October 14, 2006, 3:31pm: Big JJ, the guitarist and leader of the band Missing Digits, called me on the cel phone I borrowed from Wolf Man and told me to head to Cafe Lago somewhere inside of Caesar's Palace.
It only took me ten minutes to get there, but it took me nearly half an hour to pull inside the parking structure and find a spot for the rental. That's because (even though I kept my cool during the Palace Station drama) my heart was racing. I'd only been in Las Vegas for a few hours and hadn't really relaxed, thanks to the copious amounts of cocaine I'd ingested for the long drive.
I parked the car and pulled out a tiny cellophane satchel, created from an empty pack of American Spirits. I had the majority of the llello in another bag stashed inside KD Long's traveling coffee mug, but for quick toot access the satchel was secured within the tiny right-hand-side inner pocket sewn into everyone's jeans.
I laid it out on a CD jewel case in my lap. I sniffed. I played with my nose. I felt the flash. I left the car, remembering to get the keys and lock it.
I felt another flash, one of guilt. This is so bad for me, I thought. Why am I doing it? I don't know. I have no answer, no excuse. I'm doing it, though, and at this rate will I ever be able to stop it?
After some roaming and listless shuffling, I found the cafe and walked into the dining area. It was not cheesy and tacky like the casino buffets-- This was a restaurant, probably expensive, and I stuck out like a sore thumb with my ripped jeans, gaunt-faced stare and wild, wooly hair.
The Missing Digits were seated at a table, looking like rockers also-- well-rested, clean-cut, sober rockers. They did not seem to stand out. They blended in, even with their cut-off band T-shirts and grimy sneakers.
Big JJ saw me and motioned to me. Hailing originally from Rhode Island, JJ stood close to six feet tall and was built like a diesel truck-- not muscular, not obese, but solid. You'd have to pack a wallop of a punch to even attempt to knock him on his feet. I had spotted his shaved head from the cafe entrance and made a beeline to the table.
Sitting next to JJ was Mack, the Missing Digits singer and frontman. Mack and JJ put the band together three years ago and endured the typical Los Angeles musician troubles: flaky or non-committal band members, revolving door group line-ups, less-than-stellar gigs at less-than-less-than-stellar holes in the wall, and frustration at playing with talentess friends or ego-driven has-beens and never-wases.
Mack looked good, had a pleasant-yet-amateurish voice, and full-on positive rock star charisma. A former high school and college football player from Scottsdale AZ, Mack was as tall as JJ and more muscular; in short, a recovering jock.
Mack also happened to be the source of the band's name: The majority of the index finger on his right hand was sheared off in a construction accident.
Across from JJ and Mack sat Buddha, a longtime friend of mine and the current Missing Digits drummer. Wolf Man had left the group to pursue other gigs, and I had always wanted to get the amicable, mellow-minded Buddha to play drums with me in a band. Older than the rest of us (in his late-thirties), he was a little bit shorter than JJ and Mack but built just as solidly, and he seemed to get along great with them. His solid frame was a bit shocking considering his pure Filipino lineage, since the stereotype is that Filipinos are always short. His size was just another indication of how well he fit into the band.
Despite the nickname of "Buddha", he did not do drugs. He used to do them a long time ago, but Buddha is the oldest member of the band and gave up on all of that when his health started to decline.
JJ and Mack didn't do drugs either, at least not at the pace that I do them. Occasionally Mack would take a puff of some of my green, and both have admitted to rolling on E here and there, but they were mainly clean-living folk. Mack liked to drink because he is a bartender. JJ didn't have any vices except for energy drinks, excessive gambling and fine meals at pricey Vegas casinos.
In addition to the band, there was Roy, a friend of the band (his official title, I later learned, was that of "road manager") and also Carrie, JJ's girlfriend and a staunch supporter of the band. Carries happened to be a bigger pothead than me or anyone else I know, and I looked to her for some chemical relief when I felt like I needed a toke and didn't want to puff alone.
"Hey, you made it!" Mack said, standing to greet me. I shook his hand fearlessly, accustomed to the still-potent recognition of his hand in mine, his right hand, the one with the missing digit. Every time I shook his hand throughout the past year, I've always wondered how self-conscious he was about it deep down inside.
Mack made the issue a moot one by using my hand to pull me in for a bear hug. His enormous size still intimidated me, no matter how friendly and warm his demeanor betrayed.
I managed to pull away and greet the others with hugs and embraces. They were a touchy-feely lot, which shocked me despite knowing them for over a year. I still had the urge to stay detached, aloof.
