Saving Motley Crue

Chapter Four- Damaged (Nikki)

For the rest of the afternoon Tommy and I tooled around fruitlessly, with me savagely vetoing almost every seedy place he wanted to stop at.

But then before I knew it I was standing awkwardly in the backstage of the Whisky-a-go-go, feeling rather surreal. It wasn't a very magnificent place, with the smells of vodka, hairspray, and sweat making me nauseous. Even though I didn't see anyone famous there, I was almost giddy- perhaps it was being included in a moment that would become of legendary importance.

A rather flustered-looking man popped into the room from the narrow hallway leading to the individual dressing rooms. He scanned the room with desperate eyes, searching for someone or something before finally reluctantly landing on me. He beckoned for me with a skeletal finger and I hurried up from my seat, nervously wondering if I was in trouble.

"Go to the second room on the right. Take these." With that, the man handed me a makeup bag and pushed me forward into the hallway. Why did he have to keep everything shrouded in mystery?

Shaking my head, I went to the second door on the left and tentatively pushed it open.

I only saw a mess of teased black hair at first glance, but in the mirror I could see Nikki's face as he brought a bottle of Jack to his lips. I wanted to turn on my heel and leave because I didn't feel like dealing with his unpredictable moodiness, but something caused me to stay. Maybe it was the countless hours I had spent with tears falling down my cheeks, wishing I could just help him somehow. I just had to stay and talk to him.

Closing the door loudly to alert him to my presence, I approached the dressing room table nervously. He turned to me with glazed eyes, and I didn't think he recognized me until he said, "What are you doing here?"

Drawing up another chair beside him, I briskly set down the make-up bag and took out the eyeliner. "Apparently I'm doing your makeup today. With the way you look, I can't possibly imagine why."

"Oh, so you're funny too." He grabbed a hold of the bottle of Jack again, but I gently pried it from his hand, holding up the makeup as an explanation. Crossing his arms, Nikki looked sour about it, but he relented and just sat there facing me silently. I'd never met someone who disliked me so strongly.

I uncapped the eyeliner and brought it up to his eye, just about an inch from touching him- it was at this point I realized I was not very good at doing my own makeup, let alone Nikki Sixx's. My hand was shaking so badly I was sure I'd just about stab him in the eye, so I brought up my other hand to kind of lightly keep his head steady, with my thumb resting at the edge of his jaw, and the rest of my hand at the nape of his neck. It felt unreal being this close to him- close enough to breathe in the strong scent of hairspray that burned my nostrils and to feel the warm, alcohol-infused breath hitting the hair that framed my face. A dozen scenes from Heroin Diaries flashed through my mind as I began to draw the dramatic eyeliner I remembered them using from this time period. This right here was the Nikki Sixx who wondered why nobody loved him. Who just wanted to die, but was so very afraid of it at the same time.

"Nikki . . . I'm sorry if I upset you." I began softly, and looked down to grab the lipstick. When I glanced back up, he was glaring at me, his dark eyebrows low over his eyes. "I'm not a delicate flower. You didn't upset me . . . and don't act as if you know me or care about me."

"Why? Because you think no one does?" I startled myself in how boldly I spoke, but the words just came out. I didn't pause though, in applying the lipstick, and he waited impatiently for me to finish before answering, "Well, if you know so much about me from the future or whatever, who does care about me, then?" His eyes were a sharp green as they fixed themselves on me challengingly. My hand holding the eyeliner faltered in its course. Many answers entered my mind, but I wasn't sure which one to use . . . I didn't want to sound corny or disingenuous, and I certainly didn't want to say anything that would alienate him. Nikki was sensitive, after all.

"I can't speak for anyone else, but I know I care about you. I know you're gonna write off what I say as stupid, but . . . God loves you. I mean it. He wants to save you, and He's told you Himself." I almost felt sick with how nervous I was for his reaction, but he didn't move; his face was blank. While waiting for him to respond, I wordlessly reached up and adjusted his hair the way I knew he always wore it in the 80s: covering his eyes. He was like Slash in that way; he was a very vulnerable person who felt he had to conceal his face; to hide the way he really felt; to protect himself from the world. He had the most reason out of anyone I knew, though. He really did need to protect himself from the world.

Nikki made a noise in the back of his throat and shifted in his seat, the leather outfit he had on squeaking as he moved. Finally he said thickly, "I don't even know you . . . and God may love you, but He certainly doesn't care about me. He could have saved me, but He didn't." With that, Nikki got up and grabbed the bottle with a swift motion, staggering heavily out of the room.

When the door swung shut behind him, the room was engulfed in a burning silence. Now that Nikki was gone, I realized how intently I had been focusing- my hands were sweating and I felt flustered.

Needing some air because talking to these boys was always upsetting, I got up, my chair scraping jarringly against the floor. When I got into the main room of the backstage area, the sounds of the show could be heard, but more specifically Nikki's bass line; rising over all, sharp, insistent, catching the moment and the mood.

A wave of emotion crashed over me, and I burst into tears. I needed to get out of there for a little while. God may love you, but He certainly doesn't care about me. He could have saved me, but He didn't. The haunting words occupied my mind as I robotically made my way out to the parking lot of the club. It was like when I listened to "A Rat Like Me" back home, and every time I just wanted to beat it into Nikki that he was a person, a loved person with value and worth. 

It wasn't until I had significantly calmed down that something I had seen inside occurred to me again with a certain level of alarm. Standing in the club amidst the pulsing throng of people watching Motley was a man dressed like all the others, but maybe slightly older than the average partygoer, who I immediately noticed individually. There wasn't anything I could consciously find standout about him . . . but yet I just knew he wasn't like the rest. He wasn't enjoying the music- in fact, it didn't seem as if he was watching the stage at all, rather analyzing the crowd. As I thought about him in the parking lot, I wondered if he was an agent- someone to keep tabs on Motley Crue.