Gay Meth Addict Has a Bad Day: I Don’t Wake Up Anymore

Slammed a Memoir — Prologue 1

In the far flung fantasy of my story being made into a movie, the opening credits are underscored by the Scissor Sisters Return to Oz

What you’re about to read is not fiction. It happened to me.

I don’t wake up anymore.

I mean, I’ve been using meth long enough where I don’t ever really go to sleep either. I don’t yawn, stretch, click off the TV, brush my teeth, turn off the lights, and crawl under the covers. I don’t really “go to bed” anymore. After being up for two days, three days, four, longer, my body simply powers down and, wherever I am, there I remain for 12 hours or more.

But waking up is a whole other thing.

It’s no snap back to reality, dreams quickly receding, small, fuzzy details lingering: teeth falling out, walking my pet tiger, going on for the lead in a play and not knowing any of the lines…naked.

Instead it’s a blending of realities, an overlapping of worlds, messy, confusing.

I’m walking through a dark, shadowed backstage quiet as a library and busy as Times Square. As I take my place in the wing, ready for my entrance, the black curtain heavy against my arm, I observe a breathing tableau bathed in blue light. Technicians dressed in black with wired headsets, pushing buildings, lowering skies. Actors in various stages of undress, tossing clothes, whispering gossip, checking faces in mirrors.

I see a little boy, maybe five years old, standing by the hallway door leading to the dressing rooms. He has a round head, brown hair, green corduroy pants that make the “zip zip” sound when he walks, and a dark blue sweatshirt with the orange and white horse of the Denver Broncos. He shifts from one foot to the other, looking around, looking scared, like he may cry soon if he doesn’t find…who? The show’s child wrangler? His mother?

A man is kneeling down talking to the little boy in hushed tones, insistent, almost angry. His untrimmed oily hair creeps from under his worn blue ball cap with the red letters of “FDNY” on the front, colors muted with sweat and time. He wears a denim show jacket, the kind I always envied when I first moved to New York City. Seeing someone walk down the street in NYC wearing a jacket with show art for Ragtime or The Lion King — where you knew they were actually in the show — always made me want one of my own. Something that I could wear and say to the world “I did it. I’ve achieved my dreams. I have my Brass Ring.” This man’s jacket held the show art for Crazy for You, with the lettering embroidered in white except for the “C” which was done in yellow to look like a crescent moon.

Only his jacket is not proud. It’s worn, weathered, like his hat. The collar is frayed, and the left shoulder looked to be torn open, like it had been raked by claws, exposing the dark red-purplish wool lining underneath. His face is unshaven and patchy. His skin is pale, like “just this side of ill” pale. He’s sweating despite the backstage being cold.

And his eyes. His eyes are like glass. Too shiny, like a taxidermized animal. Dead eyes in a mean face. What passed for life was simply light refracted in cold, dead glass.

I catch the little boy’s eyes and he makes a move toward me, but the man holds him back and makes an impatient gesture at me toward the stage. I had to go. It was my scene.

I walk on stage in darkness, the audience silent and waiting. I take my seat center stage. A spot comes up on me washing me in a harsh, gray light.

I…

I don’t know my line.

I look to where I came from backstage and see… a bed.

I turn back toward the audience, blinking against the brightness of… a computer screen.

I take a drag off my cigarette, exhaling the smoke curiously. I don’t remember lighting it.

The audience is gone, the backstage is gone, the little boy and the scary man are gone.

I am alone.

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t know who I am.

A panic starts to swirl in my chest.

I can’t remember my name.

“My name is…” it won’t come.

“My name is…” that elusive word, you know the one, use it all the time, right on the tip of my tongue, except it’s my fucking name!

I spy an opened greeting card envelope on the desk in front of me. I see the name “John.”

“John! My name is John Cormier I live at 123 Nagle Ave Apartment 5A New York New York 10040 my phone number is…”

By the time I burn through my contact information for literally no one, I feel like I have a grip on who I am and where I am. I stumbled onto this hack one day when I answered my cell phone on the deck of a battleship, not having a clue who I was till I heard my name on the other end of the line, “John? You ok?” Upon hearing my name and remembering who I was and where I was, the battleship disappeared and I was back in reality (more or less).

Now, as long as I can get to my name, muscle memory kicks in. I’m firmly back in reality by the time I finish spelling out my email address, “…at hotmail.com.”

I take another, somewhat more relaxed drag off my cigarette, still not sure when I lit it, but happy it’s there just the same.

I think about the little boy and the scary man.

