| |
Circuit Stories
By
Ken Cimino
Chapter
Eleven: Promises
The corridor hallway stretched out ahead of me, empty, and with no exit in sight. Unlike so many times in the past, however, this time it wasn’t a mystery. There was an obvious solution… I’m a drug addict, in rehab in Minneapolis. I’m at a place called Promises. The only problem is that I’m not sure if I’m in rehab for me, or if I’m here for Will. He wasn’t happy about my doing GHB again on the way to HellBall, and things got pretty nasty at one point. I begged him, and finally promised to kick the drugs once and for all if he’d just stay. I didn’t exactly keep my word.
It’s funny, though, I’m talking about breaking my word at a place that’s called Promises. Maybe that’s the point.
After a huge fight with Will, he wanted to take some time to figure things out. Of course, I then called Rick and bought a bunch of crystal meth and GHB. I smoked almost all of the meth within a day, and kissed sleep goodbye. That weekend I hit the internet and searched for parties and play tricks, letting men come in and out of my life without even having a chance of remembering who they were.
Monday came and I called in sick to work. I had already watched every porn movie I had over fifteen times with about fifteen different men… Will still didn’t return my call.
I called Rick again and bought more Tina and G. When Rick came he brought a friend and we played for five or six hours. Rick’s friend called another friend who brought over some X. The play party stretched on until we were too far-gone to care. Rick took a taxi home.
Tuesday I called in sick again. I had used all of my lube trying to jack off with four-day crystal dick. Even though I knew I couldn’t cum, all the touching and rubbing felt incredible… I just couldn’t stop. I think another five guys I’d found online had come by, but there had been so many that I couldn’t keep track. I was sick of touching my dick, but I just couldn’t stop myself.
At one point, a husky guy with auburn hair and a bright red goatee came over. We played “Coach and Player” for few hours, and it actually seemed to make my limp dick hard. Maybe because I
got to pretend to be someone else? All I know is how sad I felt after the taxi came and he went home. I sat in my apartment alone and watched more porn while chatting on AOL.
I lost track of the time, but I know that there were hours and hours of porn. Hours and hours of picture swapping on AOL. Hours and hours of loneliness.
Hours and hours of fear, and coming down.
By Wednesday, I had been awake for almost five days and finally passed out. It was a relief, really... my lack of sleep had me convinced the police were outside my door, using video cameras hidden in the light bulbs and taping my phone conversations. When I finally awoke from my forced slumber I realized I hadn’t even called into work yet.
Will still hadn’t called me back… I guess he was still figuring things out.
I sat there alone, the computer and television both turned off. I listened to the sound of my own breathing for what seemed like hours, and finally dropped to my knees and asked God for help because I couldn’t take the craziness anymore. My prayer seemed like a mantra in my head… “I’m almost 35 and I can’t keep spinning on the carousel wheel… Please, God. Help me!”
It was then I knew an addict, with a strange clarity. I simply just went to bed.
Thursday came and I called my health plan. They did an over-the-phone assessment and approved me for an intake substance abuse treatment. After that, I called my office and talked to my boss. He was very understanding, and told me to do what I needed to do. The law firm basically gave me a leave of absence to deal with my problem, and one of my co-workers even suggested that I check out Promises.
As Friday came I was on a plane heading to Minnesota. I had called and left a message on Will’s machine, telling him where I was going. What I didn’t say was that there was a part of me that was going for him, because I wanted him back and figured that maybe rehab was the answer. After all, it had worked for him… twice.
But want to know the truth?
The truth is that I was hiding. I was hiding from everyone in my life. I was afraid of my life. As a lawyer, I always I had to put on some show of force… I always needed to be holding everything together. And while I put on a great show of keeping cool under pressure, on the inside I was dying. It was November, but I’d been dying since that plane ride with Jerry and Caesar last January. I was so afraid, and I really thought that rehab would be where I would fight my fears.
Of course, drug addict that I was, I called Rick on Thursday night. I bought some crystal and a vial of GHB for my flight. There I was doing bumps of meth and taking caps of G for the entire four-hour flight to Minneapolis. I think a flight attendant escorted me off the plane, and I was lost in the airport parking lot for an hour. I knew that I needed to get a taxi and get to the center, but something was still holding me back. I called Will.
He answered.
I thought that he would be proud. I told him where I was. I guess he could tell that I was high, though, and he hung up on me. I did one last huge bump and threw the rest of the bag into a bathroom trashcan. I didn’t even think twice about the GHB before throwing the plastic bottle into the can with the bag.
As I walked outside from the airport, it was freezing… it was the middle of November and there was snow everywhere. I could see each breath I took, but my head was still soaring from the meth so it took a few moments for it to register. I somehow managed to flag down a cab… the Arabic driver smiled a little when I told him the address. I imagine that he’d probably been taking addicts to the center for years. As he drove, he motioned to the snow on the ground and made some comment about it being an early snow this year.
