Gay Meth Addict Jumps off the Wagon

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 8 Part 1

I didn’t just fall off the wagon. I set that motherfucker on fire and pushed it off a cliff.

While cleaning my room and putting my life back together in my new found sobriety, I found a little jar that had fallen behind a piece of furniture. A jar I had once used to premix my meth slams. It still had a healthy amount of Tina residue inside, around the rim, and on the cap.

My heart skipped a beat. My mouth watered as I held the little jar in my hand.

But no! I was on the straight and narrow now. So I resisted temptation.

I put the little jar out of sight and out of mind.

Well…I put the jar out of sight.

Of course I didn’t throw it away.

I mean, it was a perfectly good little jar.

At about two weeks clean, on a bright and sunny day, I let the rationalization “It’s only a little, barely a taste, what harm could it do” slide around my brain. I got out a fresh syringe (which I had also saved), meticulously dissolved the Tina residue, and had myself a mini slam. It was nice, not huge, but nice.

And I wanted more.

After some serious debate that lasted, oh, about half a minute, I called up Richard. “Hey…do you maybe wanna…see if we can…find some…stuff?”

I heard his burning wagon crash into the ravine below. “I’ll pick you up!”

A month later, shortly before I was to leave for Springfield Rep’s inaugural summer festival, I sat in the driver’s seat of Richard’s car parked on the south side of 14th Street just west of 8th Avenue.

I was waiting while Richard had a doctor’s appointment to con his way into yet another month of pointless antibiotics for a non-existent staph infection.

I was tense with impatience and anticipation. It had been three or four days since my last slam and we were visiting our new dealer, Kevin, after Richard was done with his appointment.

We had to look in New York for a new Tina connection because no one in New Jersey would come near us. Since Richard and Jackson’s arrest, we were radioactive. Our former clients didn’t want anything to do with us and, honestly, the feeling was mutual. We didn’t know who we could trust. The ones who did talk to us? Friends of Jackson’s who blamed us for his imprisonment, offering nothing but threats and harassment.

With the car turned off, I tapped my foot impatiently on the gas pedal. I stared down at the steering wheel trying to will Richard to appear. My heart was beating but it felt like my blood wasn’t flowing. The air seemed stale and hardly breathable. I couldn’t unclench my jaw.

I needed to slam, dammit!

Though we were using again, gone were the days of riding a constant unending high. It was once again $500 for an 8-ball and $60 for a quarter. An expensive habit for Richard who had a finite amount of income, and for me who had no income whatsoever. From that point on we felt every single crash and suffered every aggravating moment between slams.

I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. I had let my facial hair grow for the role of George in Of Mice and Men, and it wasn’t doing me any favors. The patchiness of my incomplete beard, my skin which seems paler than usual, the severe look in my eyes, all made me look angry, borderline homeless. I shook my head. There wasn’t a chance in hell of hooking up with anyone looking like this.

I started to roll down the window in preparation for another cigarette when something across the street caught my eye.

It was Reid!

I immediately slid as far down as I could in the driver’s seat, covering my face with my ball cap. After a moment I peaked above the window ledge and watched Reid, who had not seen me, walk down the street with his boyfriend. I scooted back up when I was sure he was a good distance away.

Of course I didn’t want my friends and family to know about my wagon mishap. Present moment excluded, I made sure not to disappear and fall off the radar again as that would have sent up a huge red flag. So I stayed connected with everyone — to a point. I would suffer phone conversations, sometimes blitzed out of my mind. I made sure both Jason and Reid saw me when I wasn’t high from time to time. By keeping interactions short — but not so short — I was able to keep up the act of sobriety while continuing to use.

I was teaching myself to be a “functioning” user, to have my cake and slam it too. By forcing myself to occasionally interact with people, I was able to keep using while holding up the now corrupted mask of the prodigal son.

My phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this John?” asked a female voice.

“This is.”

“Hi, I’m calling about the Craigslist ad about needing a roommate.”

“Oh!” I was leaving for Illinois in less than a week and I hadn’t yet found a new roommate. I had pretty much given up, well distracted by other matters. “So… um, are you interested in the room?”

“Well, it’s not for me. Is for my friend, Hector.”

“Ok.”

“He’s in need of place right away and the specs you laid out in your ad seem like a perfect fit. Would it be possible to come see the apartment today.”

No! I need to slam!

“Today doesn’t work, how about tomorrow.”

“Sure, is the afternoon good?”

“That’s perfect.”

I gave Hector’s friend the address and confirmed our appointment for the next day.

Right as I hung up with her, Richard hopped in the car.

“Ok, let’s go.” he said.

“I think I just found a new roommate…”

“Whatever, tell me on the way to Kevin’s. Just go!”

I started the car, pulled into traffic, and made our way to our next slam.

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Chapter Guide

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