Two Weeks Clean from Meth, I Nailed an Audition

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 11 Part 1

On a bright, clear day in early June, 2005, I sat on a sun-warmed park bench just inside the southwest corner of Central Park, took out a fresh little notebook with a slate blue cover, and began writing. “Well, of course I’m not done!”

Well, of course I’m not done!

After finishing my 2nd draft, I’ve found the need for an epilogue, a little “where are they now” wrap up, if you will.

Richard’s story has finally had a change for the better. Though if you were to ask him, the nicest thing he would have to say about it would be he’s been upgraded from hell to lower purgatory.

Nearly 14 months after our world came crashing down when Richard was arrested, he finally went before a judge.

What could have been 10 years in jail was pronounced two years probation, plus a $1000 fine.

Ironic that he paid his lawyer five times the amount of his fine. Nice work if you can get it.

With the threat of random drug testing, Richard has been clean for over a week! Now, I’m not one to bring it up, but his delusions have pretty much vanished and his “staph” showers have decreased quite dramatically.

In other news, I had my first audition in two years!

Seemed a bit quick to be getting back on that horse since I’d only been clean for two weeks on the day of the audition, but this was the very reason I decided to get clean, wasn’t it?

It was for Jesus Christ Superstar — a show I’ve done before and know like the back of my hand — at a dinner theater in Ohio that had already hired me once before for another biblical musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

I showed up at 6 AM for an audition that started at 9.

I finally sang around 11 AM.

At 1 PM, I was crammed into a rehearsal studio on 54th street with 100 other young men and women who had been asked to come back and dance in the afternoon.

A May breeze blew through the windows, cooling the ripening room as a shifting mass of jewel-toned tops and leotards tried to pick up the choreography being taught in the front of the studio.

Though the combination set to Simon Zealot’s song wasn’t technically difficult, it was high energy and had all of us sweating.

“Ok,” said the choreographer. “Ready to do this for real away from the mirrors?”

Shouted agreement dialed up enthusiasm, and the temperature, even higher.

“All right, move to the sides. We’re gonna go in groups of five. When I call your name, stand in a staggered line in that order.” The choreographer sat on the floor next to Jacob, the director, and started picking up headshots from the pile in front of them.

“Debra, down. Jarod, up. Bill, down. Heather, up. Jorge, down.”

The five actors took staggered places in the middle of the room. Jacob positioned their headshots in front of him on the floor, mirroring their positions.

“All right, Brad, hit it.”

A tall man with an oval face and brown hair started playing a piano. He had the music open in front of him, but his eyes were on the dancers. He clearly knew the number by heart. He pounded out funk for four full eight counts— which is a long time to wait — before counting the dancers in.

“5, 6, 7, 8!”

Five at a time, each group danced the routine two, three, even four times, switching lines every time. Dancers who were still waiting shadow danced, moving as little as possible, trying with uneven success not to be distracting.

“… John, down…”

I bounded onto the floor. Brad started playing.

Most of the other auditioners stood still, patient with big bright smiles, some with one foot behind the other in a proper starting dance position.

Not me.

I started bopping and dancing in place. I was having fun! It might have come off a little obnoxious, but I knew two things.

First, I was sure that in the actual production the choreography wouldn’t start with everyone standing still and quiet. The dance would come out of something. It would be the continuation of a celebration already occurring.

Second, every moment in the room was a chance to show them who I was. I may not execute the choreography perfectly, but I was gonna have a lot of fun dancing it either way.

As the last group finished, everyone gave the room a round of applause before settling into a quiet buzzing. We watched Jacob sift through one of two piles of headshots. Every single person knew where their headshot went. It was like following a game of three card monty. Problem was you never knew if you were in the callback pile till they started calling names.

“Ok, if I call your name, we’d like you to come back tomorrow and sing.”

They called my name!

“If I didn’t call your name, thank you very much, that’s all we need to see from you today.”

First audition in two years, and I got a callback! I’ll take the win.

I returned the next day.

I’d been called back for Jesus, Judas, and Simon Zealot. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to play Judas, but they started with the callback for Simon, bringing me and 6 other guys into the room. The director, Jacob, was sitting at a small table. Brad, who turned out to be the Musical Director, sat at the piano and took us through the solo as a group.

After a few minutes, they brought us in individually.

Brad started to go through the melody one more time with me.

“Um, if it’s ok, I know it. Can I show you what I like to do with it?”

