Closing Jesus Christ Superstar, Meth Found Me Again

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 11 Part 4

We’d reached the Crucifixion.

I was center stage, arms outstretched on the cross in nothing but a loincloth. I wasn’t actually hanging but standing on a small shelf of wood, one foot on top of the other as if my feet were nailed together while I held onto the “nails” in my hands.

With the accompaniment of undulating, dissonant music and mocking, haunting vocals from the ensemble, I played the anguish and torture I imagined crucifixion to be: excruciating pain fighting exhaustion, dignity fighting desperation, and abandonment. I made my way through the show’s version of Jesus’ final words.

“Forgive them, Father. They don’t know what they’re doing.”

“My God. My God, why have you forgotten me?”

I choreographed the journey of the crucifixion for myself: from pain to desperation to pity to anguish to resolve. An event like a crucifixion is too difficult, too traumatic an event to try and experience “for the first time” every show. Like with stage combat or scenes involving intimacy, everything needed to be clearly choreographed and mapped out beforehand for the safety of the actor. For my own safety and mental health, I needed it to be more of a dance than a real emotional experience.

That didn’t mean I didn’t throw myself into it 110%. You can’t just “get through” something like a crucifixion.

It came to the end. The music faded out. I looked up knowing it was finished. Ready to say, “Into your hands I commend my spirit.”

In the silence, before I delivered my final line,

Someone backstage laughed.

Loud enough for me to hear it on stage.

Loud enough to be heard by the audience.

Absolute fucking rage!

My face betrayed me for a moment, but I got it back in check to say the line and die.

The somber music of the finale began.

The disciples took me down off the cross, carried me over their heads, before laying me down onto the stage.

Mary is left by herself to mourn over me.

A pinpoint of light slowly fades up over the audience illuminating Mary and me.

Mary notices the light and slowly makes her way towards it.

A look of recognition lights up her face.

Blackout.

The Resurrection is not written into Jesus Christ Superstar. However, since we were in the Bible Belt, albeit on the northern edge, we knew if we didn’t give them at least a hint of resurrection, we would get complaints.

I kept my shit together long enough to do the bows, but the minute we got off stage I was hunting for our show captain, Thad. He was in charge of making sure the show held continuity from how it was set in rehearsal.

“Thad, can I talk to you?”

“Sure, when….”

“Now.”

There was no hiding the fact that I was upset, and I wasn’t interested in hiding it. Someone wasn’t interested in respecting the work I was doing onstage so why the fuck should I hide my rage under a bushel.

The cast made their way down a back hallway to the lobby where we had to greet all the patrons and thank them for coming. I hated doing it, mostly cause I was fucking exhausted from, oh you know, being crucified, but it was part of the job. The only time I hadn’t done it till now was opening night.

This would be the second time.

Thad hesitated “Now? Or after the…”

“I’m not doing the meet and greet. Let’s do it now.”

While everyone else went out front, Thad and I went to the men’s dressing room.

Thad didn’t deserve how unloaded on him. Honestly, he was one of the nicest guys in the cast. He was a fair haired ginger, jovial, adorable, who was also surprisingly sexy with a distractingly sensual body. He was like a cute farm boy who discovered the love for dance and moved to the big city. He played Peter, and I may or may not have made a joke or two about what a good time it was to be “denied” by him eight shows a week.

Sadly, I wasn’t in a joking mood.

“This is absolutely unacceptable! I’m out there working my ass off and someone fucking laughs. Loud! Right in the silence. I know the audience heard it. I’m sorry if everyone else has checked out but I’m trying to do my fucking job. Thad, I will not stand for it!”

Even as I said it, there was a little part of me that stepped outside of myself.

I will not stand for it?

Who the fuck am I? I will not stand for it?

But there it was. I would not stand for it.

To Thad’s credit, he didn’t try to make excuses for the person who laughed or downplay my feelings. “Ok, thank you for bringing this to me. I’m sorry that happened. I’ll add a note about backstage noise for the next show.”

