Chapter 8A: Imagery

June 28, 1983
John F. Kennedy Airport
New York City, New York

The limousine stopped as close to the Nationwide Airlines terminal as possible. The driver had been instructed not to open the door for them. That would only attract attention. The hope was to get through the airport lobby and security checkpoint as anonymously and unobtrusively as possible. It was a slim hope at best, but a hope nonetheless.

Jake opened the door and stepped out. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a button up short-sleeve shirt. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes. His long hair was tucked up under a San Francisco Giants baseball cap. He carried a simple duffle bag in his right hand.

Stepping out behind him was Janice Boxer — the National Records publicity department agent who had accompanied the band on their tour, coordinating autograph session and radio station interviews. The end of the Descent Into Nothing tour of 1983 had apparently, and unfortunately, not been the end of the band's association with Janice. It had only been the beginning. She had been named as Intemperance's head publicist. And even though the tour was over there was lots of publicity to cash in on.

Intemperance had the most popular song in the nation right now. After Who Needs Love? had peaked at number four The Point of Futility was released and had shot up the charts like it had been fired from a cannon. It had been at number one for the past three weeks and was showing no signs of giving up its position just yet. Nor was that the only chart Intemperance was atop of. Descent Into Nothing — the album — had been number one on the album sales chart for eleven weeks now and was still selling as fast as National Records could ship copies to the stores. It had gone platinum back in May, just six months after its release, and was predicted to go double platinum around late November.

This popularity, coupled with the morbid publicity that was still going strong from the Spinning Rock article meant that National Records was doing everything within its powers and within the vast boundaries of its contract with the band to keep Intemperance in the forefront of the public's mind. The band members were being flown all over the country — individually, in pairs, and all five at once — to attend everything from record store openings to local television news interviews to nationally syndicated telecasts. The band had appeared on Saturday Night Live and American Bandstand. Jake and Matt had been interviewed for two hours on Rockline. On this particular trip Jake had been sent solo to the seventy-two story NTV building in New York City where he was subjected to a particularly inflammatory and caustic interview by Brad Cummins of the renowned Wake Up USA show. He was still seething from the treatment he had received at the veteran interviewer's hands.

"Don't you believe that this so-called music you produce is a deliberate attempt to foment the corruption of the youth of America?" had been one question. And before Jake could even complete a sentence of his reply, Cummins began retorting. "Oh come now! You make songs about drug use and Satanism. You make videos that glorify protest and serial killers and satanic rituals. Tell me something. Is it all just an act to sell records or do you really believe in all of this?"

And of course, Jake had stammered and stuttered at this point because there was no way to answer that question without seeming to admit that he was either in favor of Satanism or at least pretending to be. The end result of this was that he came across to a nationwide audience like a stoned out moron, which was exactly what Cummins had intended. The interview had only been five minutes but it was five minutes that had been among the longest of Jake's life.

"Can you believe that asshole," Jake asked Janice as they entered the terminal building. "Shouting a bunch of accusatory questions at me and then interrupting while I'm trying to respond? They call that journalism?"

"No," Janice said. "They call it entertainment. That's all television news is. He's not a journalist, he's an actor, and a damn good one at that. He was given his lines by the people who produce the show and he read them off to you, just like an actor is supposed to."

"Did you know he was going to do that?" Jake asked her.

"Well, of course," she said, rolling her eyes a little. "That's his style. Don't you ever watch Wake Up USA?"

"No. I don't."

"Don't feel too bad. He's done that same shtick to presidential candidates, heads of state, veteran actors and actresses, judges, lawyers, you name it. And some of them came off looking even worse than you did up there."

They began to walk through the terminal, heading toward the line at the security checkpoint. Other people milled around, moving in different direction, heading for different parts of the building. A voice overhead announced arrivals and departures.

"If you knew he was going to do that," Jake asked, "then why didn't you at least warn me beforehand?"

