My Appetite For Destruction (31 page)

The next afternoon, I received another call from Doug. “The guys don’t want you to be on the next record. They are going to use someone else.”

I was still feeling like shit, and at this point I guess I saw it coming. “Yeah, whatever.” I just hung up the phone and started crying. I’d had enough, but I couldn’t help but be depressed. I didn’t even bother calling Slash. What was the point?

To blunt the pain, I went on a party binge, smoking weed, drinking Jägermeister, and popping whatever pills I could find. Cheryl was there with me, and she would never say anything to upset me. She was there by my side, but I didn’t care and wasn’t even aware of her. I just locked myself away in my room.

Cheryl didn’t fully understand what was happening. And with all this heavy shit going down around us, I couldn’t handle it, wouldn’t handle it. She wasn’t prepared to deal with all the crap either, and every day she cried a lot because she knew something horrible was occurring.

And I’m standin’ at the crossroads, I believe I’m sinkin’ down.

—”
CROSS
ROAD
BLUES
,”
ROBERT
JOHNSON

I
felt I had sold my soul for rock ’n’ roll, and the devil had just stopped by to stamp me “Paid in Full.” A couple of days of partying only put me in worse condition, and I came out of my stupor so depressed, I tried to kill myself. I slashed my wrists, suddenly became very light-headed, and collapsed onto the hard floor. My face must have hit a chair or a coffee table as I fell because Cheryl raced in to find me badly bruised, with my lip split wide open. The cuts to my wrists weren’t nearly what was required to do the job properly, but they left ugly scars that still remind me of this dark time.

I believe I was crying out for help more than actually trying to die. Cheryl called Doug and told him that I was very fucked up and had tried to kill myself. That afternoon, Doug, Slash, and a security guy named Ron came to my home. When I opened the door and saw them, I panicked for some reason and just took off trying to run away from them in my own house. I know that coke eventually makes you very paranoid, but there was no reason for me to be scared of these guys. In an even dumber move, Ron went chasing after me. I don’t know what he was planning to do when he caught me. I hopped out an upstairs window and ran along the roof to the top of the garage. They were yelling up to me: “Steven, come down. Come on, man, come down.”

“No. Fuck you, fuck everything!” Then I just dropped onto the roof, crying like a baby.

I heard a noise and realized they were going to climb up and get me. This gave me an even worse panic attack so I jumped off the roof of the garage. I plummeted into the cab of Slash’s black truck. Everyone was shocked and just stood there as I bounced, unhurt, then rolled off to the ground, a total mess.

The security guy was a supreme asshole. He dismissed the whole matter like I was a piece of shit, not worth the time. “The hell with him, let’s go.” It was as if they were looking for any reason to leave, so on Ron’s remark, they split.

The next evening, Slash phoned. Inwardly my heart thumped, and I felt like here was my old friend, reaching out. But no, he was actually pissed. “Dude, you dove on my truck, and it’s fucking dented. You dented my truck, and you’re paying for it.”

I was numb. “Whatever. Sure, I’ll pay for it. No problem, buddy. Take it out of my two thousand dollars, you heartless piece of shit.” But at that point, all I heard was a dial tone.

Fame puts you there where things are hollow . . .

—”
FAME
,”
DAVID
BOWIE

L
ooking back, I still cringe at this dark, torturous time in my life. Up to this moment, I had been high practically all the time and that made me careless, among other things. But in all honesty, I was the only member of the band who was held accountable for that carelessness. And now my situation was hopeless. I achieved the dream of a lifetime, and just as it was about to blossom fully, they stomped on it. I was riding high; the group that I had formed with my friends just five years before had become the biggest rock band in the world.

It seemed everyone wanted to know me, and I was very touched by the way I was treated by our fans. Everyone was so affectionate, and I tried to return that love in spades.

I really felt blessed and thanked God for my good fortune. People said, “Enjoy this. Take it in as it’s happening. Try to live in the moment.” That’s all I ever did. It was the way I welcomed each day naturally. I didn’t have to remind myself to try to live in the moment because that was simply the way I had always experienced my life.