"Man, we'd be so fucked if you weren't here for this show," JJ said, looking into my eyes to see if I was stoned off pot. None of them knew I was on coke or even doing it. As tolerant as JJ was about my drug use-- it never got in the way of my ability to play or make shows --I could tell he was trying to gauge my mood.
"I wouldn't miss it for anything," I said, sitting down at the table. I declined a menu, claiming I'd just eaten. That was a lie, of course, but then again the coke had my appetite locked down for the long term.
They told me about the ride to Vegas, a mostly uneventful journey except for the car crash they saw on the I-15 an hour outside of Laughlin. They even had taken pictures with their digital cameras and showed them to me. Fortunately, there were no gory images to capture, but the damage to the vehicles in the pics were jarring.
Then JJ went on about the Jockey Club, the hotel where they were all staying. It was under renovation. They got in late on Friday, drove out to check out the Cooler Lounge, then got to their room and tried to sleep, only to be awakened at 6am by the sounds of jackhammers and construction workers tearing down drywall.
I thought about the signs of bad luck in the air ever since I set off to make this trip. My drug-addled mind scanned over the superstitious symbolism I was attributing to every mishap and minor catastrophe that occurred so far.
"I guess it was a good thing that I didn't travel with y'all, huh?" I said.
I saw the looks on JJ and Mack's faces. They had been visibly disappointed when I told them before the trip that I didn't want to travel and stay in the same place as them, and my innocent comment seemed to drive this point further home.
"Yeah, but we still wish you'd gone with us, even in a separate car. We haven't really had a chance to gel as a group, you know? I mean, this is a band, right? We're like brothers. We're like family. I think of you as family." I could tell JJ was being sincere, but I also knew that JJ was a bit of a smooth talker. As the de facto manager and uncontested band leader, he was savvy and sociable. JJ made friends quickly and they seemed to like the fact that he appeared to be a monstrous thug with the heart of a teddy bear.
"Me too, man," Mack said, his emotions less veiled than JJ. "You've been with us a year. You're not just a bass player to me. You're a friend."
"I know, I know," I replied, trying not to go on an insane cocaine-fueled talking jag. I am known as a gabby sort, but cocaine has a way of ratcheting up my jaws to the point where I cannot seem to shut the fuck up. "I've been with you guys for a year, and you know that I always give more than I have to, even if it's not a lot. But I got a thing about riding in other people's cars. If I want to go do something else, I feel trapped. You should never take it personally, fellas. It's just how I am."
"I can attest to that," Buddha said in between bites of crab legs. "I've known James since the end of '99, and he doesn't let anyone get too close. But he's still a cool guy." Buddha turned to me and said, "You and I have always been cool to each other, right?"
"Right," I said. "I'm an Aquarius, man. We're loners."
"But aren't Aquariuses also people-persons?" Carrie asked. She was an American-born Japanese girl in her mid-twenties who liked hip-hop, smoking weed, and talking about whatever. She was smart and pretty and gave off a flirtatious vibe, the kind of vibe that some men mistake for an adulterous impulse.
"Yes, they are," I said, "But it's in an impersonal way. We want to save all of humanity, not just select portions. Overall, we are independent-minded but also stay aware of what's going on all over the world, not just in our own backyard. And we tend to focus on the future rather than the past or the here and now. But I'm also near the cusp of Capricorn, so I have my nostalgic moments on occasion."
"Do you study Astrology?" Roy asked me. Roy resembled Ray Liotta in Goodfellas: Good-looking but not pretty like Mack, and a dead-eyed stare that I often mistook for suspicion.
"No, not seriously," I said. "My next novel is going to be centered around a bunch of characters and how they react to the astrology charts of one particular period of time."
"Wow, man," Buddha exclaimed. "You write too? Fuckin' A, man, what do you not do?"
"Sit still, that's what," JJ said, smiling. "This motherfucker's busier than me, and I got four fucking jobs!"
"How do you do it, James?" Mack playfully asked. "You'd think the weed would slow you down."
I remembered that they had no knowledge of my powder-sniffing, so I deliberated before answering.
"I'm already a keyed-up person, Mack. I don't need anything to pep me up. It's overkill in my case. I need things to weigh me down, keep me from floating up into the air. I always like to say that because of the Capricorn/Aquarian cusp, I'm torn between the heavens and the earth... you know, Capricorn's an Earth sign and Aquarius is an Air sign..."
None of them got the reference, but they pretended to, and that made a difference to me in my coked-up state. I was more acutely attuned to their body language, their mannerisms, the little details that can give a way a person's true motives and intents. They wanted to understand my gibberish, and failing to do that treaded lightly out of concern for hurting my feelings.