"Warn you?" she asked. "Why would I warn you? You performed perfectly. You came across exactly the way we wanted. I couldn't have scripted you any better than that."

"You wanted me to look like an idiot up there?" he asked, grappling with his temper.

"Idiot is not the word I would use," she said. "Disorganized, unremorseful, defiant. That's what we wanted."

"That's what you wanted?"

"Of course," she said. "It not your fans who are watching Wake Up USA — your fans are still in bed at that hour — it's their parents. We need to keep their parents outraged at you as much as possible. The more disgusted with you the parents are, the more albums the kids will buy."

This was an old subject for Jake and the rest of the band. The old image is what sells your music argument. Jake didn't hold to it anymore now than he had when they'd tried to change his name to JD King. They made good music, music that people liked to listen to over and over again. That was why Descent Into Nothing had sold 1.3 million copies. That was why The Point of Futility was sitting firmly at the number one position. Not because Jake had once snorted cocaine out of a groupie's ass or because that moron producer had made some horrible videos. And certainly not because some asshole actor on a television show had made him look like an idiot.

But you couldn't tell that to people like Acardio or Janice or even Shaver, their agent. They claimed complete and total credit for the runaway success of Intemperance — a success that had surpassed even their most optimistic imaginings during the early stages of the contract. In their view a band that was promoted correctly with the proper amount of parental outrage and controversy simply had to produce palatable music in order for success to occur. They would make the admittedly compelling argument of Kiss in order to make their point. Musically, Kiss was beyond simple, edging into the territory of hopelessly mundane. All of their songs used the same basic guitar riffs and employed the same style of bland, formulistic lyrics. If not for the make-up and the blood spitting and the outfits, Kiss wouldn't have sold a thousand albums nationwide. Jake knew this was true, of course. Any real lover of music looked at bands like Kiss with contempt. But Kiss was also an anomaly, the one true example of image overcoming artistic ability. Just because the formula had been successful once, record execs had mistakenly concluded that that was the key and tried to duplicate it with every band they signed. The popularity of MTV and music videos in general was only making this trend worse. When the record companies failed to successfully promote an image-only band successfully, they blamed it on poor publicity or on the public not being quite ready for that particular image. And when a band did become successful because of good music — like Ozzy, like Dio, like Motley Crue, like Intemperance — they assumed that their image shaping had simply been a success this time.

"Dude," a voice said on Jake's left. "Aren't you... like... Jake Kingsley, dude?"

Jake suppressed a sigh and put a smile on his face as he turned and beheld two young men in their late teens. They were dressed like college kids heading off somewhere for summer vacation, which was to say they were dressed similarly to Jake himself.

"That's me," Jake told them, already reaching for the pen he habitually kept in his back pocket for just such occasions.

"Dude," the first young man said, his eyes shining. "This is, like, so awesome. Can I get your autograph, dude?"

"Sure," Jake told him, pulling out the pen. "You got something for me to sign?"

The young man handed over his airline ticket stub. Jake asked his name.

"It's Mike," he said. "Mike Millen."

"How do you spell it?"

Mike looked at him strangely. "Uh... M-I-K-E, dude."

"No, I mean your last name," Jake said.

"Oh," Mike said, hitting himself in the forehead. "Like... duh." He spelled it out.

Jake scratched out a variation of his standard autograph scrawl: To my friend Mike Millen, Keep rockin, dude. Jake Kingsley.

Mike's friend was Jason. Jake signed his airline stub as well.

"Thanks, dude," Jason said. "You really rock, man. I was at your MSG gig. Heard you had a real good time after it, you know?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "I know. Take it easy, guys."

They thanked him, told him he rocked one last time and then wandered off, comparing each other's autographs. Jake hoped that would be the end of it, but of course it wasn't. Others had noticed the interaction and had homed in on it. Many had probably been asking themselves if that could be Jake Kingsley over there but had not been sure enough to approach and ask. Now that they saw him signing autographs for Jason and Mike, their suspicions were confirmed and their fears of approaching a celebrity were assuaged. Within seconds there were more than twenty people clustered about him, all of them chattering away and pushing airline stubs or other scraps of paper in his face.

