Kushins C. M. - Nothings bad luck: the lives of Warren Zevon

Copyright 2019 by C.M. Kushins

Cover design by Alex Camlin

Cover image George Gruel

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First Edition: May 2019

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kushins, C.M. author.

Title: Nothings bad luck : the lives of Warren Zevon / C.M. Kushins.

Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Da Capo Press, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018057389| ISBN 9780306921483 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780306921476 (ebook : alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Zevon, Warren. | Rock musicians--United States--Biography.

Classification: LCC ML420.Z475 K87 2019 | DDC 782.42166092 [B]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018057389

ISBNs: 978-0-306-92148-3 (hardcover), 978-0-306-92147-6 (ebook)

E3-20190328-JV-NF-ORI

For M

An old man told his grandson, My boy, there is a battle between two wolves inside us all. The first one is Evil. He is anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, and ego. The second is Good. He is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, and truth.

The boy thought about this for a moment, then asked, Grandfather, which wolf wins?

The old man replied, The one you feed.

TWENTY-FIRST-CENTURY AMERICAN FOLK TALE

Ah-Hoooooooooooo!!!

WARREN ZEVON

THE ROAR OF THE REVOLVER WOKE HIM .

It had been a dream, yet an awful, familiar one. The echo of the hand cannon resounded in his ears. Warrens eyes stared at the ceiling and he labored to think back through the hangover, scanning the details of the night. It had been the third time the recurring dream had taken hold of himand with it, fevered shakes throughout his body.

He had awoken in the dream, too, blurring the line between reality and alcohol-soaked slumber. There, as in waking life, he had slowly picked himself up and out of bed, trying his hardest not to rattle the heavy head on his body. Everything ached, every muscle. The throbbing in his temples pulsated with each small move. He trembled in the dark.

Still waking up in the mornings with shaking hands.

As if by instinctor was it the skilled muscle memory of a piano player?Warren reached out in the darkness, to his left, and found the heavy weapon in its usual place on the nightstand. The gun rested beside his eyeglasses, pills, and a cocktail glassempty but for the languid millimeter of melted ice. He pulled the gun to his body and his hand brushed against the warm glass. At least he had used one, he thought, instead of just chugging straight from the bottle. And ice? Warren never usually cared that late at night.

The lucidity forced Warren to pause and sit up on the edge of the bed. He reconsidered the reality of the moment, the now. Was he awake, or was this the same old familiar dream starting again like a Mbius strip?

Gun in hand, he stumbled up and out of the bed, cautious not to wake Crystal. She had finally gotten to sleep, too, and rested silently in a fetal position. He watched her body rise and fall. By the window, Ariels bassinet was bathed in moonlight.

The combination of hangover and darkness left Warren fumbling toward the door on the legs of a toddler taking its first steps. He was bare-chested but had passed out wearing a pair of denims. He extended his free hand out to find the bedroom door and his toes side-stepped the books, pages of sheet music, empty bottles, and baby toys littered around the carpet. The weight of the .44 Magnum pulled his left hand straight toward the floor. The gun always felt heavier than he remembered.

He made his way down the stairs and felt for the broken section of bannister near the bottom. He let the splintered cavity guide him to the front door, then lumbered across the front yard. The cool air parted like a soft curtain. Warren breathed in slowly through his nostrils to calm his stomach muscles, trying not to vomit. Not quite dawn, the night was dark as the bedroom. He could just make out the shapes of palm trees swaying in the distance, tall and vague. They danced, silhouetted aberrations against the blue-black of the sky.

He would later write, Dont the trees look like crucified thieves? And they did.

Clutching the heavy gun, Warren walked down the driveway and angled his body toward the road. His head wobbled atop his six-foot-tall, wiry frame, and his trademark wavy blond hairworn long to his shoulderswas matted to the side of his face. Despite the Santa Barbara breeze, he was caked with sweat. He wiped the wrist of his gun hand across his forehead and let the moonlight lead him. The Magnum hung at his side and he imagined he was James Bond. Warren smirked as he mimicked the debonair strut of the secret agent walking within the iconic gun barrel of an unseen enemys scopeready to turn and fire first.

Paul would certainly approve of the cinematic image. Hed have to share that with him, next time in New York.

Warren found a worthy spot just beside the mailbox. There, he slowly took to one knee, careful not to topple over on his side. He brought the gun up to eye level, a perfect military stance. His left hand, still shaky with the weight, cradled his right. Warren brushed his hair back with his shoulder. He took aim at nothing, just the abysmal darkness of the road. Although scarce at this hour of night, a car would be sure to pass at some point.

Featherhill Road, located in the heart of Montecito, ran roughly half a mile from east to west, its most eastern section becoming a straight line before merging into a sharp curve south for the rest of the roads length. Facing both sides, Warren felt the perspiration dripping down his brow as his arms grew tired. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry and with the staleness of an ashtray coated in whiskey.

Any minute now, a license to kill.

Ahead and to the left, the opaque rows of valley oaks and manzanitas that lined the road were beginning to lighten. The diffuse lights of an oncoming car leaked across the branches like a stain. The car slowly snaked down Romero Canyon Road from the east. Warren knew it was just around the bend. He readied himself and felt his arms and legs stiffen. A Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum, truly as Dirty Harry claimedthe most powerful handgun in the world. It was worth the extra effort to cradle and aim. With the barrel over eight inches long in front of his face, he could barely make out a clear shot. The illuminated trees continued to reveal about fifty yards in front, allowing Warrens eyes to quickly adapt and sharpen behind his glasses. And no matter who was driving the oncoming carman, woman, or childa moving target was a moving target.