Storms (18 page)

BobAguirre.

After a three-day break it was countdown time for the Forum show. As usual, Lindsey's housemates Richard Dashut and Bob Aguirre were running all over the house in stages of undress, joints passed hand to hand as they ironed their shirts and wiped the dust off boots that hadn't been shined since they brought them home from the shoe store.

Carrying my clothes on hangers, I paused for a minute to watch their clowning as I headed into the bath-room
to get dressed. Because Richard was with us on the road in Europe, I knew him much better than I did Bob. Even so, Bob was quickly becoming one of my best friends. With his long, black, wavy hair, bandito mustache, and ever-present wicked smirk, he looked more like a pirate than the session drummer he had become in L.A. As the drummer in the band Fritz with Stevie and Lindsey, Bob had known Lindsey for years and, like Richard, was one of his best friends.

After ducking into the bathroom I locked the door behind me. Having grown up with six sisters, I found it ironic that I was now living in what amounted to a frat house.
I can't wait until we can move into our new house!
I thought to myself. With a sigh of relief to be away from the
Animal House
scene taking place in the living room, I hung my clothes on the door and jumped into the shower. An hour later I was dressed for that night's huge show. Wearing a white chiffon baby-doll shirt and a gorgeous antique beaded blue skirt given to me by Judy Wong, I felt like a fairy princess as I applied my makeup in the cracked mirror above the sink. Excitement and anticipation of the night that lay ahead seemed to put extra color in my cheeks and for once my hair had turned out exactly as I liked it: long, silky, and completely straight. Within an hour my hair would be the only thing “straight” about me.

Dressed in our finery, we all trooped out to the waiting limo and headed for the show. Lindsey gripped my hand as we rode through the streets of West L.A. His clenched jaw betrayed his nervousness as we got closer to the venue. I talked soothingly to him, doing my best to get his mind off the upcoming show. As my fingers started to go numb from his grip, I sighed in relief as our car neared the hall.

The Los Angeles Forum is a white circular building that looks as if a Roman emperor with horrific taste built it. The limo pulled into the back of the building and fans lined up on each side of us, waving programs and pressing their palms to the glass of the tinted windows of our long, black car. Smiling, Lindsey opened the window and shouted, “Thanks for coming!” as we barely missed running over a few stray kids who were trying to block the car from entering the security doors.

“We're going to kill all the punters!” Richard screamed, laughing hysterically as the driver desperately tried to thread his way through the throng of fans.

“Since each of those ‘punters' has paid money to see us, try to keep the death toll down!
Jesus!”
Lindsey yelled at our driver.

Smiling at Richard, I had to laugh at his use of the word “punters.” It was a term that everyone in the Fleetwood Mac family used to describe the fans, but one that was perhaps less than flattering. Usually reserved for rowdy English sports enthusiasts (or sports thugs), the word
punters
had become a mainstay of the Mac family vocabulary. After a harrowing few minutes the car made it through the horde of punters without leaving fatalities and the gates slid shut behind us.

“Fuck it”, Lindsey said as he prepared to exit the limo. “Let's get this fuckin' show going!” A sheen of excitement was on his face and I smiled knowingly as I crawled out behind him and followed my frat brothers into the fluorescent lighting of the venue's huge loading dock.

Richard Dashut.

This was a metamorphosis I'd seen over and over again: Lindsey Buckingham, “rock star guitarist of Fleetwood Mac”, had replaced the nervous guy riding beside me just a few moments before. And tonight he was ready to play the Los Angeles Forum.

Time raced by backstage. The dressing rooms were packed with the band's relatives and friends and the level of excitement was almost through the roof. This night meant a lot to not just the band but also everyone close to them who had watched the five members of Fleetwood Mac work, starve, struggle, and suffer for the success that they were now enjoying. Lindsey and I were as caught up as everyone else in the air of celebration that swirled around us. It was the most fun we'd had so far backstage.

But things turned bizarre within half an hour of the band taking the stage. It all began with Rod Stewart. By the side of his manager, he was roaming the backstage area freely—a privilege that was never allowed during
the show to anyone outside the Fleetwood Mac family. But thanks to the close friendship of Rod's manager to J.C., Rod was allowed to wander wherever he pleased. It was a breach of security that would end up biting Fleetwood Mac's road manager on the ass after Rod became fixated on one of the women backstage.

Christine McVie and Bob Aguirre.

I noticed him, of course, as I walked back and forth to the stage area. It was hard to miss Rod Stewart leaning nonchalantly against a wall. I smiled at him, said nothing, and kept walking. Up close and personal, I didn't really find him very attractive—not my type at all. My type was playing on stage with a guitar strapped around his neck. Next to Lindsey, Rod seemed washed out and more than a little pretentious with his perfectly coiffed blond hair, skintight pants, and long scarf carefully knotted around his throat.

Twenty minutes after the show had started, I saw him huddled deep in discussion with his manager. Dismissing them both from my mind, I headed back to the stage to watch Lindsey play.

