Gay Man’s Psychotic Episode With the Candyman
Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 4 Part 6
Warning: Graphic descriptions of drug use.
If my life were a sitcom, Jackson would be the beloved supporting character. He would enter dramatically to thunderous applause, play out a humorous and high-octane scene, then exit with a flourish, leaving the main characters to hold for the audience’s laughter.
He would surely get a spin off.
Richard met Jackson while partying with a guy who hired him as an escort. Richard and Jackson didn’t hook up, but they definitely hit it off. Hoping to move past being an escort and break back into dealing, Jackson told Richard, “Once I get going, man, you need something, I’m going to be the guy you call. The only guy you call.”
By the fall of 2003, Jackson was slinging quarters and halves.
Was he the only guy we called? Not by a long shot. Occasionally we were able to score from him, but he was hardly ever our first call. When we did order from him, he often triaged us below more demanding clients. But Richard had other connections, and scoring was relatively easy.
Physically, Jackson wasn’t my type.
The boy was too skinny. Not sickly or starving like I had been. Just slight, like a stiff wind could blow him over. Now that I was keeping on a normal amount of weight, I had about 10 to 15 pounds on him.
Still, what he lacked in the physical, he more than made up for with charm and swagger. He exuded a level of confidence I’d never known. I couldn’t help find it attractive. He talked a great game, but he also had a decent amount of silly in him. At random points during his rapid-fire monologues — which were a fuck ton more coherent than any story I attempted to tell — he would randomly throw in non-sensical phrases. “What are these? Pantyhose!” They never made any sense, but had me doubled over in laughter every time. I’m a sucker for a good delivery.
Before Jackson moved back to New Jersey, he’d been in Nevada State Prison serving a five-year sentence. This made him more entrancing and mysterious my pupil-dilated eyes. An honest to goodness bad boy. I admit, I was crushing hard.
Imagine my joy when he called me up one day shortly after I returned from Illinois. “Hey, wanna come out to Hackensack and hang, just you and me? My mom’s out for the day so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
Yeah, he lived with his mom, but he had just got out of prison, so I overlooked it.
Let’s be honest, if there was a free and heavy slam in my future, I would overlook just about anything.
After taking a New Jersey Transit bus from the GWB to Hackensack, I got off at the bus station.
45 minutes later Jackson finally showed up. He may have been charming, but he sure as hell wasn’t punctual. Waiting around that long annoyed me, but that evaporated the minute he appeared as I was that much closer to slamming.
His hair was slicked back, his eyes were hidden behind aviators, and he was wearing green army camouflage pants and a brown UPS delivery guy coat. It was like he wanted to cosplay but couldn’t decide on a character.
I loved it.
He called a cab and we were on our way.
I watched from the cab as we made our way through New Jersey townships: small single family homes packed so tightly together neighbors could shake hands from their windows, office buildings raised up on stilts allowing for more parking underneath making them look like giant metal and concrete insects, a generous amount of nature with lawns and parks which is always a nice change from the concrete corridors of Manhattan.
“Hey,” Jackson said, “I’m heading back to Vegas on Monday. You should come with me.”
I looked away from the window and at him, astonished. “What?”
“You want to?” It was like he was asking me on a date, like he wanted to go see a movie or something.
Yes.
“Well…I don’t know, it’s kind of spur of the moment.” I couldn’t fathom the idea of going to Vegas. It had been one of my favorite stops on tour, but I’m pretty sure tour Vegas and Jackson Vegas were very different experiences. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
“Well, you think about it,” he said, smiling behind his aviators.
We pulled up to a high-rise apartment complex. The trees out front were already bare as early November moved from cool to cold. We made our way through the lobby with its marble floors, gaudy gilded furniture, and leafy plants in heavy round pots. The doormen barely looked at us as we made our way to the elevator.
We exited on one of the higher floors and arrived at his motherless home. The apartment was filled with post-modern furniture which, like the walls, were all creams and whites. Mirrors with beveled edges cut into strange geometric shapes were flecked with gold. The glass coffee and end tables held chunky kitsch. Though I was far from an expert, the entire place — like Jackson himself — seemed very New Jersey.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll make up a couple slams.”
While he prepped, I checked out the view. One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling windows. Because we were so high up, I could see a sprawl of neighborhoods dotted with fall yellows and browns, even though most leaves had already fallen. I could see why he was ok living with his mother.
I felt his hands on my shoulders. His lips gently kissed the back of my neck. “Hey there,” I said, enjoying the sensuality.
“Hey,” he whispered. His arms wrapped around me and I relaxed back into him, feeling the warmth of his body as we looked out the windows. For the briefest of moments there was an intimacy between us, a breath, a calm.
“Come on, I want to show you something.”
He led me into his bedroom. He was all set up. The bed was cleared for play. Two glasses of water sat by the bedside. There was even a large mirror so we could see ourselves from the bed. I had taken to always having a mirror ready as I not only wanted to live out my porn fantasies, I wanted to watch them.
