Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (5 page)

“I’ve had it, Endora. I’m sick of the road; I’m
sick
of the band—I’m ready to bail. This is not cutting it for me anymore.”

“Everett, let me ask you a question,” Endora said patiently as she sat up to pour me a shot of whiskey from the makeshift bar on the coffee table in front of her. “What
would
make you happy?”

“I don’t know.” I swore, throwing back the drink, which barely burned my throat. “Maybe I need to go out on my own, cut a solo album…start a new band. I don’t know, but
something’s
got to change.”

“Why don’t
you
change, Everett?” said the intriguing redhead whose dark brown, almost-black eyes seemed to penetrate my mind like laser beams. “You want to be happy, right?” Endora filled my glass again. “Accept the praise of the people. They are blessing you every night. They are here to worship you. Receive it. Bask in it. This will give you the renewal you long for.”

Without a word I hoisted another shot of Jack Daniels and helped myself to one of her long menthol cigarettes.

“Your popularity was planned by the gods,” she said soberly, looking deep into me. “Your fans are crying out to you with adoration. Realize that you are accepted and loved—and enjoy it! Monumental things await you down the road, my dear. I know, because—”

“But you know the fans, Endora. They just want—”

“I’ve told you before, Everett, you are here,
you exist
, to help people—potentially millions of people—overcome their discontentment with life and their skepticism about death.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I’m no preacher; I’m a musician.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, young man. In a way, you
are
a preacher. You are on a mission from the gods.”

I smirked, continued to wipe my sweat off, and pretended I wasn’t interested.

“People
will
listen to you; they’ll do whatever you say. I see it every night from behind the curtains in the wings backstage. The gods have given you the charisma to—”

“Endora! Don’t brownnose me like everyone else. I hired you to be straight with me, to cut through the lies, to be the one clear voice. All the others just want my money or to be able to say they’ve been with me…”

Endora leaned forward, rubbed her cigarette out in the silver ashtray, and put her hand on my knee.

“Everett,” she said quietly, “you have the power—the supernatural power—to send people home from your concerts
different people,
literally, different people. Do you realize that?”

I didn’t say a word but instead tapped a small amount of marijuana into the thumb-sized bowl of the small silver pipe I found amid the junk on the table in front of me. Lifting the lifeline to my mouth and lighting the bowl with Endora’s red lighter, the small nest of weed lit up hot orange, a few seeds crackling and popping as I took the smoke deep into my chest.

“If you don’t believe me, test it. During a show. Test the waters. I dare you. See how much power you really have.”

“Endora, you’re weird, you know that? You’re always talkin’ so spiritual.”

She tidied up the coffee table a bit, contemplating before she spoke. “The father and mother gods are loving beings who want
all
people to have joy—and the afterlife. I don’t believe in hell and damnation. It’s not true. I’ve communicated with too many people on the Other Side. I’ve
heard
from those who were supposed to have gone to hell. They’ve assured their families, by speaking through me, that they are okay. Everett, the dead are still involved in our lives!”

“How do you
know
that for a fact?”

“I’ve talked with them! Just like you and I are talking.” She pointed a long finger at me. “I believe
all
people can reach the father and mother gods, simply by growing in knowledge. Look at yourself, for instance. If you would begin to get a grip on the fact that you
will
live another glorious life after you die, you would set yourself free. You would have a whole different view of life.”

“You’re saying I’m not going to hell?”

“Of course not!” she said with a smoker’s laugh.

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Yes I do,” she insisted, almost joyfully. “Everett, there
is
no hell. Only good awaits us. Don’t you see? When we understand that there is life on the Other Side for all of us, it frees us up to have liberty in the here and now.
That
is the message you have been chosen to deliver. This is real. Why else do you think we’ve been brought together?”

The mixture of pot and booze was creeping up on me.

“Something’s going to happen at tonight’s show,” she said suddenly, shifting in her seat and not making eye contact for a moment. “That is how the spirits will prove to you that they are moving with power in your life and prompting you to do as I say.”

And she was right.

Late in the concert that night in San Antonio, I treated our fans like slaves, just pushing them to see how far I could get them to go. The next day’s
San Antonio Gazette
quoted me as yelling these words to the crowd that night: “Hey, San Antonio, it’s gettin’ hot in here. And you know, if we’re not careful—ha, ha—we’re gonna burn this place to the ground! C’mon. Light it up…”

And they did.

The fire started slowly in about the thirtieth row on the floor as we ripped into our newest hit, “InSINerator.” We had seen small fires before, but as fans began to throw chairs, clothing, and alcohol into the flames, it flared and spread rapidly. The panic that ensued caused a stampede to the exits. Thirteen people were hospitalized in the mayhem, one girl almost suffocated to death, and I’m certain many more went home injured and frightened.

Drugs helped me completely block out the fire in San Antonio along with all the other bad press. I didn’t check on any of the fans who were hurt, and I didn’t worry about getting into trouble with the law over what happened. We
were
the law. And we never had to look back, because the money and power behind DeathStroke got us out of every jam.

You’ve got to understand, the band members in DeathStroke were so drugged up and busy rushing from city to city, we didn’t have the time or memory to care. We were separated—purposefully isolated—from the results of things like fires, destroyed hotel rooms, skirmishes with the law, and relationships with fans that turned into lawsuits.

An aging Gray Harris served as our gauntlet, handling all the bad press, defusing the accusations, and settling the lawsuits out of court, behind the scenes so we didn’t have to get involved. That’s why he was paid seven figures.