There’s abundant proof of this. Look at the videos of me playing, I’m the only guy in the band smiling, loving every minute of it like no one else. I was constantly aware of God’s grace and was thankful for it. I hugged everyone who wanted an autograph, sat and talked with anyone, and freely reached out to the people who approached us. From anyone’s perspective, I honestly believe that it’s clear I was the one who truly savored our success the most.

When girls would say I was the cutest or the sexiest or the nicest boy in the band, I would just laugh. And I’d always be sure to spread it around, telling them Slash was much sexier, Duff was much nicer, Izzy was much cooler, and Axl was smarter.

Ronnie Schneider and I went out one evening to a club called Bordello. This was just before news of my getting kicked out of
GNR
was made public. Bordello was a popular hot spot located at Santa Monica and Fairfax. As with any trendy spot, there was a line with dozens of people waiting to get in. We got there and stood in line with everyone else. I noticed the door guy peer over the line in my direction. He walked over to us and said, “Steven Adler. Guns N’ Roses! What are you doing here? You don’t have to wait in line!” He put his arm around my shoulder, walked us to the front, and opened the door as if we had been buddies for years. I thanked him, shook his hand, and entered the club. Fact is, I hadn’t minded waiting in line. I enjoyed talking to everyone but was of course thrilled to get in. Ronnie and I had a great time that night.

By the end of the week, the news hit the world that I was no longer in the band. To add insult to injury, I was portrayed in the news as the consummate loser. “Band that glorifies drug use fires drummer for being out of control on drugs.” If that doesn’t make me sound like the most pathetic person on earth, I don’t know what would.

I felt that familiar chill cut through my heart again, that emotional emptiness that meant my family had abandoned me. And
GNR
was my family. Izzy, Axl, Duff, and Slash were my brothers; we loved and cared for each other, had each other’s back, and fought like hell to succeed together. Now, I was no longer welcome in my own family. Again!

God had given me a second chance and I blew it big-time. I desperately needed to be numb, to just take away the pain. By the end of that week, all I could do was sit in my house smoking coke and heroin.

Eventually, Ronnie, remembering the great time I had at Bordello a few weeks earlier, thought it would be nice to get out of the house and go to a place where I could feel wanted
.
Again there was a line at the door. Confident, I walked up to the doorman, the same guy, and greeted him enthusiastically. “How are you?” I asked.

He looked at me and seemed annoyed. I stood there for a second. “What do you think you’re doing? You gotta stand in line just like everyone else.” He pointed toward the end of the line, making a scene for all to see. I was shocked but waved him off and walked away. A block down the road, my emotions got the best of me. I had just been treated like a piece of shit, and that’s how I felt. It was harsh. I walked home with Ronnie and continued the assault on my pain.

S
hortly after, I stopped going out altogether. All I wanted was to be alone and even refused the love of my wife. Cheryl was having difficulty dealing with me and the entire situation as a whole. I feel horrible to this very day; putting her through so much drama was not fair at all. One of us, I think it was probably Cheryl, decided that it would be best for her to take a break for a few days and visit her family.

Just when I couldn’t have been more numb or depressed, hope appeared on the horizon. One of my lawyers called and told me that AC/DC was auditioning for a new drummer. “They are considering you, Steven. I am going to get you this gig.”

“Do it!” I shouted. I was so happy; at last, a chance at redemption.

But the stars were not lined up for me. That same fucking night, an interview with Axl aired on
MTV
. He spoke of how
GNR
was so much more than he ever expected. Then the topic of the former drummer came up, and Axl stuck a spike in my heart. “Steven is so fucked up on drugs. He can’t even play anymore. He’s someone I used to know.” My head was spinning; this was on
MTV
, national TV. Axl, the most popular rock star at the time, had just told the world I was a fuckup. It was unbelievably bad timing. I never heard another word about the AC/DC gig.

After a couple of weeks, Cheryl returned, taking a cab from the airport. She yelled and screamed at me when I answered the door: “I tried calling you. You can’t answer the goddamn phone? I thought you were dead!”

