Neon Angel by Cherie Currie
Inside, there was some kind of weird scene going on. One of the beds had been pushed up against the wall so that it was the focal point for everybody in the room. Marcie was still on the bed, but most of her clothes were in a pile on the floor. She was leaning against the wall in just her T-shirt and panties. She was rolling her head left to right and talking to herself. As we walked in, Scott closed the door behind us and put the chain across. Kim was standing over Marcie. He looked at us, and waited until we had sat down, as Scott, on the other bed, directed us to do. We were all looking at Kim and Marcie, utterly confused. Then Kim removed his orange suit jacket, revealing a ripped, filthy T-shirt. He had a weird body, skinny and lanky, the skeleton plainly visible through the pale skin. He looked like a praying mantis or something. Marcie had her eyes closed, and was laughing at nothing in particular.
“All right, dogs,” Kim said in that theatrical way of his, straightening up. “Pay attention. I’m going to teach you the right way to fuck!”
Nobody knew how to respond to this. There was an uncomfortable silence in the room as I glanced at Sandy. She shrugged and shook her head. Clearly, she thought he was kidding. This comforted me a little. I looked up at Scott, but he was staring at Kim and Marcie, transfixed.
“Shut up, Kim!” Sandy said. “You’re not funny! Stop messing around!”
Kim ignored us. He was advancing toward the bed like a lion stalking its prey. I looked over to Rick. He whispered, “Like, what the fuck? He’s kidding around, right?”
“Lesson number one!” Kim grinned as he stood by the foot of the bed. He reached down and started pulling Marcie’s T-shirt up, revealing her breasts. She just lay back on the bed laughing hysterically as he started to pull her underwear down, past her knees, dropping them at his feet. Now Marcie was lying almost totally naked on the bed, and she wasn’t even trying to cover herself. I felt my cheeks reddening, but I stayed there, frozen to the spot. Kim looked over to us, unmoved by our obvious discomfort. “Observe! This is the correct way to give a bitch head!”
Then, as we looked on in shock, Kim pulled Marcie’s legs apart and crawled between them. He started gnawing at her like a hungry dog. I felt my stomach lurch, but I couldn’t turn away. I looked at the woman. Instead of fighting him off, she was smiling, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Ohhh God!” she moaned, like she was starring in some cheesy porno flick or something. She arched her back so Kim could have at it. He was making these really disgusting noises . . . slobbering, animal noises, as he thrashed his head from side to side. He looked like he was trying to crawl right up inside of her. He came up for breath for a moment and lifted his face long enough to pant, “What do you want? How do you want me to eat you?”
Laughing, Marcie screamed, “Eat me like a WOLF!”
Kim’s face contorted horribly, and he licked his lips before actually howling. “AAAWWWWOOOOOAAAHHH!” Then he shoved his face back between her legs and started attacking her with his tongue again.
As this was happening, us girls and Rick were standing there with our mouths hanging open. There’d been nervous laughter at first, but now there was nothing. It felt very cold in there. The food had been forgotten. The only sound in the room was coming from the bed.
Kim jumped up as if seized by a sudden inspiration, and grabbed a hairbrush from the dresser. It was my hairbrush, I was pretty sure of it. He advanced on the bed again, pushing the woman’s legs apart. There was a sick, heavy silence in the room as he started working the handle of the brush into her.
I stood, shaking, and said, “I’m out of here. This is fucking sick!” As I went to leave, Scott grabbed my arm. “Stay!” he commanded. I was intimidated by his tone of voice. I sat back down again silently.
“You like that, don’t you?” Kim was saying, and he started sliding the brush in and out of her. Marcie was smiling and moaning like crazy. I remembered when I did the school talent show, some of the acts were so awful . . . there was one girl in particular who got up and sang, and she was no nervous, and so out of tune, that watching her perform was a profoundly uncomfortable experience. She forgot the song, and just stood there looking mortified. People started slow-clapping and booing her. I just wanted to rush up onstage and bundle her off to save her from herself. That memory came back to me at that moment. I was so embarrassed for Marcie that it was unbearable to watch. I felt really sorry for her. This was disgusting. This was total humiliation!