I’d done Jesus Christ Superstar back in 2000 playing Jesus albeit a bit young at 21. Even if I hadn’t, JCS was one of those cast albums I knew by heart. I could have done my very own one-man show if they’d asked. I had my own interpretation and riffs for every song, including Simon Zealot’s.

“Ok,” Brad said. Setting down a challenge “You want to do your own thing? Let’s go.” Without missing a beat, he laid into the intro and I picked it up on the verse.

“Christ, what more do you need to convince you/That you’ve made it and you’re easily as strong…”

I let her rip, unleashing the version I’d done a thousand times alone in my room.

When I finished, Brad nodded in approval. “Ok. Alright.” I’d met his challenge.

“Great! That was great,” said Jacob the director. “Hang out outside, we may have you sing a couple more times today.”

I stuck around and sang a bit of Jesus and a bit of Judas, but singing Simon Zealot was the high point of my afternoon.

High point of any audition I’d had up to that point, truth be told.

I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but I walked into the room with as much understanding and command of the material as I could have hoped for. Most other auditions, I walked in with the handicap of insecurity, less focused on what I’d do with the material and more on trying to guess what the people behind the table were looking for, trying — trying — to pitch my audition to that.

When I walked into this audition for JCS, I wasn’t interested in guessing what it was they were looking for. I showed them how I would do it, what kind of work I would bring to the rehearsal room. I was either what they were looking for or I wasn’t.

Turns out I was!

A couple weeks later, I got the call.

“We’d like you to play Simon Zealot as well as understudy Jesus and Judas.”

I wanted Judas, but I wasn’t gonna complain. I got my own kick ass song and a couple of meaty understudy credits for my resume!

In just a couple of days, I’ll be hitting the road back to Illinois for Springfield Rep’s 2nd summer season. Got a much bigger role in the Shakespeare this time. Claudio in Much Ado About Nothing, a lovestruck but easily fooled ingenu, and Charlie in Brigadoon, another lovestruck ingenu with a couple songs this tenor is dying to sing!

Then, as if it was meant to be, two days after the summer season closes, I’ll be in Ohio to start rehearsals for Jesus Christ Superstar!

And ain’t no bus for me this time. I’m gonna be driving. Along with probation and the fine, the Judge also suspended Richard’s license. In an act of generosity that surprised even me, he’s loaning me his car. “I’m not gonna be driving it. You might as well.”

I secured a sublet for my room, so along with my roommate, Hector, rent was fully covered, praise the baby Jesus! With that, five months of straight theater work, and Richard loaning me his car, everything seems to finally be going my way.

Of course, not slamming meth was probably helping. The GMHC has been a big help with that. Been doing their individual counseling and group counseling for the past several weeks. I’ll probably start back up again when I get back, but for now this week was my last session.

I walked into an uninteresting meeting room at the Gay Men’s Health Crisis: white walls, gray carpet, dry erase board, blue-backed stackable chairs.

I greeted the few other early birds as I claimed a seat. I opened my backpack and took out a thin white binder — a typed up draft of everything I had written so far — and leaned it against my chair. It was a kind of talisman, physical proof of everything I’d been through in the last two years. I brought it out every meeting, hoping someone would notice and inquire.

No one ever did ask about it, but I brought it out just the same.

For the next hour our group talked about meth. Why we use it. Why we like it. How it makes us feel. We talked about self medicating, escapism, and what it might be that we were trying to escape.

We talked about what triggers us, what happens to us when we’re triggered, and what we can do when we are triggered.

We talked about harm reduction.

This wasn’t an Anonymous group. We didn’t get up and say how many days it had been since we last used. Abstinence was not required. Some of us weren’t ready to stop using, but all of us were ready to talk, and the GMHC’s counseling met us where we were at.

I didn’t intentionally not go to Narcotics Anonymous or Crystal Meth Anonymous. I’d simply signed up for the GMHC’s group therapy at the same time I signed up for individual counseling. I wanted to see how well it worked. If it didn’t, I’d try something else.

Thankfully, it seemed to be working.

Of course, I’d stopped using for weeks at a time before, and though the crash was always rough, it was old hat by that point.

But to actually be talking about meth. Not just using it. Not just writing about it. But talking about it with other human beings.

Giving voice to all those slithery rationalizations that guide us back into using, exposing them to the disinfecting sunlight of rational argument, showed them for the intangible poisonous clouds they were and how quickly they evaporated.

Today, we were continuing our discussion on triggers.

“What happens when you’re triggered?” asked the group counselor. “How do you feel when you’re triggered?”

