14: Blast From The Past
Anthony felt himself being swept into a
pair of husky arms. Eyes dilated, wide, and darting about, he slumped against
the unknown figure's chest as the individual carried him across the bar.
Disgruntled murmurings erupted.
"Step aside, people!" a voice boomed by
Anthony's ear, and he jittered. Frantically shifting his gaze around the room,
he gasped. EVERYTHING looked like peyote! The small cactuses surrounded him,
closing in, and his arms scrambled around the neck of his
transport.
"Easy there, buddy," the guy murmured.
Anthony furrowed
his brows over gaping eyes. The voice echoed in his head, which he
shook.
A peyote shaped hand slapped against a peyote door, into a room
that... somehow exuded the essence... of peyote. Anthony felt cushion beneath
him and the other's limbs disappear. As the individual stepped back, Anthony's
bulging eyes focused on his features. The man's knobby nose looked somewhat like
a peyote plant. Anthony giggled.
"Holy sh**!" the man hissed, holding a
hand over his lips. He spoke through his fingers. "You're Anthony
Kiedis!"
Cocking his head to the side, Anthony nodded. He studied the
guy's nose.
The man lowered his hand and sat down on the cushion by
Anthony's feet. "I'm a big fan of yours. Really, your early work. I don't tend
to go for pop music. But your punk... that sh** kicked ass!"
"I like how
you play drums," Anthony spoke to the talking peyote plant. "You know, we used
to have a drummer, and if our band still did the whole... musical instrument
thing, I'd want YOU for our drummer."
The man beamed. He pulled a pack of
Marlboros from his flannel shirt pocket and drew a smoke from it. He patted the
pockets of his jeans, then retrieved a lighter from the left. Flicking it, he
lit his cigarette. He offered the pack to Anthony. "Want one?"
Anthony
reached for the pack. He pulled out a smoke, and the man lit it for him. Leaning
back, Anthony plopped against the cushion behind him. He drew the cigarette to
his lips and inhaled. The two sat in silence.
"Sorry to hear about your
bandmate's death," the man said after a while. He grimaced, his eyes met with
those of the figure on the couch. Anthony blinked, and his mouth hung open. A
puff of smoke billowed from his lips. He closed them again and
sighed.
"Thanks, man," he voiced. Lying over his legs, he reached an
ashtray across the table from him and flicked ash into it. The man pushed it to
the middle of the table as Anthony sat back.
"He was a great guitar
player." The man took a drag on his cigarette and looked to his guest, who
stared at the floor. "Why the hell did he ever give it up?"
Anthony
shrugged. "I don't know." He puffed on his smoke.
"It's a real shame he
did. I would have loved to jam with him." A smirk slipped over the man's face.
Thumbing the door, he said, "You saw the guitarist that my band
has."
"Yeah," Anthony nodded, wide eyedly staring into space. "That kid
sucks."
"No sh**!"
"Where'd you get him?"
"The singer's
little brother," the man snorted and turned away. He drew on his cigarette, then
glanced back at Anthony. "The kid that you had though... that kid was a
natural."
Anthony raised an eyebrow. "When did you even hear him play? He
wasn't on any of the records."
"Yeah, I know," the man replied, lines
streaking his forehead. "But I was at a few of your concerts in 1989 and
90."
Anthony heaved a smoky sigh. "Those were f***ed up
times."
Shaking his head, the man exhaled a gray puff. "What are you
talking about, man? You guys rocked! Honestly, I thought it was much better than
what you're doing now... or WERE doing." The man scratched the top of his head.
"So what's happening to your band now? Do you guys know yet?"
"Yeah,"
Anthony replied, flicking ash into its tray. "We just got a replacement
actually." Squinting at the peyote shaped man, he asked, "You know Nick
Carter?"
The man's eyes widened. "No sh**? I thought that guy was going
to start singing with his kid brother!"
"Our manager got him to change
his mind." Anthony took a drag on his smoke. "Apparently."
The man sat up
straight, then got to his feet. "I'm going to go grab something from the bar.
You want anything?"
Anthony nodded. "Just some water would be
great."
"All right." The man nodded and slipped out of the room. The
heavy oak door clamored shut behind him.
Anthony glanced around. And
blinked his eyes a few times. His head felt relaxed, his temples loose. But his
mind raced. Thoughts pelted about in his head as he stared at his peyote feet.
Furrowing his eyebrows, he drew his cigarette bearing hand to his lips, the
other to his forehead. He heaved a sigh.
The door creaked open. The
drummer held an Aquafina with one hand, clutching a Samuel Adam's to his side
with that elbow. With his free hand, he grabbed the Boston ale. He held out the
water to Anthony.
"Thanks," Anthony voiced. He put out his cigarette,
then snatched the bottle from the man's grasp. He unscrewed the cap and threw
back a few gulps' worth. The water washed over his palate and down the back of
his throat. He smiled.
The stranger eased himself into a chair and leaned
forward. He held the bottle neck against the coffee table, the ale's cap digging
into its edge. Clenching his teeth, he slammed a hand into the cap, and pulled
away the bottle with the other. Anthony jumped, splashing water across the
collar of his ebony button-up.