Kim stood up and undid his belt, letting his trousers fall to his ankles. I could see his erect penis through what looked like one-hundred-year-old underwear. He waited until he had mounted Marcie before he pulled them down, as if he were somehow seized by a moment of self-consciousness.
When he had worked his torn underwear down, he asked her, “Do you want it?”
“Oh yes!” Marcie screamed.
“How bad do you want it?” He sneered like a snake coming in for the kill.
“Real bad!” she screamed as she reached for his face like a blind girl.
Then, in front of all of us, Kim shoved himself into her, and started pounding away with all the force and subtlety of a jackhammer. Marcie was screaming her approval as Kim pumped and gyrated against her. The others had started groaning at Kim’s sideshow act, and I could hear Sandy shouting “oh my GOD!” over the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. Scott was laughing and clapping, whooping and hollering, like we were at a sporting event. I felt nauseous; I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The only thing that was keeping us from rushing Kim and ripping him off of Marcie was that she was actually encouraging it! She seemed to want it! The whole scene was so bizarre, so strange, that in a weird way I felt like I was watching a movie rather than witnessing something in real life.
After a few moments, Kim dismounted and grabbed Marcie’s knees, spreading her legs apart for us all to see. He looked at us, perfectly serious, and said, “Anybody want to join in?” Marcie just lay there, giggling like a lobotomized fool.
“No . . . fucking . . . WAY!” yelled Rick.
“That’s IT, Kim,” I yelled. “I’ve had enough!”
With that, I turned and went to storm out of the room.
“Down, DOG!” Kim commanded. I turned, and he was standing, with his finger pointed right at me. I tried not to look, but I caught a glimpse of his erect penis pointing at me, waving around in the musty air like a cobra ready to strike.
“No, Kim,” I yelled. “You’re SICK. I’m leaving! This is SO fucking SICK!” I stormed off, pulling the chain loose, wrenching open the door, and finally making it out into the corridor. Sandy and Rick followed me. Scott closed the door after us, but stayed in the room.
Sandy was still laughing, nervously. “That was fucking CRAZY!” she said, and giggled.
Rick tried to make light of it. “That was gross!” he said. “And anyway . . . as if you guys don’t know the right way to fuck already!”
I punched him in the arm, but even this little bit of comic relief wasn’t helping to dispense the weirdness.“Hey, you gonna eat that?” Sandy asked, referring to the uneaten hamburger I’d been carrying around with me. “I’m still hungry.” I handed it over to her, my appetite totally gone. She took a bite of my burger and announced, “I’m going back in. This shit is educational!” And with that, she walked back into the room and closed the door behind her.
Rick and I walked out to get some fresh air and smoke a cigarette. Nobody said anything at first.
Rick pulled out a cigarette, and lit it off mine.
“Relax, Cherie,” he said. “That was fucked up, man, but it’ll be all right.”
I just made a face, and took another drag.
“I don’t know what the fuck was going on in there tonight,” Rick said quietly, “but that was MESSED UP.”
We stood there for a while, smoking and contemplating what had just happened.
“Hey!”
We turned, and it was Sandy. She was walking toward us with a big grin on her face.
“Come o
I put my arm around her as we walked back to the room. Nothing fazed Sandy; she took everything in stride. Seeing her like this, seeing her act as if what happened was really no big deal . . . it was comforting. It didn’t change what happened, but somehow it made it easier to deal with. Sandy was the rock in the band, and I knew I could always depend on her when the going got strange. I loved Sandy, and I didn’t know what I’d have done if she hadn’t been there that afternoon. In a weird way, I felt like I’d awakened from some strange, fevered nightmare. When we walked back into the room, I felt better equipped to pretend that nothing was wrong.
