later ended up buying. Mike “Flea” Balzary walked in and he picked up a bass off the wall and just started slapping it like a pro, unbelievable. We were like, “Dude! When did you start playing the bass?” and he smiled, saying, “Two weeks ago.” That was crazy shit. We were very impressed. Before they formed a band, we used to see the Chili Peppers, Flea and Anthony, hanging out around town all the time.

I wanted those drums so badly, I started taking on any kind of odd job. Anything. Soon I was juggling four different gigs. In the morning, I’d make dough and prepare the sauce at a pizza place. At night, I bussed tables at a country-western bar and grill, and I worked at a 7-Eleven from ten at night to six in the morning every weekend. There was a burrito place next to the 7-Eleven and every day Saul and I would get a burrito and a taco there. I also worked at a self-serve gas station on that same block from ten p.m. to six a.m. weekdays. I’d get so tired, I felt like I was hallucinating. But I would just keep going.