"Sorry," the man murmured, and took a swig
of his alcohol. His lips smacked. He lowered his hands and rested the bottle
bottom on the arm of his chair. Glancing at Anthony, he asked, "So, what
happened?"
Anthony settled back in his seat. "Pardon?"
"What
happened to your band?" The man stared at his index finger as it tapped out a
beat on the side of the bottle. "How did it go from funk to bubble gum
pop?"
Shrugging, Anthony clutched his Aquafina in both hands and twiddled
his thumbs. "The funk wasn't happening," he murmured with a sigh. "We tried to
keep it together after Hillel died, but it was impossible." Anthony raised his
brows, and scratched his nose. "When our manager, Lou Pearlman, contacted me and
talked about the Chili Peppers getting back together, I was ecstatic. Until he
said he wanted to completely change the band. I was so close to just blowing him
off..." Anthony ran a hand over his chin. "But I didn't want it to be over. I
wanted it to be different." He smirked. "You know it took him two years to make
us over?"
The man grunted, and finished off his ale. He set the bottle
down on the table.
"Surprisingly, it wasn't reworking our music that took
so long." Anthony scratched his cheekbone and lowered his hand. "It was making
over our image."
"Why?"
Patting a check with one hand, Anthony
grimaced. "Plastic surgery."
The man's eyes widened and nearly fell out
of his head. "No f***ing way!"
"I'm serious," Anthony threw back some
water. Raising the bottle toward the stranger, he said, "Hey, I'm nearly forty
years old! Why the hell do you think I look twenty?"
"I can't f***ing
believe this." The man held his baseball capped head in his hands and shook it.
Then he made eye contact with the Chili Pepper. "Why the hell would you agree to
something like that?"
Anthony drew in a deep breath and whistled out
through his teeth. "Our new bandmates were so friggin' young that, to be
respected, we had to." He shrugged. "Why not?"
The man leaned forward in
his chair. "Did it hurt?"
"The first time, yeah," Anthony nodded. "My
face didn't even feel like mine for a full month. And the touch-ups just make me
achy for a week..."
"Touch ups?"
Anthony swept the fingertips of
one hand over his features. "Yeah, every few months."
Shaking his head,
the man released a heavy breath through his nose. "Why'd it take so long in the
first place?"
"John wouldn't do it. Michael finally convinced him, I
don't know how." Anthony scraped the knuckles of one hand into his chin.
"Wasn't he only a kid when all that happened?" The man raised an
eyebrow.
Anthony laughed. "Hey, we ALL looked like old men next to Kevin
and Brian!" His smile faded, and he sighed. "You know, John used to have
terrible nightmares after the surgery. On tour, he'd scream so loud he'd wake up
the entire hotel. They toned down after a while. But he still has them. The last
one was a few weeks ago... Did I say 'has'?" Anthony scratched his cheekbone. "I
meant to say 'had'."
WHOOSH!
The door swung open, and Anthony
looked to it. Stooped at the door with puffy eyes was Michael. Anthony squinted
at his bandmate's lips. Were they somehow bigger?
"There you are!" The
thick-lipped Chili Pepper exclaimed, and rushed into the room. His blue eyes
bulged at Anthony. "Damn! People were saying you'd passed out or ODed and that
somebody took you to the hospital!"
Shrugging, Anthony replied, "No, but
sh**! That was a crazy trip!"
"What the hell were you on anyway?" the man
questioned.
"Peyote."
The man raised a corner of his lips. "Seems
to be the thing around here lately."
Michael scratched his head. Staring
at the Chili Pepper, the man narrowed his eyes. Then they lit up.
"Sh**,
I recognise you! Michael Balzary!"
Nodding, Michael extended an open palm
to the stranger. "Yeah. And you're..."
The man accepted Michael's
outstretched hand in his own and shook it. "Chad Smith."
Anthony bolted
upright, pain shooting across his forehead. He stared at the man, into his
solid, intelligent eyes. His heart jumped. "Chad!"
Chad raised an eyebrow
and looked to Michael.
"You know this guy?" the Chili Pepper pointed to
Chad.
Bobbing his head insanely, Anthony exclaimed, "He's our drummer..."
He clutched his chest, and drew a hand to his head. "What the hell is going
on?"
Chad looked to Michael. Tossing a hand in Anthony's direction, he
asked, "What the f*** kind of sh** is he on? I thought he said
peyote."
"It is!" Michael draped an arm around his bandmate. "Come on,
Anthony," he murmured. "You've had a long night and a bad trip. Let's get back
to the hotel."
Anthony shook his head furiously. Staring at the drummer,
he exclaimed, "Chad! Chad, tell him!"
Chuckling, Chad wagged his head.
"Buddy, listen to your friend. Go home and get some rest."
Michael pulled
Anthony to his feet and tugged at his left arm. He dragged the Chili Pepper
toward the door.
"What the f***!" Anthony exclaimed, leaning away from
Michael's grasp. "SOMEBODY's got to remember! Please!"
Anthony watched
Chad's raised-brow expression disappear as a door closed over his view.