Inside, Marcie was still on the bed. She was dressed now, and she was sitting up, looking slightly more sober. She was eating a hamburger with a queasy smile on her face. I watched her as she clumsily wiped her mouth with a dirty napkin. I didn’t say anything to her, none of us did. After all, what could we say?
Kim was standing in the corner of the room, still wearing that ripped T-shirt and his grimy, dingy underwear. He didn’t look at me, and I was glad about that. I’d probably have puked if he did. Of all the nasty, degenerate scum on earth, he was the last scum I’d want laying a crooked finger on me. Scott gave us a nasty smile and I did my best not to make eye contact with him.
Pushing what had just happened out of my mind, I started applying makeup and getting ready for the show. The sickly smell of sex still hung in the air. I felt my stomach lurch again. I could hear the others talking, and laughing, the usual preshow banter. I concentrated on this, on how normal it all seemed . . .
There was a knock on the door, and Stinky told us it was time to leave for sound check. As we headed out to the van, I looked behind me, and caught a final glimpse of Kim in his underwear, looking out after us like some kind of evil old troll, before he closed the door without a word. On the drive over to the club, nobody said much. We didn’t even tell the others what happened once we got to the venue.
Once we were onstage running through the songs, the lingering sense of disgust started to fade. I made a vow not to think about what had happened—it was just too much. It was one of the sleaziest, most low-rent experiences I had ever witnessed. Nobody brought it up again. I made a vow that day that if Kim ever tried to lay a finger on me, he would have a goddamn stump by the time I was finished with him.
Chapter 13
The Road
The road is a strange place. We’d drive from city to city in our RV, and see the country town by town, city by city. At first, touring was a blast. Everything was new to us, and the freedom of being away from our school, our families, and any kind of rules or discipline was exhilarating. When Kim was away—which was most of the time, thank goodness—life on the road was fun. Kim referred to traveling with the band as “babysitting” and preferred to leave that side of things to Scott Anderson, Kent Smythe, and the other roadies. But when we’d hear that Kim was flying in to attend one of our shows, we’d know that it wasn’t good news. Usually he would rip us apart afterward, criticizing our every move and making all of us feel like shit. Whenever it seemed like things were getting a little too happy, too relaxed, too much fun, Kim would magically appear and brings us all back down to earth by calling us “dog cunts” and screaming at us for screwing up a note or missing a beat on one of the songs.
One particular evening we were sailing through the shadowy night in the motor home, and I was upset because Kim had really whaled into us after the last show. He’d said that my voice wasn’t powerful enough. He made me feel small and insignificant. I was talking to the girls about it, on the verge of tears.
“When I first met Kim,” Lita said, “he started off calling me dog meat. You know, I just took it as a term of endearment. You know? Dog meat, dog piss, dog puke . . . He just has a thing about dogs. You can’t take his shit personally!”
I had to laugh. It was hard to think that anybody in this world—even Kim Fowley—could get away with calling Lita Ford “dog piss” without getting their face ripped clean off. I’ll give Kim one thing—that motherfucker had balls.
“The point,” Sandy said to me, “is that Kim is KIM, man. That’s never gonna change. I don’t think that he really means anything by it—it’s just his way, and you gotta get used to it.”
I shrugged. Of course, this made perfect sense when we were all together on the tour bus, and Kim wasn’t around . . . but it was a different matter when he was screaming in my face, calling me names, telling me that I was useless, that I couldn’t sing, that I was dog shit. “I dunno”—I sniffed—“I think he expects too much of me.”
Jackie had been listening from across the bus. She put down her book and yelled, “He expects too much from all of us! It’s what got us this far! He’s like an Olympic coach, Cherie—that’s his attitude. He’s pushing you—he’s pushing all of us. What I’d like to know is where all of the goddamn money is going . . .”