“Weak,” said the guy on my left.

“Weak, ok, what else?”

“You feel like…” a guy across the circle started.

“Put it in an ‘I’ statement.”

“Right. Fuck. I feel mindless. Like a zombie.”

“Weak, mindless, like a zombie, ok.”

“Yeah,” I jumped in, “It’s like my brain shuts off, like I’m on autopilot.”

“Good, this is good. Mindless, like a zombie, like your brain shuts off. So when those moments happen, when you’re triggered, try to stay present in that moment. Try to keep your brain from shutting off, from going to autopilot.”

We brainstormed ways we might do this. For me, it was working on my story. So much of my story was naturally triggering, and I’d given in to those triggers many times. Yet, the more I worked on it — the more I wrote while being triggered, focusing on putting my experience and trauma into words — the less of a hold being triggered had on me.

I was no longer passive, letting the trigger lure me into another slam. I was active, keeping my mind awake and engaged. Eventually being triggered became tantamount to a nicotine fit, an unpleasant experience that would pass if I stayed patient and present.

Incidentally, since I was up to my neck in examining my addictions, I took the opportunity to quit smoking. I hadn’t had a cigarette in nearly two months. And, boy, nic-fits were no joke! In fact, quitting smoking kept me preoccupied and distracted during my first few weeks without meth.

“All right,” the group counselor said with the tone of wrapping it up. “Before we leave today, let’s all say goodbye and good luck to John. He’ll be leaving us after this week.”

“What?” exclaimed one of the guys. He was skinny, delightfully effeminate, and always seemed to be wearing bright yellows and pinks. “Where are you going?”

“I’m heading out next week to do summer stock in Illinois, then to Ohio to do Jesus Christ Superstar.”

There was a pleasant murmur of approval which made me smile.

“But,” the skinny gay continued, “what happens when you, I don’t know, forget a line or fall down on stage or something? Won’t you want to use?”

I laughed. He was so sweet.

“Well, first off, I’m a fucking klutz, so I’d be suprised if I didn’t fall down on stage. And I’ll probably forget a line, too. It’s all part of it, part of the fun. It’s where I live.

“Plus, I’ve never used while working on a show. I’ve used right up to the day before, but never during. And I don’t intend to start.”

“Will I use again?

Much hesitation follows this self asked question.

I find that I am not willing or able to make the grand declaration that I shall never use again. I’ve tasted that bitter drink. The grass gets ever greener the higher you build the fence.

I very well may use again. I am perfectly capable of using. Fighting the war of lifelong sobriety risks the terrible grand disappointment of losing the entire war with a single use. Such a defeat would be as devastating — to the ego, to self image, to self worth — as the Atomic Bomb was on Hiroshima.

I will not declare that war. Instead, I will fight my battles as they come, rejoicing in my small victories while learning from my defeats. Most assuredly there will be defeats. I’ve had a few already.

I will not declare “I will never use again in my lifetime,” but instead choose not to use when the individual choice is before me, while making adjustments and setting boundaries so as to circumvent those moments of “to use or not to use.”

We do not live lifetimes. We live one day at a time. One moment at a time.

So, in my way — which I can’t say I fully understand but seems to work so far — I find strength in allowing myself the freedom of choice.

To declare “I will never use again,” I am taking away that freedom, taking away that choice. Without choice, I am no longer in control.

By allowing myself this freedom, by allowing myself the choice — to say yes or no in any given moment — I retain control.

To put it another way, I risk loss of control to keep control.

Over the past two years my life has changed. Of course, everyone to some degree can say this. I would like to think, though, that the degree of change I’ve experienced is larger than the norm.

No matter how long my sobriety lasts or what I go on to achieve in my life, along with the trauma, pain, and desperation, it will be the enjoyment I had during my drug use that will forever be seared into my memory.

Where I am lucky is how it will affect my craft. That fire, that want, that ache, will, I believe, be a lifelong source of fuel and drive that has already begun to influence my story telling.

To tip my hat to Anne Rice, you can hear the blood in my voice.

While my story isn’t over, for now, I’ve come to an end.

My intention was to tell my story, as Richard would say, nothing more, nothing less. I think I’ve done that.

Today I have made my choice.

Tomorrow I will choose again.

That turned out not to be the epilogue I thought it was. Still, in that moment, I felt I’d come to an end if not the end.

I closed my notebook, took a moment to enjoy the warm spring day in Central Park, then made my way to the Columbus Circle subway station and hopped the number one train home.

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Chapter Guide

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