When former lead guitarist John Scoogs was called to the witness stand, Miami-Dade prosecutor Frank Dooley tugged at his cuffs and licked his chops.

Scoogs looked good. His black hair was still long and in a ponytail, and he was clean-shaven. He had put on a much-needed few pounds since I last saw him and wore black jeans, a white mock turtleneck, a khaki sport jacket, and dark sunglasses. Hmm. Someone else must be dressing him these days.

Dooley’s questions covered much of the same ground he’d already been over with other key witnesses. Scoogs confirmed that, yes, I had my own “personal psychic.” Yes, I did a lot of drugs. Yes, I was known to become violent at times, both onstage and off.

But the next series of questions Dooley pursued began to hit a nerve with me, Scoogs, and, I was sure, the jury.

“Mr. Scoogs,” Dooley said, taking his time, scanning his notes. “How well did you know Edith Rosenbaum, also known as Madam Endora Crystal—Everett Lester’s personal psychic?”

“Fairly well,” Scoogs said quietly. “She often traveled with the band, so she became a friend.”

“And where exactly would Madam Endora stay when she accompanied DeathStroke on the road?”

“She had her own hotel room, just like each of us did. Our traveling show got so big, we eventually needed thirty or forty rooms at each stop to accommodate band members, tour managers, publicists, staff, and people like Endora.”

“I see.” Dooley approached the witness stand. “Specifically, Mr. Scoogs, do you recall a stay at the Four Seasons Hotel in Charleston, West Virginia, in 1995 when a discussion ensued between Madam Endora and Everett Lester that centered around the topic of Mr. Lester’s father, Vince?”

Closing his eyes as if searching the past, Scoogs said, “I remember several conversations like that.”

“Yes, but do you recall specifically the time I’m referring to in Charleston when Endora attempted to convince Mr. Lester that she was hearing from his dead father?”

“I…may recall something like that.”

“Well, Mr. Scoogs, why don’t you stretch your mind a bit and tell the court what you
can
recall, precisely, about that conversation.” Dooley tugged at his sleeves.

After staring down at his hands for what seemed like minutes, Scoogs cleared his throat and looked squarely at the prosecutor. “When Endora caught up with us at our hotel in Charleston, I remember her saying to Everett something like, ‘I’ve been walking around all week long with this energy.’ After jockeying around for a long time, she finally got around to telling Everett that the spirit of his dead father had been trying to communicate with her.”

Instead of a loud uproar, I heard a great deal of movement all at once in courtroom B-3. People shifting positions in their seats. Papers ruffling. Equipment moving.

“Was this good news or bad news, in Mr. Lester’s opinion?” questioned Dooley.

“Bad,” Scoogs answered almost before the question was finished. “Everett’s old man was taboo. Too many scars from the past. Vince didn’t want much to do with Everett when he was alive, and Everett definitely didn’t want to communicate with Vince from the dead.”

“So, what happened?” Dooley strolled toward the jury.

“Endora was very serious about this whole topic, very emotional. She told Everett, ‘I tried and tried to block Vince’s spirit from coming through, but he persisted.’ Everett was mad. He didn’t want Endora messing with his past.”

“And so, what ensued from there?”

“Finally, she gave in. She said Vince’s spirit talked to her and made it completely clear that he was okay on the Other Side, and that he apologized to Everett.”

“How did Everett Lester respond to this?”

Scoogs shrugged. “He was ticked.”

“How ticked?”

Silence.

“I must remind you, Mr. Scoogs, that you are under oath, and perjury is a felony offense punishable up to—”

“You’ve got to understand: Endora had problems. She had some totally weird beliefs. I felt like she took advantage of Everett’s drug addiction, trying to use him to accomplish her own agenda. She would—”

“Mr. Scoogs.” Dooley stood on his toes. “Can you
please
just answer my question? How mad was Everett Lester that December night in Charleston, West Virginia? Did he or did he not threaten Madam Endora Crystal’s life?”

“He did, but he was bombed out of his mind at the time.”

“What did he say to her? ‘I’m going to stab you’? ‘I’m going to shoot you’? What exactly was his threat?”

“He said something like, ‘Endora, if you ever mention my father again…I’m gonna kill you…’” His voice trailed off with the last words.

Dooley raised both eyebrows and nodded a pompous “I told you so” to the jury. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

After the fire and stampede in San Antonio came another eventful tour date, the Weekend Music Jam at Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City. We were the headline group among a bunch of other bands. I had just flown in on my jet and was whisked by limo to the makeshift dressing rooms in the bowels of the stadium.

As usual I was greeted immediately by the short and bouncy Tina Drew, our tour coordinator, who was surrounded by sound people, roadies, promoters, journalists, makeup artists, production managers, and publicists. Tina grabbed my arm and led me past scores of fans who had been herded into special roped-off areas designated especially for those lucky enough to have landed backstage.

As I was ushered past the squealing, reaching fans—a scene I had experienced hundreds of times before—one young lady caught my attention. She stood quietly along the front of the rope, wearing white jeans, sandals, a red short-sleeve knit shirt, and sunglasses that sat atop her shiny blond hair. Her arms rested casually at her sides, where I noticed she held a Bible in one hand and a long-stem yellow rose in the other. I guessed she was twenty-something.

I moved my sunglasses down on my nose to get a better look, but Tina rushed me along toward the dressing room door with a gold star and my name on it. In we went to another small room that looked the same as the last dozen. It featured a small couch, several chairs, a refrigerator stocked with Molsons, several bottles of booze, and a dressing table and large mirror, which was bordered with yellowish lightbulbs. Flowers, presents, cards, and food trays were situated throughout the room.