After Meth: This Sexy Man was My Villain, Now He’s My Nurse

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 12 Part 1

It was late August, 2006. I’d been clean and meth free for nearly 8 months, a little longer than before my relapse the previous year. I’d just returned from Springfield Rep’s third annual summer theater festival. It was another summer of awesome roles, including Tom in The Glass Menagerie.

I know I did some good work, and I was proud of it. Yet, weaved into all the compliments and feedback were comments about my jaw.

At best, I got “John, your jaw, it’s so expressive.”

At worst, “What’s wrong with his jaw, though?”

The very first night I did meth, one of the immediate effects was “meth jaw.” My jaw would constantly and involuntarily move back and forth, as if it was searching for something, like someone who can’t find a comfortable way to sit.

When I stopped using meth for good at the start of the year, I knew it was going to take my body a minute to adjust, as my brain chemistry slowly evened out, so I didn’t pay much mind to my meth jaw not going away… at first.

Now it was August and my meth jaw was just as prevalent as when I was using.

I was going to bring it up with my doctor in the hopes that she might have a solution. Sitting in the waiting room of Callen-Lorde Community Health Center, a clinic on 18th Street in Chelsea that caters to the queer community, I rubbed my jaw as I waited for my name to be called

An older trans woman stood at the check-in desk, flustered, flipping through her pocket calendar as she tried to reschedule an appointment. A female nurse grabbed the next clipboard for the next patient. “Colleen?” A young black woman with a stunning face but who was otherwise dressed down in maroon sweatpants and a gray hoodie stood up. “Hi Colleen, follow me,” the nurse said leading the way.

The waiting room TV played a series of informational videos on HIV and other STIs: how to protect yourself, what to do if you think you have symptoms, the importance of seeing a doctor regularly, stuff like that. They had the levity of Sesame Street or PBS educational television for kids, but with adult humor and a low budget public access feel, charming and cringy in equal measure.

“John?”

I looked up at the male nurse who called my name.

He had copper hair, crystal blue eyes, skin of warm cream, and a Puckish face.

Randy!

Three years ago, Randy had invited me over for some PNP — before I even knew what PNP was — where I got high on meth for only the second time.

For the rest of that summer I fell smiling down the rabbit hole. I partied with Randy, taking advantage of his willingness to share, and overstayed my welcome more than a few times.

Though entranced by Miss Tina, she could not blind me to Randy’s own flaws. He was controlling, a bully. Our meth-driven chemsex — which was the point of PNP after all — was infrequent, clumsy, distracted, and unsatisfying.

The proverbial straw had come after Randy stood me up on my 25th birthday.

The next night, I met Richard and got the birthday fuck I’d wanted — two nights in a row.

After making the mistake of bragging about how much fun I’d had with Richard, Randy decided it was time to have a talk. He had the nerve to tell me — while in his own Tina-induced hyper fidgety state — that I needed to get my shit together. That Tina might not be the drug for me. That I didn’t seem to be able to handle it.

This kettle was not going to be called black by that fucking crackpot.

I stopped hanging out with Randy, happy to leave him behind, as I had found a new party buddy in Richard and was having a grand ol’ time.

Of course, Richard — along with Jackson and everything I experienced over the next two years — was more damaging and dangerous than Randy could have ever been.

Perhaps that is why seeing him at Callen-Lorde, holding my chart, having called my name, was actually a pleasant surprise.

We both laughed.

“Oh my god,” he said.

“Oh my god indeed!”

After a moment of hesitation, we hugged.

As I followed Randy down the clinic hallway, he turned back and said, “You look good.”

“Thanks,” I said, almost shyly.

He looked back again. “No, you look really good.”

I think I blushed. “Thanks, so do you.” And I meant it, he did look good. He still had the lean slenderness of a dancer, but had clearly been hitting the gym. His shoulders were rounder, his chest fuller, his arms thicker.

“You’ve put on some weight,” he said as we entered an exam room.

“Yeah. When I put down the uber appetite suppressants, I wanted the inevitable weight gain to go to the right places.” I had kept up my basic fitness routine I’d developed the previous summer and managed to stay pretty lean while getting back to a healthy post-meth weight. I was super happy I’d worn one of my tight white t-shirts so I could take this chance to show that off.

“Go ahead and hop up here and I’ll take your vitals.”

When I hopped up on the examining table, I realized I was shaking slightly. The surprise of seeing Randy had sent a strong shot of adrenaline through me, which was now subsiding. I tried to ignore the shaking, hoping he wouldn’t notice or think I was nervous.

I watched him as he went about his business as a nurse.

Those eyes that had been trying to escape their entrapment when last I saw him were still.

His face was focused.

His stance was solid.

His energy was a calm, comforting hum.

He was already handsome, but this stillness, this calmness, this solidness made him borderline dreamy.

This wasn’t the Randy I knew.

This was a Randy I wanted to know.

“All right, I got everything I need. The doctor will be right in.” He gave me another hug, “It was so good to see you!”

“You too. Hey,” catching him before he left, “Do you… do you wanna maybe grab some coffee? And catch up?”

“I’d love that. You still have my number?”

“I think so.”

“Great, text me and we’ll go from there.”

“Will do.”

He hesitated at the door for a moment, looking at me — like I was looking at him, honestly — pleasantly surprised, before shutting the exam room door.

Randy was my first antagonist, my first villain, and for the longest time, he remained the main villain. Through all my ordeals with Richard — his psychosis, the arrests, the abuse — in my mind and in my writing, Randy had remained the main villain of my story.

Now, I was shook.

Through my writing, I was intimately familiar with my own personal evolution. In broad strokes and minor details, I could see how I’d changed over the last few years.

Yet, until this moment, Randy had remained frozen in time as I remembered him: a tweaked out, fidgety mess. A control freak. A bully.

But was he?

Had he been all those things?

When I look back at what I’d written about my time with Randy, I can objectively say yes, yes he was those things.

He was all those things, but he was also a witness.

He witnessed my first period of meth use, how I wasn’t functioning — or eating.

For all his flaws, he was the first to really see how meth affected me, changed my personality, and watched me lose a frightening amount of weight.

He tried to warn me.

He tried to tell me that maybe meth wasn’t for me.

That I couldn’t handle it.

And he was right.

He was a bully.

He was a control freak.

He was as I have written him.

For all I knew, that was how meth changed him.

But he also tried to warn me.

Had I listened that day.

Had I just…listened.

I left the clinic after my doctor’s appointment riding a strange high. I was fascinated. I honestly wanted to get to know this Randy.

So, I texted him.

“Hey there, it’s John. Great seeing you today! How about this Wednesday afternoon?”

I sent the text and continued walking toward the subway.

Then I suddenly stopped.

“Well shit.”

I had completely forgotten to ask the doctor about my jaw.

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