As I disrobed, he took out a black toiletries travel bag.
“Here, check this out.” He pulled out a clear bag holding something the size and shape of a softball. It took a minute to register .
“Is that …?
“Yup. And it’s quality stuff. Real pure and intense.”
I’d never seen that much Tina. Or anywhere close. My pulse went wild.
“Are you ready?”
“Oh fuck, please!” As he was tying the tourniquet, I realized something and stopped him. “Wait. You know I can’t help you out, right? I mean, I haven’t even slammed myself yet.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get it done by the time you’re done flying.”
I made a fist as he uncapped the needle. The syringe was filled far fuller than I had ever seen. We locked eyes and he just held me there.
This. This was sex to him. This was communion. This was his way of penetrating me.
“Ready?”
“Fuck, yes, please.”
I watched and felt the needle go in. He pulled back on the plunger, a small cloud of red entered the thick yellow liquid, then disappeared with the rest as he slowly thrust the slam into me.
“Jackson?”
Everything was wonderful! Every slam was wonderful in its own way, but this one was as magnificent as the very first. More so even as this time I was able to loosely hold onto consciousness enough to fully appreciate it.
“Jackson?”
I had slipped through the looking glass and everything sparkled like diamonds. I waved my hand through the air and watched a trail of hands follow in its wake, as if I were a Hindu God.
“Jackson? Fuck, Jackson…this shit…fuck!”
I was aware enough to know that he had successfully slammed himself. We began to explore the warm, slick terrain of each other’s bodies.
“Jackson…I…Jackson?”
I looked at him through wide eyes, breathing deeply, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Jackson?”
I marveled at his body. I found his slender frame and his lean muscles overwhelmingly desirable. I ran my hand from his shoulder all the way down to his feet, entranced by his luminous skin.
“Jackson?”
His eyes were closed.
“Jackson?”
I nudged him.
Asleep?
I gently shook him.
Asleep, or…
…Dead?
I shook him harder.
“Jackson?”
Oh shit.
“Jackson?”
He’s dead!
“Oh shit!”
Oh God!
“Come on, Jackson, wake up!”
I shook him again.
He didn’t wake up.
Fuck!
He’s dead!
I put on my clothes and walked around the apartment.
Ok.
“Ok.”
Get it together.
Shit!
What should I do?
He’s dead.
“Fuck.”
What about all that Tina?
What if the cops come?
Fuck!
The cops are coming!
“Someone’s coming.”
Fuck!
What should I do?
What about the drugs?!
I went back into Jackson’s room where he lay motionless.
“Uh, Jackson,” I began to ask the dead man, “I think…I think someone’s coming, uh…what should I…do…should I, uh…hide the Tina?”
The “dead” Jackson kicked his leg.
“I shouldn’t hide the Tina?”
Kick, kick.
“I … should hide them?”
Kick.
“Ok, um, where? In the bathroom?”
Kick.
“Ok.” I carefully picked up the black bag, handling it as if it were a priceless Faberge egg, zipped it shut, went into the bathroom, and stashed it under the sink.
“Ok,” I said, coming out of the bathroom, “I’ve…”
Kick, kick.
“You…don’t want it in the bathroom?”
Kick.
“Uh…ok.” I retrieved the bag and returned to the nightstand.
Kick, kick.
“What? You don’t want them there?”
Kick.
“Should I put them back in the bathroom?”
Kick.
So I did.
After repeating this vaudevillian act another three or four times, I made my way back out into the living room and stared out the windows.
What is going on?
Jackson is dead!
What am I going to do?
Oh God!
I sat down in a chair against the wall. Confused, scared, not knowing what to do or what was happening, I doubled over and cried, violently. I found no release in the wracking sobs. I was caught up in a torrent of confusion, a rip current dragging me out to sea, my sobs filling my ears like water.
After a good bit of weeping — could have been 15 minutes, could have been an hour, fuck if I know — I went back to check on the “dead” Jackson.
As I sat down, he woke up!
“Hey,” he said, groggy, as if waking up from a lovely nap.
“Oh thank God!” I hugged him. “Fuck me, you’re alive!”
“What? Yeah…I’m alive,” he said gently. It was clear by the tears on my face that I was distraught.
“Ok, please, please, just don’t go away again,” I pleaded. “Please.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere gig to the bibble fon crackow liberty wall.” As his speech descended into gibberish, he went a little cross eyed. He fell back onto the bed and back into unconsciousness.
Fuck.
Not knowing what to do, I decided now was as good a time as any to smoke ten or twelve cigarettes. I threw on my Crazy for You jacket and headed downstairs. I walked around the large block with heavy, fast steps, racking up lap after lap, lighting the next cigarette with the butt of the last, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
Occasionally I would bump the blemish on the inside of my right knee. It hadn’t gone away and had actually grown, becoming increasingly tender.
Jackson was dead!
But he’s not dead.
But he was dead.
Then he wasn’t.
Now…he’s dead…again?
I cried.
I cried?