I think that the driver understood my plight, or at least felt a little sympathy for me… he talked endlessly about Minneapolis in an attempt to distract me. Through it all, I heard Madonna’s
Secret playing on the radio. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep the music out of my head…
My baby’s got a secret
I asked the driver if he’d please change the station… I couldn’t bear to hear Madonna songs as the soundtrack to my life anymore. I needed to learn how to make my own music, to sing my own songs.
As the driver dropped me off at the center, he smiled a little and told me that everything would be okay. I got the feeling that he’d made that particular comment more times than he could remember; it still made me feel better, however. I couldn’t help but think that I’d miss the cab driver once he was gone… I still do.
Walking into the Promises facility, the first thing that I noticed was that it seemed like there was yellow everywhere. There were yellow stripes painted on the white walls, there were pictures of yellow flowers hanging in ugly frames, and the woman named Pam who was signing me in and acting as my incoming counselor even wrote on a yellow legal pad as I began to pour my soul onto her paper by telling her about my use and overuse of the last five or six years. They say that yellow is a soothing color, but I felt as though it was trying to engulf me completely. I felt so exhausted… but maybe that was the point. Maybe yellow was a soothing color, after all. I just know that as soon as I set foot into the facility all that I wanted to do was sleep.
Of course, the counselors don’t let you just drop out as soon as you check in. From the moment you enter the facility, you’re on full treatment. Pam went on to explain the rules of the center, though I was still so buzzed that I didn’t really hear most of them. She asked if I had any drugs with me, and I told her that I’d ditched them at the airport. I was completely honest, and I think that she appreciated that. A large black man named Albert came in soon after, and escorted me to my room.
Albert didn’t say much as he took me to my room; I just followed his steps down the long hallways. I had no idea where I was going, so every once in a while my body would touch Albert’s. I’m not sure why, but I felt just a little better every time our bodies made contact. I remember thinking that Albert was probably just annoyed at having to take a high fag to his room. When we reached the door, Albert announced, “Room 305.”
As he opened the door I could see two bunk beds. Albert informed me that we would be eating lunch in the next hour, and I would be expected to start cleaning up the center after I ate. I walked slowly into the room, taking in everything that I saw… the chairs, the closets, and the two tidy beds with light yellow blankets and a Bible on top. Albert told me that my roommate was from England, and that his name was Peter.
As Albert was leaving, he told me to just do what they tell me to do and I’ll be fine. In my hazy state I couldn’t help but wonder whether Peter was hot or not... I guess I was hoping for twenty-eight days of mind-blowing sex. Unfortunately, Albert shut the door too quickly for me to answer.
I would learn later that Albert was a postman, and that he was addicted to heroin. I’m sure taking me to my room was a pain in his ass.
I sat down in one of the chairs, realizing that I was as high as a kite on my first day in rehab and I that I was in a center full of addicts. Just like you couldn’t spit and miss guys in chaps at the Castro Halloween celebration, I couldn’t throw a Bible without hitting an addict at Promises. Of course, the Bibles were everywhere. I would learn later that the Bible or anything else symbolizing a “higher power” is an important part of the recovery process… or at least it was for me.
Standing, I opened my room door and watched various people pass by. The individuals in the center were all so different, yet at the same time we were all the same. Just like me, and just like Albert, they were all addicts of some sort.
The judge was an alcoholic. The unemployed mother of three was hooked on crack. The television reporter had a sex addiction. The weird part of all of it was the fact that as soon as I entered my room I realized I wasn’t alone. For the last six or seven months I’d felt so alone, and so empty... even with Will I felt a hollow loneliness that sometimes made me cry.
When I look back I realize I struggled with the loneliness. Every month I went from one place to another, and hugged
one friend or another... and took one drug or another. It was suppose to unite us, to keep us all from isolation. The circuit was our way of giving the straight world the finger. You won’t let us marry, you treat
us as second-class citizens, and you condemn our sexual behavior as deviant. Fine. We’ll show you. We’ll just party. We’ll form a tribe based on music and romantic places. If the promoter is really honest we might even raise some money for AIDS research. Of course, the promoters were never really honest. They never gave much to HIV and AIDS research... just a few token donations to keep the IRS happy.
Looking back, all I could see was the isolation, the disconnection. It was all a rip off. Our tribe was nothing more than a castle built on the sand, an illusion of safety that threatened to wash away at any moment. None of the relationships were real; they were all based on drugs and hugs, and nothing more. I felt like an idiot, throwing away so much money and losing so much sleep only to spend most of my time afraid of the judgments of others. Was my chest big enough? Were my teeth white enough? Did my ass bubble enough? Everything I had known was a lie.
That first afternoon as I came off drugs and came onto reality, things began to seem clear for the very first time. The drugs, the sex, and the parties were all for others… none of it was for me. I spent my entire life reacting to others. I needed to start being proactive.