The audience was going crazy, the band was on fire, and, as was now my own ritual, I wanted to have a hit of blow before Lindsey launched into “So Afraid.” Wandering back through the black curtains, I went to the dressing room in search of a bottle cap. I found J.C. inside, red in the face and laughing hysterically as he talked to the band's security guys, Greg and Dwayne. Everyone stopped dead as I came in and then a fresh burst of giggles rocked J.C. as he stared at me standing in the center of the room.

“What's so funny, J.C.? What did I miss?” I asked as I looked around at the roomful of guys who were obviously trying to pull themselves together in front of me.

“Ah, Jesus, Carol, you're not going to believe what just happened”, J.C. said as he wiped tears from his eyes caused by his hysterical laughter.

“Uh, OK. What?” I asked.

Trying to talk between fits of giggles, J.C. stammered, “Well, hell. Rod Stewart's manager just came up to me and told me that Rod has found the girl that he wants to have for the night … and, uh, he told me to fix it for him so that good old Rod can go home happy.”

“Really? That seems kinda gross, J.C. Who is she? Some fan who got backstage?”

“Well, not exactly, Carol … I told his manager—with Rod standing right there beside him—that I'd be glad to try to help and asked him to point out the girl that Rod liked and I'd see what I could do—” J.C. stopped speaking as Dwayne and Greg sniggered in the background. “The thing is, Carol, he pointed out you! And so I had to tell him, ‘Sorry, man, that's the guitar player's old lady!' Swear to God, man … I've never seen Rod Stewart look so fuckin' embarrassed. I think he's split, man. Which is a good thing. Lindsey will friggin' rip him a new one when he hears.”

“You're kidding me, right? He just walks around pointing out girls and his manager ‘gets them' for him? That's sick, J.C.! And anyway, do I look like someone he could just pick up that way? Do I?” I spluttered as I looked down at my relatively demure baby-doll chiffon blouse and knee-length skirt. I was also wearing suede boots with stiletto heels, but I really, really didn't think I looked cheap. Feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment, I glared at J.C.

“Carol, honey, calm down. I know this is a nasty little shock, but you shouldn't take it personally. Listen, Rod has a thing for blondes. You're his type. That's all it is. You're blonde, pretty—exactly the kinda girl he goes for. I'm sorry, sweetie. Really.” I looked suspiciously at J.C. as he tried to keep the grin off his face. Reaching for a nearby bottle cap, I tried to snort it with dignity—a rather difficult feat.

As I flounced across the room I could hear Greg's laughter echoing down the hallway as he made his way back out to the stage. Greg Thomason had been with the band only a few months less than I. Lindsey and Richard had met him on their skiing trip to Aspen in January. They'd both really taken a liking to this six-foot-two, 225-pound, blond, handsome surfer dude with a puppy-dog personality. He had a bodyguard's build and the charm of a little boy. Lindsey hired him immediately to tour with the band. In return, Greg worshipped Lindsey. Greg was the exact opposite of Dwayne. Dwayne
was tall and thin with wire-framed eyeglasses that made him look like a high-school geek instead of the seasoned security man that he was. The band loved both of them.

I knew that Greg was rushing off to tell Lindsey what had just happened. The first short break that Lindsey had, Greg would spill the whole story to him. With a sigh I sat down on the couch to wait for whatever fallout was about to come. That there would surely be some I had no doubt. Lindsey was pretty territorial when it came to me. Sure enough, Greg came rushing back into the room barely ten minutes later with a grim look on his face.

“J.C., Lindsey's a little pissed off. I think you better go talk to him. I told him what happened—I thought he'd think it was funny! Um, he didn't. He wants to talk to you, J.C. He told me to find you.”

“Shit!” J.C. muttered as he stomped out of the dressing room.

Keeping his head down, Greg then shuffled out, leaving me alone in the room. As I walked over to the cheap vanity mirror hanging on the wall, I couldn't help smiling a little as I thought about what just happened.
It is a little flattering
, I thought to myself as I reapplied my lipstick.
But then again, it's totally creepy that Rod Stewart thinks he can just point his finger at a girl and she'll swoon at his feet and go for a one-night stand!
I shuddered as a picture of his disheveled manager flashed through my mind.
That's an even bigger creep! How can he act like that?

As I turned from the mirror J.C. ran into the room and grabbed me gently by the arm. “Lindsey wants you up on stage with him, Carol Ann. He wants to know you're ‘safe.' I have to make sure that Stewart has left backstage. Lindsey told me to throw him out. Shit, Carol, he's really pissed off. Tell him after the show that I protected you, OK? Please don't tell him that I laughed my ass off—he doesn't think it's funny, and I can see his point. I'm supposed to watch over you. Sorry, hon.”

“It's not your fault, J.C. Don't worry about it. Of course I won't tell Lindsey. But J.C., I really would be totally embarrassed to run into Stewart. Are you sure he's gone?”