Remembering Toby
Sixty-seven-year-old Joe Stallings stood on the boardwalk, looking east toward the horizon where the Atlantic met the slate-colored November sky. Had he been there a few months earlier, the boardwalk would have been alive with locals and tourists who go to Asbury Park to dine, shop, sunbathe or frolic in the sea. On that blustery autumn day, however, the boardwalk was nearly deserted.
The old man closed his eyes and shivered when a strong, cold wind blew in from the ocean. He turned around, his back to the water, to avoid the full onslaught of the frigid air. To his right was the recently renovated Convention Hall and Paramount Theater, to his left, the shell of the Casino and the old steam heating plant. Like Joe himself, the dilapidated structures had seen better days.
As a child growing up in northeastern New Jersey, Joe Stallings always equated "the shore" with Asbury Park. After all, it was much closer than Seaside, Wildwood, Atlantic City or Cape May; to his parents, that meant less time sitting in heavy traffic on the Garden State Parkway. Asbury Park had changed over the years. Its popularity as a summer playground waned. By the time the twentieth century drew to a close, it was little more than a collection of abandoned buildings. He was glad to see that it was being redeveloped, that new life was being breathed into it.
The same could not be said for Joe, however. Despite surgery, chemotherapy and radiation treatments, the cancer that had started in his lungs spread, and he had little time left.
If only I had never started smoking, he thought in a rare moment of self-pity.
Then he pushed that thought from his mind. After all, feeling sorry for himself would not change anything.
As he continued his stroll along the boardwalk, he turned his head to the west and saw the legendary Stone Pony on Ocean Avenue. Many musicians had played there on their rise to stardom, Springsteen and Bon Jovi among them.
Like a moth to a flame, Joe was drawn to the club. When he looked up at the marquee advertising the artists who would be appearing that weekend, his eyes momentarily played a trick on him. He thought he had read FRIDAY, ONE NIGHT ONLY, MEDUSA. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Now the sign made reference to a Queen tribute band, an up-and-coming rapper and two local alternative rock groups.
Medusa.
It was not surprising the band's name came to the old man's mind. His memories of them were still fresh even after more than forty years had passed.
"Toby Newland."
The mere mention of the name brought warmth to Joe's cold body.
I loved him, he thought. He was the greatest friend I ever had. If only ...
This time it was impossible for the terminally ill man to push the painful thoughts from his mind.
* * *
Joe Stallings was only twenty-two years old when he first saw Toby Newland perform. Medusa had just finished recording their first album and were touring East Coast clubs to promote it. Far from the packed stadiums they would play later in their career, the band was appearing at a drive-in theater along with three other groups. Joe only went to the concert because his sister's boyfriend was a drummer in one of the other bands and she needed a ride. Prior to seeing Medusa perform, Joe had not been a big rock 'n' roll fan, preferring sports—especially baseball—to music.
"Aren't they great?" his sister gushed after her boyfriend's group concluded its final song.
"They're okay," he replied without enthusiasm and then added hopefully, "Do you want to go now?"
"What's the rush? Let's stay and listen to the other bands."
Joe endured twenty more minutes before Toby Newland came on. When the final act of the night—Medusa—was announced, his only thought was that he would soon be able to go home. By the end of the first song, however, Joe had to admit the group was better than most he had heard.
"Wow!" his sister exclaimed, temporarily forgetting all about her boyfriend. "Look at that lead singer. What a hunk!"
"Never mind his looks; did you hear his voice? I've never heard anyone sing like that."
"To be honest, I was too busy drooling over him to pay attention to the song."
That's my sister! Joe thought. She came here to see her boyfriend play, and she's distracted by the first good-looking guy she sees. Tomorrow, it will be someone else with nice eyes, a good body or a cute smile.
Still, he could not deny that there was something about the charismatic Toby Newland that appealed to people. Even Joe, a heterosexual male, was drawn to the singer like a bee to honey.
As the brother and sister reluctantly turned away from the makeshift stage at the end of the night and headed back toward the car, they passed by several equipment vans. Long-haired young men were busy loading sound equipment, guitars and drums into the vehicles.
