The End Of The Rhodes

Erik Rhodes passed away this morning and whenever someone dies, you reflect back on their life and what you knew of them. To millions of people he was a larger than life porn star, a bull in a sex shop, but I saw through all that to my friend James, a kid from Long Island, consumed by the life around him.

Whenever I think about life, I think about my favorite line from Gattaca, near the end when Ethan Hawke and his genetically superior brother (played by Loren Dean) are swimming out in the middle of a stormy ocean, and Ethan is beating him handily. When Loren asks him how he is able to do that, he replies, "I never saved anything for the swim back." Erik Rhodes was so much like that character, built up as this stronger than life facade and leaving nothing for the swim back.

But when I think more personally about James, who battled drugs and depression, I am reminded of Carrie Fisher's alter ego in "Postcards From The Edge." A single line in the looping scene from that film seems to contain an even better summation of his internal struggle:

"The trouble is: I can't feel my life. I can't feel it. I see it all around me and I know that so much of it is good but I just take it the wrong way."

James was very open about his drug use: GHB, steroids, and more recently (and sadly) meth. His last post on Tumblr four days before he died contained his recipe for physical success, with the ominous caveat "I'm waiting until I pop. Or my liver fails... [whichever] comes first." He was so like the figures of Greek mythology that he physically embodied, always tempting fate, always flying too close to the sun. But like those fables of old, he knew he was a cautionary tale, not a design for living. 

I asked him once what his future plans were after porn had run its course. He used to say, "Once they have seen your pussy, what else do you have?" He knew it wasn't a career with a lot of longevity, and yet, he didn't see himself in any other kind of job. Most performers like him go into real estate or personal training, arenas where their past can be an asset in attracting clients, but his response to that notion was typical James: "Can you imagine me trying to put up with those assholes?" 

He tried his hand for a time at bartending, but that was mostly a disaster. But recently, he had started directing and that was something he seemed to genuinely enjoy, although I don't know how enthusiastic the models were. James explained that when the scene was going he would stop it and tell the models if they looked fat or ugly and to then re-position them in a more flattering way. I don't know how anyone would feel being naked and exposed and having someone tell them they look fat, but he was an imposing figure so I assume they just sucked it up. James was typically sanguine about the whole thing, "A movie lasts forever. If I looked like a fat bag of shit, I would want someone to tell me!"

But in his soul, James was a writer. He got a lot of flak for his erratic blogs, filled with horrible sex stories, blatant drug use, and nasty rejoinders. But it was the truth. You could call him a lot of things, but a liar was never one of them. I begged him to assemble his stories into a one-man show and tour with it. I thought it could be a huge success. But he never had the discipline for that, and I suspect the confidence in his own abilities. The world treated him like a giant walking fuck doll and he alternated between being angry or miserable about it and living the part. 

Of all the people in the world, he reminded me the most of Marilyn Monroe. On the inside he was all small town Norma Jean Baker, but on the outside, he was larger than life, sex writ large. Like Marilyn he could have turned away from his public persona at any time, but he chose to ride it out to its inevitable end. He knew that the monster he created was too big to control and he was filled with the kind of sadness that often comes with excess. Too much of a good thing, as they say.

He has a straight twin brother and when I saw him, I suspected that he is what James would have been if the mythical Erik Rhodes hadn't been born. He was handsome, but slight compared to Erik. I want to think I always saw the James inside and not the more dominant Erik exterior but in retrospect I am not so sure. Last summer, I asked him to be a model for the cover of my latest book, When Nightlife Falls. I wanted him to pose so that he looked naked while holding a man collapsing in his arms. 

James worked out tirelessly, starved and tanned himself to look his absolute best for the photos and he really does. We shot the vision I had but it didn't click the way a more improvised shot of him dragging the other model across the floor did, which we ended up using for the cover. My original idea came out beautifully though and I look at it now and it haunts me with its sadness. 

When the shoot was over, I paid the photographer and the other model, but when I tried to give James a check he adamantly refused. He told me he did the shoot as a friend. But in my mind, he had already guest hosted on the show so many times for little more than a terrible meal afterward. He was a model and I didn't want to insult his profession by asking for a freebie. But now I realize he just didn't want to be the whore that everyone expected him to be and me paying him off reduced his kindness to the same muck as all the rest.

I never judged him, but like all of us at one time or another, I misjudged him. And that is my biggest regret. 

1982 -2012