Jake started signing, asking each person's name and how to spell it and then scrawling out basically the same thing he'd scrawled for Jason and Mike. He passed a few words with each person, shook each hand, and remained polite and soft-spoken. When they asked questions he answered as briefly and as vaguely as possible. And, of course, as always seemed to happen when he stepped out into public these days, the small crowd continued to swell as other people drifted over to see what all the fuss was about, as people leaving the crowd reported to those outside of it that it was Jake Kingsley in there. He began to get claustrophobic as they pushed in at him from all sides, as they all tried to speak at once. His hand began to cramp up after about the thirtieth signing. And, as always also happened, a few people pushed their way through not to get his autograph but to express their disapproval at what he was and what he represented.

"God will punish you harshly come the judgment," said a middle-aged woman dressed in a frumpy ankle-length skirt. "You'll burn in the fires of hell for eternity!"

"Well, at least I won't have to worry about what to wear," he replied blandly.

"Rapist!" shouted another woman, this one college age and wearing a Cornhuskers T-shirt. "Stay away from this pig, girls. He's nothing but a common sex criminal."

Jake didn't have to answer this one. Several members of the crowd spoke up for him.

"He can sex crime me any time he wants," said one young lady.

"You're just mad he won't snort coke out of your fat ass," said a young man.

This led to a shouting match between the Cornhuskers girl and the actual fans, which quickly escalated into something like a pushing match. That was when Jake decided enough was enough.

"Listen, folks," he said, raising his voice loud enough for all to hear. "I really need to get checked in for my flight. Sorry I couldn't get to everyone."

With that he pushed his way out of the crowd and headed for the security checkpoint once again, Janice trailing silently behind him. There were a few pleas from those who had not gotten their autographs and even a few angry words about how Jake was forgetting where he came from. Jake didn't look back.

"You didn't have to be so huffy to them," Janice chided. "They are your fans, after all."

Jake ignored her. If she would've had her way he would've stayed there for six hours signing something for every person in the airport.

There was a short line at the security checkpoint. The people waiting in it all stared at him and whispered among themselves, but none of them talked to him. The two security guards manning the checkpoint, however, seemed very interested in him. One of them spoke into his phone, covering his mouth and glancing over at Jake as he came closer and closer.

When Jake and Janice got to the front of the line and put their bags on the conveyer the guards let them run through the machine and then took both of them off and set them to the side. After they walked through the metal detector the guard who had been on the phone asked them if they could step over to the side for a minute.

"Is there a problem?" Jake asked.

"I don't know," the guard asked arrogantly. "Is there?"

Jake sighed. Janice seemed about to say something but changed her mind.

Within a minute two uniformed police officers arrived, one of them a sergeant. They conferred in whispers with the two security guards for a moment and then walked over to Jake.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to search through your carry-on luggage," the sergeant told them.

"What for?" Janice asked.

"The officers noticed some strange items in the X-ray," they were told. "We just want to take a closer look."

"Bullshit," Jake said. "They were on the phone to you before we even put our bags through."

He looked at Jake mildly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "But even if that was the case, you are subject to search in this airport. I believe you might've seen signs to that effect when you came in?"

Jake shrugged. "Go ahead," he said. "But there aren't any drugs in there. All you're gonna find are my dirty underwear and some shampoo samples I swiped from the hotel."

They went ahead, pawing through everything in both Jake and Janice's bags in full view of the other people making their way through the checkpoint. They held up Janice's panties and even felt the lining. They opened up Jake's electric razor and sniffed the inside of it. When they failed to find anything incriminating they had both of them submit to search of their person.

"I will certainly be sending a letter to your chief about this," Janice huffed as they made her turn out her pockets and dump the contents out onto a tray.