"Hey, you look like a strong guy. Can you give me a hand?"
Joe turned and saw Toby struggling with a heavy amplifier.
"Sure," he replied, and then told his sister, "You go wait for me at the car."
"Thanks, man. This amp weighs a ton."
"Do you guys have to move all your own equipment?"
"We're not exactly the Beatles or the Stones. We can't afford to hire roadies—not yet, anyway."
After the amplifier was placed in the van, Joe helped the musicians load the rest of their equipment.
"What do you play?" Toby asked and offered the young man a cold beer for his trouble. "Guitar? Drums? Keyboard?"
"Shortstop."
"I like a guy with a sense of humor," the singer said after he stopped laughing. "Who knows? Maybe someday I can afford to hire you as a roadie. That is, if you don't sign with the Yankees by then."
"I think that's a safe bet," Joe declared. "The way I play shortstop, I'll be working at Prudential until I'm sixty-five."
"You sell insurance?" Toby asked with an exaggerated grimace.
"Nah, I'm a claims examiner."
"A desk job! Now I know I have to hire you. I've got to rescue you from a fate worse than death."
* * *
It was more than a year later when the paths of these two young men crossed again, quite by accident. It was the Fourth of July weekend, and rather than fight the traffic headed south to the shore, Joe staked a temporary claim to a small section of beach near Lake Hopatcong. He had just stretched out on his sand-dusted blanket after a refreshing swim when he heard a voice call to him.
"Hey, Shortstop. I was wondering if I would ever run into you again."
Shielding his eyes from the sun with the back of his hand, Joe looked up into the smiling face of Toby Newland.
"What are you doing here?" he asked with surprise.
"I came to cool off, the same as you."
"I meant what are you doing in Jersey?"
"We have a show in New York tomorrow night. It's the last one before we go back into the studio to record our next album."
"Your band's come a long way since my sister and I saw you play at the drive-in."
"We sure have," Toby agreed. "We've got an honest-to-goodness manager, a press agent, a road crew, a social secretary .... We're a legitimate business now. That reminds me. I promised you a job. When would you like to start?"
Joe was flattered that a well-known celebrity would remember their previous meeting in such detail.
"I can't quit my job with Prudential to become a roadie," he said, hoping Toby would not think him ungrateful. "It doesn't pay much, but it's got its benefits."
"If it's security you want, then I suppose working for an insurance company ...."
Toby's sentence was interrupted when four bikini-clad girls circled around him.
"Oh, my God!" one screamed. "It's Toby Newland!"
"In the flesh, ladies."
"No one's gonna believe me when I tell them I met you!" one of the girl's companions exclaimed.
"Can I touch you?" the first bravely asked.
"Above the waist only," the singer responded, dazzling the young women with his smile.
Having received his consent, all four wrapped their arms around his torso and hugged him. One then detached herself and threw her arms around Joe.
Toby looked over the girls' heads and laughed, "This is one benefit you won't get working for Prudential."
On the fifth of July, Joe Stallings put in his two-week notice. He could always find another nine-to-five office job, but he seriously doubted he would ever get another opportunity to go on the road with a Grammy-winning rock 'n' roll band.
* * *
Joe's services to Medusa, and to the lead singer in particular, were more valuable than those of a simple roadie. Unlike the other young men and women that existed on Medusa's periphery like camp-followers who trailed behind an army, "Shortstop," as Toby affectionately called him, became one of the lead singer's most trusted friends and confidants.
The two men bonded one night on the group's bus after a concert in Philadelphia. It was nearly four in the morning when Joe woke up at the sound of a truck horn blaring on Interstate 95. Half-asleep, he shuffled down the dark aisle toward the bus's bathroom. On his return trip, he saw the tip of a cigarette glowing in the dark.
"Are you awake?" he asked the smoker, fearful that the bus might catch fire if the person fell asleep with a lit cigarette.
"Yes," Toby replied as he turned on the dim overhead light above his window. "Wanna have a drink with me?"
"I'm not one for alcohol, but I'll take a Coke."
