On Meth: Dancing, British Accents, and Overstaying My Welcome

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 3 Part 5

Over the next several weeks I often found myself at Matthew’s partaking of his generosity and his Tina. Matthew never seemed to mind. He was always patient and gracious, seemingly interested in what I had to say during our marathon chats. Perhaps that was the academic in him, or perhaps he was just inherently kind.

That being said, I didn’t want to Party and Pontificate. I wanted to Party and Play. I wanted to fuck! And Randy was still my first choice, especially since Matthew didn’t really seem that interested, at least not with me.

Not every attempt at fooling around with Randy was a crash and burn, though never again at his place. It was either my place — though not much after the bat incident — or we would fool around at Matthew’s when he was either away or asleep. Matthew and Randy seemed to have some sort of unspoken open-ish relationship? I was never sure, but it always seemed like when we fooled around it was on the downlow.

I honestly didn’t care. I just wanted to fuck.

From that first bong hit in Danny’s room, all I wanted to do was get high and fuck. Party and Play. To me, that’s what Tina was made for, that was it’s intention, it’s purpose. I would climb high to dive into the water, but time and time again, something or someone seemed to hold me back, tell me to wait, and keep me from taking the thrilling fall into undulating water below.

Now, don’t get me wrong, some of the times with Randy were actually enjoyable, fleeting moments where we would dip a foot in the water, a splash in the face. Small, wonderful moments where I caught a glimpse of what Tina was leading me toward: sexual abandon, physical release, a fleeing of place, time, and circumstance.

But we only ever touched the water. We never fully dove in. Along with the constant battle with “drug dick,” fucking around with Randy meant constantly changing positions till we twisted ourselves into sweat drenched pretzels, like we were playing a confusing version of Twister where Randy was the endlessly frustrated referee who alone knew the rules.

There was also my inexperience to contend with. I honestly didn’t know guys douched or “cleaned out” before sex. It’s nuts to think about it now, but up till then I basically just crossed my fingers, hoped for the best, and dealt with whatever the result was thinking that was just part of it. Randy first introduced me to the idea of preparing beforehand, sending me to the local drug store for some Fleet Enemas, with the most “you have to be fucking kidding me” face you can possibly imagine.

By mid July, patience between Randy and me was wearing thin.

For me, it was the lack of action. Sexual action, yes, but also just action. Randy was the Alpha of this little group. He was Waiting for Godot but in reverse: he never went anywhere, and therefore neither did we. When he wasn’t crashing or endlessly prepping a slam, he was, “Wait, wait, I just want too…

“I have to call…

“I just want to change my clothes…

“15 minutes and we’ll go.”

15 became 30, became an hour, became multiple hours, and, more often than not, plans were usually sacked.

I quickly learned to not share my thoughts about theater, as his criticism could be quite biting, even cruel. He never brought up theater himself, but he was nonetheless the “authority.”

He was also oddly territorial about information regarding Tina. I wanted to know what was the smallest amount you could buy? The largest? What was the price? Ya know, things a drug user might like to know.

“Why do you need to know? You don’t need to know. Don’t worry about it! Why do you even care?”

It felt like Randy was being a total Heather, and I was Winona Ryder.

But I wanted to be Winona Ryder in Dracula, goddamnit!

As for what was testing Randy’s patience? Well, Tina had a number of specific effects on my behavior.

While high on Tina, everything was glorious! Literally filled with Glory.

The morning light would pour through windows like sparkling honey. It would fill the room with such magnificent warmth that it felt like a new beginning after a night of darkness and shadows. The sun’s rays would warm my already radiating skin and leave me so drunk with bliss that I honestly couldn’t help but dance.

Every simple movement, every gesture, the flexing, stretching, and releasing of muscles, held cascading sensations of pleasure. I didn’t see it as being fidgety. I saw it as enjoying the experience of having a body, stretching my arms, pointing my feet, contracting and releasing my torso, even just rolling my hands, all in a Fosse-like way as if I had become a dancer in the musical Chicago. I enjoyed the feeling of constant motion, like a morning stretch that never seemed to end.

As affected as my movements were, so too was my speech. I was now constantly speaking with my faux Ab Fab British accent, tragically unaware of how grating it could be after even a short time.

While lost in my bliss, there was no hope of me being able to focus. On anything. Not even what I was saying. My brain was like a monkey swinging from tree to tree, tangent to tangent, till I was lost in a forest of my own thoughts with no hope, or care, of finding my original tree.

Where Tina impaired my ability to communicate, it totally obliterated any understanding or awareness of social cues. I mean, I was pretty dense before, but Tina took what little comprehension and self awareness I had, buried it in dense black dirt, paved over it with cement and then built a strip mall full of Spirit Halloweens on top.

Subtextual hints like, “Well, I’m getting tired,” or physical cues like Randy putting on his clothes and shoes and dangling his keys all slid right off my understanding. It was like trying to turn a doorknob with a hand covered in butter. In a world where no one says anything directly anymore, in my amplified state I didn’t have a chance.

Though honestly, even “John, go home” would have been met with a confused puppy head tilt.

So there was my constant dancing and fidgeting, my affected British accent, my naïveté, my complete and utter lack at picking up social cues, and several times overstaying my welcome.

But also — perhaps more so — I was a fucking mooch.

I had been back from 42nd Street for a little over a month. I hadn’t saved any money and was currently living off of the grace of my parents who were still helping me out with my post breakup with bills, rent, and groceries. I was otherwise living off a credit card which I purposefully didn’t know the pin to so I couldn’t use it to take money out of an ATM. Since I never had cash, I was never able to contribute.

Matthew had always been willing to share, but as I continued to come over with the expectation to partake, that willingness became strained. At least, it became strained with Randy.

One day I was sitting in what I had come to think of as “my” chair, my usual spot. The vibe was definitely that of wrapping up, so much so that even I was picking up on it. Matthew had some Tina out in full view on the same blue plate. Of course I wanted some, but even I knew I had been quite the moocher, so I hadn’t asked.

I was also tired, having probably been up for the last 24 hours at least.

With Randy and Matthew in the room, I let out this huge yawn, as tired people are apt to do. For the record, it was a real yawn, but since I was perpetually in a constant state of heightened theatricality and affectation, my yawn came out fucking contrived! Even as it was happening, I thought “man, that seemed fake.” I might as well have said “Please kind sir, I’m so very tired. Could you, in your infinite mercy, please spare a small bump of Tina for this poor wretch of a tweeker?”

Randy turned his back to me and proceeded to have a whispered argument with Matthew, as if I was standing on the other side of a door and not three feet away from them in the same room, Matthew was fine with me having one more bump, but Randy was having none of it. After a couple of minutes, they reached a compromise.

Matthew let me have a bump while at the same time Randy said, “I think we have to call it a day. Matthew’s got to get some sleep and I have errands to run”

In other words, “John, go home!”

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