Gay Meth Addict Struggles to Find a Work/Drugs Balance

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 10 Part 1

I rushed into Chipotle on 44th and 3rd, a block above the Chrysler Building. Nearly 20 minutes late, I hurried behind the counter toward the back trying not to go too fast and amplify my lateness. The air was thick with the sounds and smells of grilling chicken. Chili, cayenne, and cumin saturated everything, smells I would bring home in my clothes and my Chipotle hat, which no amount of washing could entirely remove. I hung up my coat, shoved my spicy ballcap on my head, and hurried out front.

It wasn’t long after I returned from my Christmas visit to Billings that my need to pay rent was once again cramping my lifestyle. Glad as he was to see me happy and healthy, my father’s willingness to support his now 26-year-old son was wearing thin. The family credit that had been supporting me through my “trials” of the last 18 months — my break up with Henry, my “recovery” from meth, my HIV diagnosis — was nearly maxed out. It was made clear to me it was time to get a job.

Roger, fellow tour rat, stepped up to help a brother out. Out of the four of us — Dexter, Jason, Roger, and myself — Roger had the most hustle and strongest non-theater-related work ethic. His pride in an honest day’s work made for a seamless transition away from theater and into areas that provided better financial security. More than any of us, he was playing to win life’s long game.

It was Roger who walked me into the Chipotle on 44th. Being familiar with the management team, he was happy to make an introduction, vouched for me, and even waited outside as I filled out my application and sat for my interview. My father had once done the same thing for me, only I was 15 and it was a McDonalds. Now Roger was stepping up, being parental, making decisions for me, and I was thankful for the help.

A couple months into the job, I wasn’t doing at all right by Roger being as late as I was, and it was hardly my first time.

“Hey, Jennifer,” I greeted my shift manager trying to be casual and pleasant, bracing for a reprimand. She was an attractive Asian woman, short and slim with long dark hair. She returned the pleasantries and, without mentioning my tardiness, replied, “I need you at the dishwasher, then I’ll move you to the line before the rush starts.”

“Could I be put on the register?” I asked without thinking. Late employees generally don’t get to choose what position they get to work.

“We’ll see,” she said, noncommittal.

Though I didn’t enjoy dish duty, there was a silver lining: I got to hide in the back.

Usually, I wanted to hide because I was still coming down from having slammed the previous day.

Though I continued to use, it had become much less frequent. Once a week on average, if that. This was partially due to having to keep it together for the job, but I was also trying to hold onto that acting spirit I had rediscovered.

Even preparing for my first real audition!

A national tour of The Drowsy Chaperone, a musical comedy that fit right into my wheelhouse, was having auditions and I saw it as a perfect opportunity to get back up on the horse and back out on the road.

Richard knew about the audition since, when we weren’t slamming, I could hardly talk of anything else. When I’d shower at his place, I’d start singing my planned 16-bar cut only to hear him bellow “Jesus Christ! Shut the fuck up!”

The night before the audition, I returned to Richard’s after my shift at Chipotle.

When I came into the bedroom, I found that Richard had a guest: a ruggedly attractive man with dark European features, probably Italian or Greek. He lay in repose on the bed wearing only jeans.

The muscle on this man! I could tell he was shorter than me, but the man was thick: swollen chest, round shoulders like huge grapefruits, and meaty, defined arms, all with tan skin covered in an absolutely delicious amount of fur.

Richard sat at his computer, his bong sitting on the counter next to him. While they had been smoking, there didn’t seem to be any action happening beyond conversation.

I joined the conversation, keeping it casual, trying to signal Richard that I would very much please like to smoke or slam or something so that I may jump this gorgeous hunk and lick every inch of his body while he showed me what all that muscle could do. My audition the next morning completely forgotten.

Richard did not pick up on my signal.

Not long after I arrived, the muscled gentleman, coming to the conclusion no play would be had this evening, made his excuses and pleasantly bid us goodnight.

Though disappointed, it was clearly for the best. There would have been no way I would have made the audition the next morning if we had partied.

“Do you want to slam?” Richard asked.

My first thought: Now? You ask me now? After that gorgeous hunk of meat has left?! Fuck you!!

In the next half second, I said, “Yes.”

There is a click that happens when the decision to slam has been made. It’s a kind of severing of emotions, a locking up of rational thought. Intellectually, I know what I’m about to do is wrong and harmful. By this point, I am perfectly aware of the damage slamming is doing to me. But when that decision is made, all those rational thoughts, all the emotions that have resulted from all the trauma and shit I’ve put myself through, it all goes into a deep freeze. I become numb and remain that way until the needle goes into my arm and I’m carried away by the slam’s euphoric rush.

But this time was slightly different.

I knew — and had immediately accepted — I would not make the audition for The Drowsy Chaperone the next morning.

While I gave myself over to the numbness as Richard prepared a couple slams, a faint but heavy sadness broke through.

I wanted to audition for The Drowsy Chaperone.

But I wanted to slam.

I needed to slam.

Even though I knew there would not be a satisfying fuck on the other side, still, the slam won.

The slam always won.

So I missed the audition, continued to work at Chipotle, and continued to use.

Though trying to work and use, however infrequently, proved to be more taxing than I could have anticipated. I truly will never understand how anyone can be a functioning addict cause there was nothing functional about me.

I would try to time my slams so I would have plenty of time to crash and recover before my shifts, but I wasn’t always successful. At least once every other week if not more I would call out “sick.” (Because calling out “high” is frowned upon.)

When my timing was successful and I did make it to work — spending eight hour shifts around “normal” people — the side effects from the meth became obvious, at least to me.

If a coworker asked “How ya doin’?” I would respond with a paranoid and aggressive “Why?”

When I’d work the food line, spooning out cheese, salsa, and guac (which was extra), I would involuntarily make sound effects.

I would add the meat and condiments with a “boop” or a “blurp” or a “bap,” completely aware of how absolutely nuts it made me seem. In my head, I’d be screaming Dude! What are you doing? Fucking stop!

Yet “barp, beep, burf” went the lettuce, the cheese, and the salsa.

When I would finally make it home to my own apartment, blessedly away from people — and blessedly away from Richard — I still had my Ukrainian landlord to face. Shortly after arriving home, I would hear him knock on my door asking about rent. On the days I came home with a paycheck, I wouldn’t deposit it. I’d simply endorse it over to him and hand it over.

Now, I wasn’t going hungry, not by a long shot. Chipotle had me anything but starving. With the cheese and the sour cream and the guac, a good size burrito was enough calories for an entire day, and I took home as many bags of chips left over at the end of the day as I wanted.

So with the infrequent slamming and even more infrequent fucking, the annoying side effects, the inability to save any money, and the disappointment in sabotaging my audition plans, working a real job was a fucking struggle.

It was a double decker struggle bus.

But on this day, as my worries about my lateness receded as I donned an apron and dish gloves, I was especially happy to hide in the back.

As I began to spray away rice and sauce and cheese and all, I tried to process, away from prying eyes, what had happened the previous day.

Richard leaving me at the sex club.

Arguing with Richard when I got home.

And how my face was still stinging where Richard had hit me.

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