"You don't do drugs, and you don't drink. Don't you have any vices?" the singer asked with amusement.
"I smoke cigarettes."
Toby pushed his pack of Marlboros and a Zippo lighter toward the roadie. Then he poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels, swallowed it in one gulp and poured another.
"Tell me truthfully, Shortstop, did you have a good childhood?"
"Yeah, sure. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious," Toby replied before downing his second drink and pouring a third.
"What about you? Did you have a good childhood?"
"Hell, no!"
"You wanna talk about it?" Joe inquired after putting out his half-smoked cigarette.
Toby answered the question with one of his own.
"What was your relationship with your father like?"
"We had a few disagreements when I was a teenager, but every kid goes through a period when they believe they're smarter than their parents. Yet even though I didn't always agree with him, I never stopped loving him. He's a good man and a good father."
"You don't know how lucky you are, Shortstop. My old man ... what a bastard! He drank—stop me if you've heard this before."
"No, go ahead," Joe said, encouraging his friend to speak his mind.
"He was a mean drunk. He would come home at night, barely able to stand, but that didn't stop him from beating my mother. And when he was done with her, he'd start in on me."
"Did that go on for long?"
"Two or three years."
"What happened then? Did child services put you in a foster home or did the police lock your father up?"
"Neither. Providence stepped in to save me. My father was hit by a car crossing the street. He was run over right in front of his favorite liquor store; never knew what hit him. Now, there's karma for you."
Toby suddenly picked up his glass and threw the remains of his drink out the window. Then he put the stopper in the bottle and pushed it away.
"I keep meaning to stop," he confessed. "They say kids that were abused are likely to become abusers themselves when they grow up."
Toby turned to look into his friend's face. Joe was surprised to see tears in the singer's eyes.
"I wouldn't worry about that if I were you," the roadie said. "I've seen how you are around kids. I think you'll make a great father someday."
"You really think so?"
"Yeah, I do."
"I hope so because I'd rather die than become like him."
Having bared his soul, the emotionally exhausted performer put his head back on the bus seat and drifted off to a peaceful sleep. Joe, meanwhile, returned to his own seat and watched the sun rise as he relived treasured memories of his childhood.
* * *
Neither man ever spoke of their conversation on the bus out of Philly. At the same time, neither one ever forgot it. It had forged a bond between the two. Joe had been given a rare glimpse of the man behind the rock star image. Yet despite the fears that plagued him, Toby was the most caring, generous and compassionate person the roadie from New Jersey had ever met, and he soon grew to love him like a brother.
For thirteen weeks after Toby revealed his inner demons, the singer refrained from drinking and taking drugs. He seemed sincere in his desire not to follow in his father's footsteps. Thankfully, Joe was there to help keep him sober. Unfortunately, the world of rock and roll was not conducive to temperance. One night at a party after a show in Cleveland, Toby found his ability to resist temptation put to the test.
"Just one drink," the singer said when his friend tried to steer him away from the open bar.
"One drink will lead to another," Joe warned, "and before you know it, you'll be drunk."
"Chill out, man! Don't be such a drag."
Joe threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
"All right. You're a big boy. Do what you want to."
Toby finished his drink but turned down the offer of a refill.
"My conscience told me to stop at one," he told the bartender.
Joe smiled, believing his friend would still be sober when the party came to an end. When he saw a stunningly attractive college student heading toward Medusa's lead singer, he had no reason to believe his friend would have been better off getting drunk.
"Wanna get high?" Tara Jakes, the beautiful student, asked the singer when the two of them climbed into the back seat of the girl's Ford Mustang.
Remembering his conversation with Joe Stallings, Toby declined.
"No, thanks. I've sworn off harmful substances."
"But this stuff isn't dangerous. I know; I made it myself. It's just a little refinement on the acid I tried at Berkeley."
"You make your own LSD?"
"I'm a genius at chemistry," she admitted proudly. "Try it. You won't regret it. The first trip I was on really heightened my senses and expanded my mind."
Willpower never having been one of his strong points, Toby put his hand out. Tara reached into her buckskin bag and took out an innocuous-looking tin of mints.