Lita groaned at this. The money thing was Jackie’s obsession. She saw all of the packed houses that we were playing to, and was constantly complaining about how, at the most, Kim would give us ten dollars here, or twenty dollars there.
“Kim says that we are still paying off Mercury for the album, and the promotion . . . ,” I said a little uncertainly, parroting Kim’s standard defense.
“Oh yeah? So where does Kim get the money to fly into Pittsburgh or Atlanta so he can bitch us out? Where does he get the money to pay the road crew? He sure as hell isn’t turning up at the venue in a fucking motor home. Kim will be flying first class all the way, I bet . . .”
The way Kim paid the band was prevalent at the time, where the artists were overworked and rarely saw their share of the money because of tour expenses and label costs. I never knew where the money went, but I felt we were being ripped off.
We had learned one thing from Kim: when a subject becomes uncomfortable, you change it quickly. Whenever Jackie asked him about money, Kim would immediately switch things around, telling us that we needed to change our hairstyles or work on our stage moves. Anything but ask too many questions. Now that Jackie had a bug up her ass about the money, we were all a little scared that she might ruin everything by rocking the boat too much. Kim seemed unbalanced enough to actually drop the band altogether, as he constantly threatened to do, and sue us all for breach of contract. So Lita quickly switched the conversation back to Kim’s temper tantrums.
“Anyway, Cherie . . . when Kim gets out of hand, just keep your mouth shut. Nod, and say okay, and do the best you can. Seriously, you need to stop arguing with him. It doesn’t do any good.”
“Oh yeah,” Jackie snorted. “Don’t rock the boat! That’s your fucking mantra these days . . .”
“Shut up, Jackie!”
“Make me!”
“I will make you, bitch!”
Lita walked over to Jackie, and they started screaming at each other. Sandy rolled her eyes and put her headphones on.
Sometimes on the road life seemed really slow—especially on those long, late-night drives from city to city. It was like being in suspended animation. You aren’t anywhere in particular—you are in between places. Quaaludes helped with the boredom. So did Tuinals. Tuinals were these great little blue-and-red pills that helped your body and your mind to adjust to the tortoiselike pace of the road, the minutes and hours dragging by painfully . . . slowly . . . interminably. It was like taking a vacation inside your head. When we were not stoned and drooling on ourselves, we’d pull stupid pranks to pass the time.
One night we were driving down the main drag of some city. I don’t know which city—they’d all started to look the same. Some city that wasn’t home. Kent, one of our roadies, was driving. He didn’t say much, but sometimes he’d chuckle to himself when we’d bitch, complain, and argue with each other. The five of us were sprawled out over the seats of the bus with seltzer bottles in our hands, searching for the perfect victim.
We were in a seedy part of tow
“Victims!” Sandy screamed, and we all piled over to her window. “KEEENNT!”
On Sandy’s cue, Kent did a one-eighty across traffic. We headed toward the unsuspecting street girls, pulling up to the curb alongside them. Sandy spotted them, so they were Sandy’s catch. The window was down halfway. As we all looked on, giggling with anticipation, she leaned out and said, “Hey, ladies!”
The hookers looked up to the RV suspiciously. Sandy smiled and waved, and then asked, “Do you have a license for this sort of thing?”
Realizing that she was being laughed at, one of the hookers started screaming, “Bitch, I don’t need no motherfuckin’ license—”
That’s all she got the chance to say.
Suddenly, Sandy depressed the lever, and a jet of seltzer water hit the prostitute full in the face. Sandy started waving the bottle like crazy, soaking her minidress until it became even more see-through.
“OH, YOU CUNT!” the girl screamed as Kent hit the gas and we peeled out, leaving the streetwalkers standing there, cursing us out and shaking angry fists in our direction. I saw the wet streetwalker throw her shoe at the bus, but it fell short, landing in the middle of the road. I was laughing so hard that my stomach hurt. When we were done cracking up, Joan went to the back of the bus and marked another notch in the ceiling. Our count of victims for this tour was up to twenty already.