"You do that," the cop said as he commenced patting her down.

They did the same to Jake, who dumped his cigarettes, his lighter, his wallet, and two dollars in small change out for them. When it was over they didn't apologize for the inconvenience. They simply told them they could enter the terminal and then they left.

"The nerve of those people," Janice fumed as they made their way into the terminal. "Searching me. We'll just see what my husband has to say about all this when we get back."

"He'll just try to get it written up in the newspaper somewhere," Jake said. "Jake Kingsley suspected of drug smuggling at JFK. Cops unable to find his stash."

"Hey," Janet said, brightening. "That's not a bad idea."

Jake just shook his head and showed his boarding pass to the security agent guarding access to the first class lounge.

They waited in the lounge for about twenty minutes. Through it all Jake could see people pointing at him, whispering about him, much of it, he was sure, disapproving in tone. The other first class passengers were mostly older types wearing suits or business dresses. They probably weren't Intemperance fans. None of them came over to talk or ask for an autograph.

The aircraft was a Boeing 747 and the first class section was on the upper deck, just behind the cockpit. They climbed up the steps and went to their assigned seats. Jake and Janice were in the second row on the left side. Janice claimed the window seat, leaving Jake on the aisle. He stretched out and tried to relax a little as the rest of the first class passengers found their own seats. No sooner had he settled in than a tall, clean-cut man wearing a white uniform and cap emerged from the cockpit and walked directly over to him.

"You're Jake Kingsley, right?" the man asked, glaring down at him.

"Yeah," he said. "I am."

"I'm Captain Simmons," the man said. "I'm in command of this aircraft."

"Uh... okay," Jake said. "Nice to meet you, Captain." He held out his right hand.

Simmons just looked at it. "You're not going to cause any trouble on this flight, are you?"

Jake let his hand drop. "I wasn't planning on it," he said. "What sort of trouble was it that you were thinking I'd cause?"

"Drunken behavior, lecherousness, drugs, Satanism. I won't put up with any of that on my aircraft."

"Satanism?" Jake asked. "You were afraid I'd have a satanic ritual on your aircraft?"

"Don't be smart with me, boy," Simmons told him. "You just keep your nose clean up here. There's any trouble from you, I'll land at the nearest airport and have the FBI take you into custody."

Jake sighed. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.

"You do that," Simmons said. "My flight attendants have been instructed to keep an eye on you."

With that he turned and walked back into the cockpit, closing the door behind him.

He wasn't gone more than ten seconds before one of the flight attendants in question came over to him. She was a redhead, in her early twenties, and possessed a body that filled out her red and white uniform quite nicely.

"Hi," she told him, leaning down so close she was flirting with violating Jake's personal space. "I'm Laura. I'll be your flight attendant. I'd just like to tell you that I really love your music."

"Thanks," Jake said, giving her a smile.

"I tried to catch your show in LA but all three dates were sold out."

"Well, maybe next time," Jake said.

"Do you think you could sign your autograph for me?" she asked.

"You bet," Jake told her, taking out his pen. "Do you have something for me to sign?"

She giggled a little. "Oh I got lots of things for you to sign," she said. "But for now, I guess we'll have to make do with this." She tore off a page from her order book and handed it to him.

"What's your last name, Laura?" he asked.

"Grover," she told him.

He had her spell it and then wrote, To Laura Grover, the best damn flight attendant in the sky. Keep on rockin, Jake Kingsley. He handed it back to her.

She read it and then giggled again and made it disappear into her pocket. "Thanks, Jake," she told him. "Now can I get either one of you a drink while we're waiting for the coach section to board?"

"I'll have a bloody Mary," Janice said. "A strong bloody Mary."

"You got it," she said, noting that down. "And what about you, Jake? Do you want a bloody Mary as well?"

"No, I'll just have..."

"How about some Chivas and Coke?" she offered. "I read in that article your agent put in Rock Star magazine that you love Chivas and Coke."