I could barely mutter, “Sorry, honey.” In fact, I hadn’t thought of her in days. She could have been gone a week, a month, and I wouldn’t have known because time no longer had any meaning. I was beginning to sink even farther downward, carving out a routine that would become my degenerate way of life for a major portion of the next ten years.

M
y fate was sealed when an unforeseen run-in with Axl sent my entire existence into a permanent tailspin. Right after Cheryl returned, I found out that Andy McCoy had moved in just down the street from us. Andy was the guitarist for the band Hanoi Rocks. I was introduced to their sound through Axl and Izzy and instantly fell in love with their brand of hard-driving rock. In fact, Guns N’ Roses’ own label, Uzi Suicide, had just released Hanoi’s entire back catalog on CD for the first time. They were the only other band to be released on GNR’s label. I was disappointed, however, to learn that Andy had married Laura, Izzy’s ex-girlfriend. I hated this woman. She was attractive enough but such a bitch that I considered her repulsive. Desperate to keep the music in my life, Andy and I started to hang out and jam. I hired the guy who remodeled my bedroom to turn the tool shed into a small studio. He soundproofed the walls and really did a great job. It was a bit cramped but it didn’t matter. Andy and I worked on new songs and jammed out on some classics. Andy knew I disliked his wife, but it had no effect on our friendship. I just told him I didn’t want her around, and that was cool with him. But I guess we were getting along so well that eventually he decided it would be no big deal. One day, while I was in my yard, I could see the two of them walking down the hill, clearly on their way to my place. I just stood there, giving them both two high and mighty middle fingers. Andy caught my gesture, but not Laura. Andy never broke stride and just walked in with her as if it was a nonissue. What could I do? It’s no secret I’m a softie at heart.

Before long, Laura was dropping in regularly and getting on my nerves like she had in the past. One day, she pulled the most fucked-up stunt ever. Andy and I were jamming in the shed when we heard a pounding at the door. I opened it, and there was Laura with Axl’s fiancée, Erin Everly.

Erin was completely out of it and could barely stand up. I asked, “What the fuck is she on?”

Laura said, “Nothing. She and Axl had a fight. Can you give her something?”

“What? I ain’t giving her shit,” I yelled, and grabbed Erin, who was swaying back and forth, eyes closed. “Erin, are you okay? You better—”

Laura interrupted. “C’mon, Steven, just give her something.”

“What is she on? What did you give her?” I yelled at Laura.

She said, “Steven, she and Axl went at it, so I gave her some Valium.”

I screamed, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Erin could barely stand so I carried her into my bedroom and set her down. “Erin, are you okay?”

Her eyes opened slightly. “Axl and I had a fight.”

Laura came in. “Steven, chill. I just gave her a few pills,” she repeated, not the least bit concerned.

“How many?” I yelled.

Erin was starting to go out and I panicked. I wasn’t taking any chances with this. I called an ambulance and tried not to freak the fuck out. I did not need to be involved in this situation. She was Axl’s bride-to-be for chrissakes. The paramedics arrived, checked her vitals, and told me they would have to induce vomiting. Before they whisked her away, they assured me that her pulse was strong and she would probably be okay.

Later I discovered that Erin already had heroin in her system. When questioned, they said that I was the one who had given it to her. Axl called and threatened me: “I’m coming over there and I’m going to fucking kill you!”

I yelled, “I didn’t give her shit.”

“Bullshit!” he said.

I was livid and screamed back, “I didn’t. Fuck you!” I hung up the phone.

My heart raced, and I truly believed that Axl was furious enough to want to kill me. I began to fear for Cheryl’s and my well-being, so we rounded up the dogs and took off for Palm Springs. Axl told the press that I shot Erin up, and no one had any reason to believe otherwise. Not that it could do any more damage, but the guys in the band thought I was an even bigger asshole than before.

I would never shoot heroin, or any drug, into Erin. I always adored her, and probably helped to save her life that day, but it didn’t mean shit. I couldn’t fucking stand it. I was completely miserable and my existence became even more unbearable, if that was possible.