I shake my head, smirking.

I am the little boy and the scary man, no fucking shit.

As I flick my cigarette into a half full ashtray, a line from the British sitcom Absolutely Fabulous springs to my lips, “I simply refuse to believe I’m that obvious.”

Bing. Instant message on my computer.

“Hey John, what you doing up?”

Putting down my cigarette to type, “I might ask you the same question.”

“Just heading to bed here myself. We still on for Thursday?”

“Yeah. Can’t fucking wait,” I reply.

On Thursday, Bill (or is it Bob) is going to pick me up, and we’ll connect with my dealer. Bill/Bob will front the cash for a half gram of Tina (meth), we’ll find a cheap hotel, I’ll slam (shoot up) while he won’t partake. As payment, I’ll let him use me however he wants for as long as he wants, which I already know will not be nearly long enough. Not for me anyway.

What the hell time is it anyway? I turn to look at the red numbers on my digital clock radio by my bed.

4:03.

I look closer. AM.

I’m never really sure about day or night in my apartment. When it’s clear skies and sunny at high-noon, you can see a few slivers of light through the curtains, sheets, and blankets covering every inch of window. But, hell, if it’s overcast and rainy, it could be as dark as midnight in this tweeker’s lair.

I log onto Manhunt and begin scrolling through profiles: torsos, asses, dicks, the occasional face, descriptions of questionable truth, of themselves, what they’re into, and, sometimes more prominently, what they’re not into. The screen rolls upward like a single-wheel slot machine while I hope for a fun payout and no lemons, seeing who’s online, who’s in the area, who I’ve fucked before, who I would fuck again, all while trying not to think about Richard and our agreement.

Richard. Not my lover; not my boyfriend. Just the guy I’ve done a shit-ton of drugs with. A shit-ton of his drugs. It’s a quid pro quo relationship, you see. He shares his Tina with me and I put up with/manage his drug-induced psychotic episodes. One condition: I party exclusively with him. I can party with other guys, but never without him, not while I’m slamming his Tina.

A condition, of course, I agreed to, but had no intention of honoring.

My fingers were crossed, what can I say?

But I have a right, you see.

About a week ago, Richard was supposed to meet me in the morning at my apartment at the north end of Manhattan. Well, morning came and went, as did the afternoon. By evening, I was crashing hard, with all the fun of my last slam long since passed, leaving a paranoid, fearful mind going to all the dead-in-a-ditch-somewhere places full of handcuffs and monsters. Sitting on my bed, standing in the hall, looking through the peephole, barely breathing, listening to the point of pain, like I could somehow hear the difference between his footsteps coming up the stairwell and the footsteps of other tenants, or worse, the footsteps of authorities, of uniforms, holding badges and warrants.

Finally, late in the evening, he came through the door using his own set of keys. “Jesus Christ, those stairs are gonna kill me.” He says this every time. It’s his ritual, his version of touching the mezuzah. To be fair, I do live in a fifth floor walk up.

“Where have you been?” It wasn’t an accusation. I was too exhausted to make accusations. I was simply happy he was alive and un-incarcerated.

“I’m sorry,” he said, appeasing me with a hug. He told me he had driven down to our dealer, Kevin, that morning for a pickup. While he was there he took a hit of G. After driving back up to my neighborhood, he parked a few blocks away when the G started to hit. He sat down on the curb where he fell asleep and only just woke up.

So, not quite dead in a ditch, but pretty close.

GHB is commonly known as a date rape drug, but when taken in the “right” amount, it’s a party drug that gives you a drunken orgasmic high, like the rich taste of well-seasoned, bloody steak cooked rare. She is also a highly dangerous drug. Take too little and it has no effect. Take too much, and you’ll OD leaving you vomiting, paralyzed, unconscious, and very possibly dead. So, it’s all about that Goldilocks sweet spot. Problem is, with G you’re never going to get the same formula twice. So that sweet spot is a moving target. You might have a good time. You might die choking on your own puke.

The other thing about G is it only takes about 10–15 minutes to hit. So if Richard had taken a hit of G at Kevin’s down in Chelsea, he would have crashed his car on the West Side Highway somewhere around 72nd street.

So, whatever he had been doing all day, it most likely wasn’t lying unconscious on the curb next to his parked car.

So, he was lying about where he was.

And I was lying about partying exclusively with him.

We’re lying liars who lie. Welcome, come on in, we have t-shirts.

Bing. A new Manhunt message.

“Come down and I’ll slam you.”

“On my way,” I reply.

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Chapter Guide

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