Why the hell was I crying?
I’m not a cryer.
I don’t cry.
What the hell is crying going to solve?
I haven’t cried since…
Well, since that night at Randy’s when…
I stopped.
Oh my God!
“I’m hallucinating!”
I realized I was having a psychotic episode… while having a psychotic episode.
I threw down my seventh cigarette and made my way back inside. I calmly walked through the lobby and into an elevator which was blessedly empty. I sprinted down the hall to Jackson’s door, excited to tell the “dead” man of my epiphany.
The door didn’t open.
It was locked.
I was locked out.
Shit!
I knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
By this point I just wanted to go home, but I couldn’t ask any real living person because, one, I was way beyond being able to play it cool, and two, I had no way of knowing if any person I tried to talk to actually existed.
Because, here’s the thing: I may have realized I was hallucinating, but had not stopped hallucinating.
So, I stood in the hallway in front of Jackson’s door and waited.
At one point I thought I heard a pair of women. It seemed like the voices were coming from inside Jackson’s apartment, which didn’t make sense. They might have been coming from a different apartment. They might have been part of my hallucination.
“Oh my lord, he’s still out there.”
“Well should we do something, call someone?”
“Just leave him there, he’ll leave at some point.”
“Um, could I just…excuse me,” I said to the women, making sure I wasn’t talking too loud, knocking again, softly, “could I just come in and get my stuff? I just need to know how to get home…hello?”
With my periphery, vision I saw Jason, Laura and Amy standing at the end of the hall.
“Why is he standing there?”
“I don’t know. John, you want to come on? Come with us, we’re ready to go?”
“Go away, I’ll catch up with you guys,” I said without looking at them, fairly certain they weren’t really there.
Occasionally a real person would get off the elevator and walk by me. I would nod or give a soft “hello,” trying and failing to act normal.
I have no idea how long I stood there, but it was early evening when the elevator opened and out walked a slim, middle aged woman. She had shoulder length bleached blond full bodied hair and a face that showed she had lived her share of life.
Seeing me, she slowed. That’s when I knew.
This was Jackson’s mother.
Stopping a fair distance away, she asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m…hi, um, I’m John…yeah…I’m a friend of…”
Brandon?
Jacob?
Fuck!
“Brandon?” I chose poorly.
“Ok,” she said, all of her questions answered. She hugged the wall opposite me, unlocked and shimmied through the door, clearly meaning to keep me from following her.
From inside there was a muffled — real — conversation that definitely contained a “Wake up!” and a “Who is…” A couple minutes later, the door opened and there stood a groggy but very much alive Jackson wearing a red flannel shirt and boxers.
“Hey,” he said, coming out into the hall. Leading me into a stairwell, he said, “Sorry about passing out on you.”
“That’s ok. I’m just glad you’re alive.”
“Yeah,” unfazed, “so I’m afraid we can’t hang anymore today. Mom doesn’t like it when I have guys over,” putting it lightly.
I was more than fine with that. He was alive so I was fine with anything. After giving me directions on how to get back to the city and money for the cab to the bus station, I was happily one my way.
As I walked to the corner to where the cab would pick me up, I called Jason.
“Hey, when is the van leaving tomorrow?” I asked.
“What?”
“The van, what time are we heading out tomorrow morning.”
To go do the show in Illinois, what’s the confusion?
“Uh, we…What? We got back like four days ago, dude.”
“Oh!”
Shit!
“I mean…when…are we…when are we meeting about starting the company?”
“Not till next month. Are you ok?”
“Fine! I’m fine.”
Ask something normal, you idiot!
“When are you gonna be crashing on my couch next?”
“In a week or so. Is that ok?
“Of course!”
“…Are you ok?”
I’ve been shooting up meth.
I’ve been up for over 48 hours.
I’m hallucinating all kinds of crazy shit.
And I’m in Jersey!
“Yeah, I’m fine. See you next week,” and I hung up.
When Sade sings about a “Smooth Operator,” she ain’t talkin about me.
I passed the fuck out when I finally made it home and had a dream about putting on a leather and bondage fashion show with Amy.
When I woke up, I had a voicemail from her.
“Yeah, hi, um, John? I don’t know what your message was about last night? Something about a…leather fashion show…or something, and, like, when we were starting work…or something? Anyway, I have no clue what you were talking about so…um…give me a call back?”
I did not call her back.
From this entire ordeal, I took away two lessons.
First, absolutely no slamming after reaching 24 hours, and halt all use by 48. Failure to heed this rule, as experienced, clearly results in acute psychosis and — more importantly — a wasted slam.
Second, Jackson was good for the Party, not for the Play. He almost always lacked the latter, but more than made up for it in the former. Though I never lost my fascination with his character, we only hooked up maybe twice after that. He talked a good game, but he was just another one of these fuckers who falls asleep after slamming.
That was fine. I was perfectly happy with him in the role of Candyman. He wasn’t mixing it with love, but his shit sure as hell made the world taste good… psychotic episodes aside.
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