"Here," she said, swallowing one drug-infused sugar cube and then giving the tin to the singer. "I have more at home. You can keep these."
Toby popped the psychedelic drug into his mouth. There was a surge of sweetness from the sugar but no taste from the drug. As he tried to relax in the Mustang's cramped back seat, he had a fleeting memory of Bette Davis as Margo Channing in All About Eve, delivering her famous line, "Fasten your seatbelts; it's going to be a bumpy night."
Betty/Margo had no idea how bumpy it would get for Toby Newland!
* * *
Later that night Toby was late getting to the bus.
"Where were you?" Joe asked. "We were getting worried. If you want to make that show in Boston tomorrow, we've got to get a move on."
"Just because you're a saint doesn't mean the rest of us can't have a healthy social life."
"Let me guess: that gorgeous college student. Right?"
When Toby passed by him without answering, Joe noticed his friend's hair was wet and dripping onto his T-shirt.
"Did you go swimming or something?"
"I took a shower. Is that all right with you?" he asked, mildly annoyed at having to answer so many questions.
"Sure. Do what you want to do," the roadie replied and took a seat next to the singer.
His usual battle with insomnia did not plague Toby that night. He fell asleep moments after the bus left the parking lot and did not wake until early the following afternoon.
"Where the hell are we?" he asked, reaching for his pack of Marlboros.
"We just passed through New Haven," Joe answered.
"How far are we from Boston?"
"About three hours, depending on the traffic. So what about last night? Did you go home with that girl?"
"I'd rather not talk about it, Shortstop," Toby declared, not wanting his friend to learn about the acid trip. "A gentleman never kisses and tells."
Joe grinned ear to ear, believing the singer had gotten a lot farther than kissing the pretty coed.
* * *
The show in Boston sold out in less than an hour of the moment tickets went on sale. The fans in the audience later claimed it was one of the best concerts they had ever attended. Toby Newland performed at his best, which Joe believed was due to sobriety and to the fourteen hours of sleep the singer had gotten on the bus. Toby, on the other hand, attributed his stellar performance to the acid he had taken in Cleveland.
Tara was right, he thought. That must have been some trip I was on.
Oddly enough, the performer remembered nothing about the experience itself. His last clear memory before finding himself in a hotel shower was of Bette Davis addressing Celeste Holm, Gary Merrill and Hugh Marlowe in a scene from an old black-and-white movie. But the euphoria that lingered after his brief delve into his psyche was incredible. Even forty-eight hours after he popped the sugar cube into his mouth he was still riding high. Never in his life had he felt so free, so aware of everything around him, so alive!
Joe would not have approved of his taking the drug. The former Prudential claims examiner would have given him a number of good reasons why he should refrain from all forms of illegal narcotics and hallucinogenics. That was why Toby had no intention of telling him about Tara's gift. What Joe didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
After the show, the band members were whisked away, and Joe and his fellow roadies began packing up the equipment. Exhausted, the young man from New Jersey returned to the hotel only to discover that Toby was missing.
"Don't sweat it," Medusa's drummer told him. "He probably hooked up with one of the girls after the show. It's one of the perks of stardom. If I weren't happily married, I'd do the same. Besides, we have an off day tomorrow. He can sleep on the bus."
The following morning, as the rest of the band and its entourage were checking out of the Omni Parker House, Toby strolled into the lobby. Just like in Cleveland, the singer was soaking wet. He may have been out all night, but at least there was no smell of alcohol on him. Unaware of the singer's new habit, Joe was relieved to see that his friend was still on the bandwagon. He waved to Toby and politely refrained from asking him any questions.
* * *
Three months from the day of the Boston show Medusa returned to Cleveland. Toby prayed Tara Jakes would be at the show since he had used all but two of the LSD cubes from the tin of mints.
Why didn't I get her number or at least her name? he chastised himself.
The bus driver pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a diner so that those on the bus could have a hot meal if they so desired. Only three people remained onboard: two were asleep, and Toby Newland had no appetite. When Joe returned to the bus after breakfast, he sat in the empty seat next to the singer.
