Read Online Running With Monsters: A Memoir by Bob Forrest - Free Book Online

really changed. I still hung out with Flea and Anthony, but I still felt diminished.
    Anthony partied almost as hard as I did, but he was on his way to rock stardom, so he was forgiven. He was the front man and had the luxury of being a hard-core intravenous drug abuser. Within the band’s structure, I was expected to work and get things done. I could barely make sure their equipment got onstage. My poor managerial skills spilled over into our life at La Leyenda. I couldn’t even get the rent paid on time.
    I stumbled home one night and Anthony confronted me. “We had a visitor today.”
    “Really? Who came by?”
    “Some rep for the building’s owner. Says you haven’t given him any rent money. Dude, I gave you some dough a few weeks ago.”
    “Don’t worry, man. I’ll take care of it,” I said.
    The money I had—including Anthony’s—I had spent on drugs and liquor. I couldn’t cover the rent. I did have enough cash on hand to buy some cheap, made-in-China hand tools and a decent dead-bolt lock down at the local Home Depot. It was a temporary fix, and outside of the weekly calls and visits from the landlord, it seemed to work.
    “Man, you’re supposed to be taking care of this stuff,” said Anthony.
    “Hey, they can’t get in. We’re the only ones who have keys. I’ll give ’em some money as soon as I can.”
    Anthony sighed.
    It worked for nearly four months—until I came home one day and saw a red “pay or quit” notice tacked to the door.
    “Did you see the sign?” asked Anthony, who had wised up and stopped me giving me rent money that he knew would not go to the landlord.
    “I’ll handle it,” I said. The next morning, I woke to the sound of drills and hammers just in time to see a work crew remove the door and walk off with it.
    “Okay, now what?” asked Anthony.
    I grabbed some old bedsheets and tacked them to the door frame. “There you go,” I said. Anthony looked unsure. “What?” I said. “It’s not like we have anything anyone would want to steal.”
    It was obvious the whole road manager thing wouldn’t work out when we went on the first tour. To the band’s credit, they gave me a shot, but I blew it. Hotel bookings, sound checks, equipment logistics—the tour was in a constant state of chaos because I was drunk and high all the time and not doing my job. I was a stumbling wreck who couldn’t get anything done. The band hired a guy named Ben Marks to replace me when we had barely gotten out of Los Angeles.
    “Look, Bob,” said Anthony. “We’re bringing in this guy to be the road manager.”
    “But I’m the road manager.”
    “You don’t know what you’re doing,” said Anthony. “We need someone who’s professional.”
    “Well, what am I supposed to do?”
    I was demoted to roadie. I didn’t do any better in that position. Ever moved equipment? It’s hard work and it’s boring. After the show, when the band got to party, I was supposed to break down the stage and load the equipment for the next gig. Instead, I’d sneak off to get high or hang out in a bar. I knew it was starting to piss off Anthony.
    I was dead weight. By the time we got to New York, I was fired. “Bob, you’re not doing anything,” said Anthony. “Why should we keep you on the payroll?” I didn’t have an answer for that. We were at the same hotel where the Replacements had rooms. Chili Peppers fired me? I thought. Fuck it. I’ll just go to work for the Replacements. I approached Paul Westerberg. He was a great guy, witty, funny—and he liked to drink as much as I did. We got into a serious drinking bout and bitched about life on the road, tours and hotels. I brought up the subject. “So, you know I’m not with the Chili Peppers crew anymore,” I said.
    “That’s too bad, man,” he said. He sensed where I was going with this conversation and cut me off. “It’s a real shame … but you can’t come with us.”
    He was right. It never would have worked. I was a terrible