I thanked him, got out of costume, made my way back to cast housing, locked my door, put on my headphones, and listened to Evanescence at full volume.

I can’t remember if I ever apologized to Thad for having a diva fit all over him. I hope I did. Honestly, as far as the laugh, it was an honest mistake I could just have easily made. Someone was having a conversation, covered by the music and action onstage, forgot themselves, and laughed at the wrong time.

Of course, it wasn’t about the laugh.

We had less than two weeks left.

And my recovery was fracturing.

I’d become so exhausted from the show that I welcomed distraction. The last couple weekends I’d been offered coke.

And I had accepted.

An absolutist would probably say “That’s it, recovery over, back to square one.” And they may be right.

But that’s not how it was for me. It wasn’t a lightswitch. I didn’t snort a line of coke and then spend every waking moment thinking about the high. I wasn’t begging for another line of coke and then another and then another. Life didn’t become about cocaine.

First of all, as a hyperactive, me on cocaine was like pouring kerosene on a grease fire. That much energy is simply unnecessary and was exhausting in and of itself. Also it was tremendously dehydrating which is murder on the voice. The second time after I did coke, I got a note after a show that my voice wasn’t on its A Game. That was enough motivation for me to say no more for the duration of the run.

But it cracked the dam. However much I enjoyed a cocaine high, it paled in comparison to slamming meth.

And that’s how it got me.

It made me remember the slam.

It made me miss the slam.

And Richard knew it.

“If you want to slam then slam,” he said as if it was totally reasonable. “It’ll be your welcome home present, how bout that?”

“No, Richard.” I paced my room in Ohio. “No… at least…”

“At least what?”

“Well…I want to get bloodwork done first. I want to have at least one set of clean labs.”

And there it was. Slamming again was no longer a matter of if, but when.

Not having insurance, I’d been connected with a clinical trial. When it was time for meds, the clinical trial would cover them. Only, in the months since I’d started seeing the doctor in charge of the trial, my T-cell count wasn’t low enough to qualify. Every time I’d gone in for blood work, I had to let them know how much meth I had used in the days prior so they could figure it in. And I had always used in the days prior.

So the choice had been made. In a handful of days I’d be back in New York City riding the thrill of the slam once more.

I felt powerless.

I felt alone.

I felt scared.

I would tell myself that I didn’t have to slam. I could make a different choice. But I could already feel the riptide pulling me back out to sea.

But, before I was pulled under, I had to finish the show first.

Richard flew out to Ohio to see the closing show with the plan to drive back to NYC together the next day. I was so excited for him to see me perform. With as much time as we’d spent together, it was weird he didn’t know me as a performer. It was almost as if I finally had a chance to show him who I really was, what I was capable of.

He took a cab to a motel near the theater, and when he arrived I drove out to meet him. When he opened his motel room door, I saw the familiar cueball head, white mustache, and face weathered just a bit more than his 40-some years.

“Come in, take off your coat.”

“Finally cooled off enough where I can wear it.” I took off my Crazy for You jacket and put it over a chair. The cool days of late October made the sweltering August rehearsals seem months ago rather than weeks.

“Ok, so, you have a ticket waiting for you at the box office,” I said. “You want to get there about 6. Buffet opens at 6:15. I got you a seat about halfway back…”

He reached into his pocket, I thought for a cigarette.

When his hand came out of his pocket, it was holding a baggie of meth and two syringes.

The flood of adrenaline that hit my system doubled me over like I’d been punched in the gut. I held onto the chair that held my coat as I tried to catch my breath.

Richard just sat there, calmly, with the drugs and two points in his hand.

When I’d caught my breath I looked at him.

“Ok… Ok… but not until after the show.”

Next Chapter

Chapter Guide

A lot of heart, time, and work goes into each piece. One way you can support me is by signing up for a $5/month Medium Membership. Use this link and I’ll get a percentage of your subscription fee. Huzzah for supporting artists!