"Uh... no, thanks," he said. "I'll just have some coffee."

"Coffee?" she said, disappointed. "Just coffee?"

"It's only ten in the morning," he said. "I wouldn't want to get drunk this early. Who knows what might happen. I might start having a satanic ritual or something."

She giggled yet again, casting a knowing look towards the cockpit. "Right," she said, winking at him. "I get you."

When she returned four minutes later and set the steaming cup of coffee down before him she winked again. "Just the way you like it," she said. She then gave Janice her bloody Mary and headed off down the aisle to get more drink orders.

The coffee smelled funny to Jake. He found out why when he took the first sip. It was heavily spiked with whiskey, whiskey that tasted suspiciously like Chivas Regal. He shook his head in consternation and drank it anyway. What the hell? It's what they expect of me.

Ten minutes after they reached cruising altitude Laura propositioned him.

"Do you want to come back and see the flight attendant quarters?" she whispered in his ear.

"Uh... no, thanks," he told her. "I thought maybe I'd just get a little sleep."

"But I'll show you everything," she said. She looked around and, seeing no one paying undo attention, added, "Including the bathroom that we use, if you know what I mean." She blew softly in his ear as she said this.

He, of course, knew what she meant. And, as intriguing as the thought of joining the mile-high club with a stewardess might be, he didn't think it would be a terribly good idea right now, not with the scrutiny the captain had told him he was under. "I don't think that's a good idea, Laura," he said. "We might get caught. And if we did, they'd fire you, wouldn't they? I wouldn't want to be responsible for that."

"We won't get caught," she said. "Trust me. And even if we did, it would be worth it."

"I'll... uh... have to take a rain check on that," he said. "Sorry."

She pouted a little but didn't push the issue any further. At least not yet.

What she did do was keep feeding him drinks. She gave him another cup of spiked coffee and then a Chivas and Coke. By the time he finished these he was starting to buzz, his better judgment retreating towards the back of his brain... again.

It was after his fifth drink, as they were cruising at 38,000 feet over central Missouri, and as Janice was snoring lightly beside him, that he gave in. He exchanged a few words with Laura, receiving his instructions, and then she disappeared. He waited five minutes and then stood up and walked back to the far end of the first class section, past the staircase and into the flight attendant's quarters. There was a warming kitchen, several coffee pots, and a bar back here. The bartender was a fortyish woman who looked at him knowingly.

"I think you need the bathroom, don't you?" she asked him, giving a wink. "It's that door right there. Just go on in."

He went on in. Laura was waiting for him there, her pantyhose and panties wadded up and tossed into the small sink, lust in her eyes. She kissed him hotly, sticking her tongue into his mouth. He let his hands go to work, squeezing her bare ass with one, fingering her wet vagina with the other. She moaned into his mouth and then broke the embrace. She dropped to her knees, unbuttoning his jeans and tugging them to his feet. She took his hardness into her mouth and began to suck, delivering a blowjob with a precision and skill that equaled that of the best groupie he'd been with.

She brought him nearly to the brink and then suddenly pulled free.

"Sit on the toilet," she hissed at him. "I want to fuck you."

He sat on the toilet. She stepped forward and pulled up her skirt, showing him that she was indeed a natural redhead. She squatted over him and started to lower herself down. He grabbed her butt and stopped her.

"Wait a second," he told her.

"What?" she asked, panting.

"I need to put a rubber on," he said, reaching down to extract his wallet from his pants. He never left home without at least two condoms in there.

"You don't need that," she told him, trying to force herself down now that one of his hands had come free. "I'm on the pill."

"Actually, I do need it," he said, pushing her back up a little. "It's in my contract."

"In your contract?" she asked, confused.

"Yeah," he said, finally getting the wallet. "One of those clauses they put in. You know how it is?"

While she puzzled over this he extracted the wallet and then the condom from within it. It was not actually a part of his contract of course, but he'd had enough lectures on the horrors of sexually transmitted diseases and paternity suits to make sure he never rode bareback. He opened the condom and rolled it expertly into place.