"Have you seen today's paper?" he asked.
"I make it a point never to read them. The news is always so depressing."
When Joe handed him a copy of Cleveland's The Plain Dealer, the singer recognized the photograph on the front page. The color drained from his face when he read the headline: BODY OF MISSING STUDENT FOUND.
"That's the girl from the party," Joe pointed out, not giving Toby a chance to deny it. "I'll save you the trouble of reading the article. The girl was brutally murdered. She was last seen alive the night we met her."
Toby was clearly upset, not so much by Tara's death but by the realization that his supply of the girl's special formula LSD would soon be exhausted.
"You were with her that night; weren't you?"
"You don't think I had anything to do with ...?"
Toby could not finish the sentence. If his best friend thought he might be implicated in her death, what would the authorities think?
"What happened after you left the party?" Joe pressed. "Where did you go? Was she alive when you left her? Was there anyone else with you that night?"
"I ... I don't know. I can't remember."
"Let me refresh your memory then. You were late getting to the bus. Your hair was soaking wet; you must have gotten out of the shower and right into a cab."
"I remember being in the shower and leaving the hotel, but that's all."
"Did the two of you go drinking after you left the party?"
"No. I only had one drink that night."
"How do you know? You say you can't remember what happened."
Toby guiltily reached into his jeans pocket and took out the tin of mints Miss Jakes had given him.
"Is that a polite way of telling me my breath stinks?" Joe asked with a humorless laugh.
"These aren't mints. The tin contains acid. Tara gave it to me that night. It's a special formula she discovered herself."
"Are you crazy?" Joe exclaimed with disbelief. "You took something some college kid made in her dorm room?"
"She was a chemistry major. She knew what she was doing."
"You took it that night, didn't you? That's why you can't remember what happened."
There was no response. Toby had turned his head toward the window, unwilling to see the accusation in the roadie's eyes.
Despite his belief that his friend was one of the last people to see Tara Jakes alive, Joe refrained from contacting the police. Toby was a celebrity, and if the truth about the acid trip came out, it was sure to cause a scandal. Besides, Joe had faith in his friend.
If Toby knows anything that can help in the murder investigation, he'll let the authorities know himself.
After the show, the band left Cleveland, and Joe gave no further thought to the slain student. It was not until three months later when Medusa was about to leave for a show in Hawaii that the dead girl came to mind. The band was at LAX airport waiting to board a plane for Honolulu when Joe, after learning that the flight would be delayed, went in search of something to read. A newsstand offered a selection of major newspapers from across the country. While looking for the New York Daily News, he spied The Boston Globe.
I wonder how the Yankees made out against the Red Sox, he thought and picked up the Boston paper.
As he leafed through the pages, his attention was drawn to an article on the second page. Police were still searching for leads in the death of a young girl who had gone missing after attending a Medusa concert.
Joe felt as though someone had punched him in his solar plexus. He recalled Toby coming into the Omni Parker House the following morning, his hair wet from a shower.
Just like the night Tara Jakes was killed, he thought with horror.
And those were not the only two times. Toby had also turned up late and soaking wet after shows in Chicago, San Francisco and Baltimore. With a trembling hand, Joe reached for the Chicago Sun-Times. An article on page five told that Chicago police picked up a young man for questioning in connection with the death of his girlfriend whose body was found the day after Medusa played in the Windy City.
By the time Joe read articles in the San Francisco Examiner and the Baltimore Sun, he was convinced his friend was a killer.
* * *
An hour after Medusa and company checked into a Honolulu hotel, there was a knock on Joe's door. He opened it to find Toby, shirtless and clad in cutoff jeans, sandals and sunglasses.
"What are you doing in your room?" the singer asked jovially. "This is Hawaii, a land of paradise with pristine beaches and ocean breezes. This is what your Jersey Shore wants to be when it grows up."
"I don't feel much like swimming," Joe replied sullenly.
"What's up? You've been moody since we left LAX. Did I say or do something to make you mad? If so, I apologize."
"I'd rather not talk about it now."
Toby walked into the room, closing the door behind him.