I felt bad. I wondered why I was keeping these people at arm's length. Was it a variation on the classic "fear of commitment" scenario so familiar to single men? Was it a general mistrust of everything that seems foreign to me? Was it a secret disdain at their relentless optimism and bright-faced outlook on the band and the music? Or was I just getting bad vibes that didn't jive with the raps they were dropping on me?
It was really none of those things. It all stemmed from the infamous Groucho Marx maxim about not wanting to belong to any club that would have me as a member. There was never any question with JJ and Mack-- They wanted me to keep playing with them. They liked what I brought to the table: Melodic basslines, energy and chaos, formidable experience and a willingness to take risks... But their total acceptance of me was terrifying sometimes.
And I had to wonder if this band was going to go anywhere.
We weren't young bucks anymore. The youngest member was Mack, on the verge of turning 30 next year. That is old in the rock music industry. We looked young, played young, felt young, and we could probably all get away with lying about our ages. But would anyone want to take a chance on us in the first place? Maybe overseas we could make money and develop a following, but America is the coveted jewel in the global crown, and unfortunately Americans are fixated on youth.
I had never considered the gigs and rehearsals of the past year a waste of time, chiefly because the guys in the band held up their ends of this collective bargain. Even the ultimate non-commitment dude, Wolf Man, found himself playing with us for much longer than he expected. But Wolfie kept his distance by constantly insisting he was only a temporary fill-in until the right drummer came along. He was the weak link in the band as a result, with a drug problem more pronounced and crippling than mine had ever been and even deeper self-esteem issues than me.
When I introduced the guys to Buddha, I could see the spark. I could hear the clicking of cogs meshing and fitting in with each other. I could see it on everyone's faces. Wolf Man was a fantastic musician (and saved the band from losing momentum) but Buddha was the perfect drummer for Missing Digits.
Buddha was far more comfortable in his role in Missing Digits than I was, and he'd only been with us for 6 months. What was taking me so long to admit that I liked being in this band, that I wanted to play with these guys for as long as it takes?
I tried to tell myself that it was our respective lifestyles: JJ, Mack and Buddha had much more in common with each other than I had with any of them. I stood out not just because of my height in comparison with the rest of the band but also in my demeanor, my attitude, my posturing and my vision. I was the odd man out, a role I always relish, but this was more stark than any other band I'd been in prior to this one.
I was the resident pessimist, the Devil's Advocate, the contrarian who always had to point out the catches in everything. I wasn't negative about it, however, and I think the guys had always felt that I possessed a much-needed perspective to counter their buoyant drives. I was the Realist, the Pragmatist, the guy who does the second-guessing just so no one else has to do it.
As we left the cafe and wandered around the casino and shops taking band photos at every opportunity, I felt even worse about the fact that I was zooted on cocaine. It was as if I were trying to keep it a secret from my relatives. They didn't suspect a thing but then again I didn't help matters by excusing myself to the restroom every half an hour.
Finally, I'd had enough of milling about the mall area of Caesar's Palace.
"What do you guys have planned?" I asked JJ.
"Dunno... Walk around a little bit more, gamble a bit, maybe go back to the Jockey Club, maybe hit up another casino."
"What time is the show tonight?"
"Load-in is at 9pm. They don't set the band showtimes until all the bands load in."
"You're kidding."
"Naw, bro. It's funny too, I was apprehensive at first when we went there last night. It's in a strip mall, next to a Food 4 Less."
"So? Lava Lounge is in a strip mall too."
"I guess, but that's in Hollywood. This is Buttfuck Nowhere. I thought I'd made a mistake when we first pulled up, like 'Oh no, what kind of show did I book' but we went in and stayed for a few bands and it was nice. Cheap beer, too."
"We'll be fine. Gotta start somewhere in this crazy town, right? Can't expect to play the Strip on our first out-of-state gig."
"Well, I'm glad you're cool with it. We thought maybe you'd be upset."
"I'll check it out on the way back to the Palace Station. I gotta bone out right now and meet the guys for dinner. Then we'll plot out the evening's festivities."
"Cool, man. I'll call you on Wolf's cel if we change our plans."
"I'll be there at 9pm sharp," I promised. JJ smiled-- He knew my word was bond when it came to getting to the show on time.
I said 'goodbye' to the rest of the crew and made my way to the parking structure. I had a chance to refill my rapidly diminishing cellophane satchel but forgot about it as soon as I got behind the wheel of the rental. I pulled out of the casino parking lot and prepared to do battle with the Vegas Strip traffic.
I still felt bad. Those guys like me, I thought. So why does that make me feel unhappy? What's wrong with me anyway?
I turned up the CD player. The Ramones' Leave Home album blared from my speakers. I pressed my foot down on the gas and headed for Decatur Blvd, in the northern part of Sin City.
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