Laura sighed a little. Though Jake would never know it, she actually was not on the pill and was in fact in the middle of the most fertile period of her cycle. Her vague hopes of getting herself pregnant by what she assumed was a filthy rich rock star were dashed but at least she still could still get half of what she was after. She sank her body down on Jake's cock, engulfing him within her. She then began to buck up and down, moaning while she kissed him.

Jake knew there was little chance of actually giving her an orgasm in such a cramped and nervous environment. He held on for about five minutes — enough time to qualify as a respectable performance — kissing her, feeling her ass, whispering nasty things in her ear, before allowing himself to let go and fill the condom with his sperm.

When they stood back up he removed the rubber and tied a knot in it. He then personally flushed it down the toilet, adhering to another rule that had been ground into him by National's security experts: If you're going to leave a used rubber lying around where some bitch can pick it up, you might as well just fuck 'em without it. By this point in his career his mind was so jaded by his profession he didn't even stop to think that normal men didn't have to worry about such things.

They cleaned up and then exited the bathroom. The bartender gave them both another wink but said nothing. They did not get caught.

Jake returned to his seat and was soon fast asleep. He didn't wake up until they were on final descent to LAX.

A limousine dropped Jake off in front of the twenty-eight-story Esnob Pinchazo Tower building in downtown Los Angeles. The driver opened the door for him and he stepped out, duffel bag in hand.

"Now remember," Janice told him, "we have that movie premier on Saturday night."

"I remember," Jake told her. As if he could forget. He had been dreading the experience ever since being told about it two weeks ago.

"I'm sure Manny will remind you and see that you're dressed in the tux we're sending over." She was referring to Manny Mariposa, the live-in maid/butler/cook who had been hired for him.

"I'm sure he will," Jake said.

"And do try on that pentagram medallion we gave you," she said. "It would look so... you know... Satanic if you wore it with your tux."

"I threw the pentagram medallion in the garbage," Jake said. "Don't send another one."

Janice feigned hurt feelings. "That was a gift, Jake," she said. "Mr. Acardio himself picked that out for you."

"And deducted the cost of it from my recoupables, no doubt. I'm not wearing a pentagram or anything else besides the tux, Janice. That's final."

She shook her head. "Sometimes you're just so resistant to the image enhancement program we're running, Jake. Don't you know we're just trying to look out for your interests?"

Jake snorted in disgust. "Goodbye, Janice," he said. "Nice traveling with you."

Before she could say anything else, he walked away, heading for the main lobby door.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kingsley," said the uniformed doorman who guarded the entrance to the upscale residential building. "Did you have a nice trip?"

"Did you catch Wake Up USA this morning?" Jake asked him.

"Yes sir, I did," he said.

"Then you know what kind of trip I had."

The doorman nodded, unfazed. "Can I get someone to help you with your bag, sir?"

"No, thanks," Jake said. "I think I can manage."

"Very good, sir," he said and held the door open.

Jake entered the plush lobby and walked directly to the elevators. There were two other residents of the building standing there waiting. One was Steve O'Riley, a flamboyant weatherman on one of the local news channels. The other was Tanya Harrigan, an aging character actress whose specialty was playing a mother in made-for-television movies and after school specials. They both nodded to him, displaying as little recognition as they could socially get away with. Though the building was full of two-bit actors, local television personalities, and other minor league celebrities, most of them chose to snub Jake when they ran into him. They seemed to think that a Satan-worshipping rock musician didn't belong in their beloved high-class building. Jake had been told by one of the doormen he was friendly with that there had even been a meeting of the owner's group in which they had tried — unsuccessfully — to initiate the eviction process on both him and Bill, who also lived in the building. The only time any of them talked to him at all was when they were out of cocaine and couldn't find their dealer and, assuming Jake was a raving coke-fiend, tried to beg some off of him.