"Seriously, if something's wrong, tell me. I love you like a brother, Shortstop, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."
Joe felt his heart ache when he looked at Toby's pleading face. The singer seemed so guileless, so innocent. Was it all an act, or was he suffering from schizophrenia or some similar mental condition?
"I know about the other girls, the ones in Boston, San Francisco, Baltimore and Chicago."
"What are you talking about?"
"They're all dead just like Tara Jakes."
"You think I ...?"
"Five girls attended Medusa concerts and were murdered shortly thereafter. That spells more than coincidence to me. You murdered them and then washed their blood off in the shower."
"I would never do such a thing!" the singer exclaimed. "The very thought of hurting someone .... I need to get out of here. I need ...."
Toby reached into the pocket of his cut-offs jeans and removed the last sugar cube from the tin of mints. He had been hoarding it since the band last played Cleveland.
"What are you doing?" Joe cried. "Don't put that in your mouth."
But the well-intentioned advice was unheeded. Toby swallowed the cube before his friend could snatch it away from him.
"I think that acid has really screwed up your mind. Did you take it before you murdered all five girls?"
"I didn't kill anyone. Honest."
For nearly twenty minutes the singer denied his guilt. Then the changes in Toby's physical appearance as well as his mental condition brought about by the doctored LSD began to occur. Like Robert Louis Stevenson's benevolent Dr. Jekyll, Toby Newland metamorphosed into an evil Mr. Hyde.
"This shit is fantastic, man!" the malevolent side of Toby exclaimed. "It really opens your mind and brings you in touch with your inner self. You ought to try it."
His eyes brimming with tears, Joe tried to appeal to the good he knew was in his friend.
"You need help. Let me get you to a hospital before you hurt someone else."
Toby's eyes blazed with rage.
"You want them to lock me up, don't you? I thought you were my friend, but I can now see that you're not."
When the singer lunged at him, Joe Stallings fought back.
"You want to tell the world I killed those girls," Toby screamed. "Go ahead and try it. I'll tell them you did it. I'm a big star, and you're just a nobody from New Jersey. Who do you think they're going to believe?"
Toby picked up a lamp next to the bed and struck his friend over the head. Dazed and bleeding, Joe knew that physically he was no match for the drug-induced maniac that was bent on killing him. Summoning all his strength, he grabbed Toby by the arms and turned him toward the mirror that hung above the dresser.
"Look at yourself. You're not a star," he argued. "You're a mean, heartless bastard just like your old man."
Toby stared at his reflection in horror. He failed to recognize himself. The last vestige of decency and humanity inside the monster fought to gain control. He tossed his friend aside, as though he were a rag doll. Joe fell back onto the hotel bed, fearing he was about to become Toby's next victim. But for one brief moment, his friend returned.
"I'm sorry, Shortstop."
Unable to keep the fiend inside him at bay much longer, the singer ran across the room and threw himself out of the hotel window, falling more than twenty flights to his death.
* * *
As the elderly Joe Stallings shuffled back to his SUV, he felt the blustery November wind blow through what was left of his hair. His stroll along Asbury Park's boardwalk had been a walk down memory lane, and the heartrending journey had left him exhausted.
On his drive home along the Garden State Parkway, he remembered the aftermath of Toby Newland's death. An autopsy was conducted, and post-mortem toxicology screens revealed an unknown substance similar to lysergic acid diethylamide in the deceased's bloodstream. Accordingly, the singer's tragic death was ruled a drug-induced suicide. Thus, in death, Toby became a rock 'n' roll icon, joining the ranks of Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison.
Joe never told the police—or anyone else for that matter—about Toby's sinister Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde transformation or about his probable complicity in the deaths of the five young women whose murders to this day remain unsolved.
It wasn't Toby's fault, the recently unemployed roadie had concluded as he watched his friend's coffin being lowered into the ground. It was the drug. In allowing him to get in touch with his inner self, it had opened up painful memories of the abuse he'd suffered at the hands of his father ... and it turned him into a killer.
Salem's idea of getting high is playing with a bag of catnip.
