It's So Easy - Duff Mckagan [91]
Jesus, that burns.
Shit, no band meeting.
No meeting.
No understanding.
No change.
Spit.
Drink.
Snort.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Truck and Earl still kept a close watch on me. So in San Francisco for a show in Oakland on September 24, 1992, I decided to arrange for a hooker to come to my room at the band’s swanky hotel. There was nothing wrong with that as far as management—and Truck and Earl—were concerned. If anything, a hooker might keep me in for the night, keeping me away from drug connections.
That’s exactly what I was betting they would think.
I had my L.A. friend Billy Nasty in town that night and planned to party. And I knew any hooker would have a coke connection—probably her own pimp. I found a number for an escort service and dialed it.
When the woman showed up, she took one look at me and my friend and I could see her doing calculations—how much for a double-back, or whatever they called that. When I explained to her that all I wanted was drugs, and that I would still pay her for her services all night, it was on. Her pimp was indeed a coke and pill dealer. Bingo!
The last date of the tour leg with Metallica, October 6, 1992, we played a homecoming show—for me, anyway—at the Seattle Kingdome. My brother Bruce was living back in Seattle at that point. He called me at the hotel the day of the show.
“What do you say tomorrow we go out for a round of golf—the McKagan brothers.”
“I don’t really know how to play,” I said, “but I’ll hang out with you guys, I’ll ride along and drink some beers.”
“Okay,” Bruce said. “I’ll pick you up.”
That night Axl was on time. It was out of respect—he knew the gig meant a lot to me.
The next day, Bruce picked me up at the hotel as planned.
“We’re going to stop by Mom’s place and pick up Jon,” he said as I climbed into the car. It made sense. I knew we would all be going there for dinner later, so my brother Jon was probably helping to get the place ready.
When we got there, Bruce had me come in with him. When we went inside, my whole family was there, all seven of my brothers and sisters, including Matt, who lived in L.A.
Wow, I thought, they’ve thrown me a fucking surprise party.
But nobody really made eye contact with me. Then the one person there I didn’t recognize stood up. Everyone else sat down. She introduced herself as Mary. She turned out to be a doctor.
“I’m from a rehab center,” she said. “There’s a van down the street that will take you to a facility where you can dry out.” Blah, blah, blah.
This is a fucking intervention!
“Sorry, Mary,” I said. “This just isn’t your business.”
Rage coursed through my body. Of course I had a drinking problem, but this wasn’t going to work.
This is bullshit!
“I love all of you,” I said, “but this isn’t any of your business. You can’t just spring something like this on me.”
The band had a bit of time off before we headed to Venezuela for a South American leg, but I would never abandon my band midtour, whether or not we had a few weeks to kill. This was not happening.
My brother Matt—who, it turned out, had not agreed with the idea in the first place—started talking.
“This isn’t the right way to do it,” he said, directing himself to the rest of the people in the room, rather than to me. “You don’t know what he’s dealing with.”
I edged toward the door. Jon was standing near the front door, anticipating that I might try to bail. He blocked my way. I made it clear things would get ugly if he didn’t move. Jon stood his ground.
“Dude, don’t fucking do it,” I said.
I knocked Jon out of the way. I ran out the door. Matt came after me. He pulled his rental car around and we hightailed it back to the Four Seasons, where the band was staying. From there we went to Sea-Tac and flew back to L.A.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Back in L.A., I called everyone in my family and said pretty much the same thing to each one.
“Look, I’ve been on the road and you can’t be certain what I’m doing. I’ll sit around and talk with you, but not like that.”
I assured them I was going to try to get better.
We kicked off the South American