As I stood alone in the doorway to my room I became thankful for this new start. I understood it would be difficult, but I would try to give rehab a hundred percent. For the next twenty-eight days I would do nothing but work on myself. I would be one among a group of people who would go in and out of each other’s lives for the next month. Still watching the people walk by, I couldn’t help but think that for the first time in a long time I was surrounded by people who were real.
We all had to follow the rules of the center. There was no tolerance whatsoever for any using while at Promises, though cigarettes and coffee were allowed. No one was allowed to leave the center grounds until their time was up, and no one could have any sort of a sexual relationship with any of the other patients. I decided that I would try my hardest to follow the rules to the letter.
When they announced dinner, I walked into the cafeteria hungry for the first time in weeks. A woman who’s nametag called her Amber offered me a large helping of lasagna. She smiled, and her smile made me feel better. I kept eating the lasagna like I was totally empty and for the first time I was filling up. No matter what I ate I had to fill up.
I was on my second helping of lasagna when an odd looking man sat across from me two tables over. He seemed to give me a weird glare, though I wasn’t sure as to why. I would
learn later it was simply the way that he looked. His nose looked as though it were out of place, as though it had been moved during some obscene plastic surgery operation. Soon enough I would discover that he was my roommate.
Obviously, when I first saw Peter I wasn’t too worried about sex. I could tell under his sweatshirt and sweat pants that he had solid frame, and he definitely had very broad shoulders... but his face was so mismatched that it seemed to completely distort the entire image. I knew he was going to be quite the colorful character.
I met him about two hours after dinner. He was an older gay man in his late 40’s, but with a deformed face that I learned came from being a wrestler for the last thirty years.
I was cleaning the third floor bathroom when he entered to take a piss. He caught me staring.
“It’s bullocks having to clean the loo the first day,” he grinned a crooked smiled. “What are you in here for?”
Unsure of what to say, I simply told him the truth. “I’m Jack. I’m your standard gay drug addict, meaning that if you can get high from it then I’ve probably done it. I’m having a problem coping with my partying lifestyle.”
He stuck out his hand and grasped mine.
“I’m Peter, though most just call me Pete, and I’m an alcoholic. Too much a regular at my local pub, I s’pose. My problem is I’m more keen on pints than I am on ‘rasslin.” Pete’s hand kept holding mine until I gave it a large shake. We looked at each other eye to eye, or as close to it as we could with his eyes being slightly uneven. I wasn’t entirely sure what Pete the wrestler had just said, but for some reason I kept talking. I wasn’t sure if it was the remaining drugs in my system, or if it was plain old anxiety… whatever the reason, I wasn’t going to allow silence between Pete and I.
“My real problem is that my lifestyle isn’t very good for a practicing attorney. But what about you? What do you do for a living? If I had to guess, I’d say some sort of carpentry work, or maybe construction…” I was babbling like a fool.
“I’m ‘rassler from Wales,” Pete said, and I actually picked up on it this time. “I trained in London when I was 14, turned pro at 16, and have ‘rassled all over Europe, Australia, and Japan, and have now made it all the way through the Far East, and then India, and now through Canada and into the States.”
Though we spoke the same language, I had to keep thinking about what he was saying because his accent was so thick. I could tell he was gay right away, however... I guess the center likes to put the gays together, either for moral support or maybe to help them work through their temptations.
“I have been teaching and training ‘rassling for years,” Pete continued. “My present classes have 84 studs, mainly yuppies. Hard work for me, and I run ‘em like Marine Corps trainees. Most of them are pissed I’m not riding their asses right now” added Pete. “But the judge says I got to do my time, so I’m here to clean myself up. Get out and ‘rassle life all over again.”
To be honest, I think that I was a little scared of Pete. Luckily, I was scared of rehab more. I didn’t really want to admit that the drugs were controlling me. Four hours into rehab and I was scared of realizing that I had no real control of my life. I thought that I’d had a plan… college, law school, lawyer. I accomplished everything that I said I would, so why was I so afraid?
Thank God for Pete. He kept me from having to worry about my doubts and fears… he got me started thinking about wrestling.
Pete was at the center because of a second DUI in the Minneapolis area. Most of the bones in his face had been broken at least twice – usually from either wrestling or from alcohol-induced accidents. His nose had been busted four times. His face was ugly, but as he shared his wrestling stories I slowly became attracted to him. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, because of Will... after all, I came to rehab in the first place so that I could get over my addiction and hopefully get him back into my life. I wasn’t here to meet old Welsh wrestlers who had banged-up faces. I did think I could learn a few things from Pete, however.
I thought that since I was going to be at the center for a few weeks, perhaps Pete could teach me how to wrestle. After all, he coached wrestlers at a professional wresting school on the Minnesota and Iowa border. I told him that I was originally from Iowa, and he got very excited… I suppose a lot of wrestlers come from my state. After several days of wondering, I finally asked him how much it would cost to learn.
“Cost? Well, there’s no mats here – right? It don’t matter. Besides, we’re buddies, right? Well, you never charge a mate; ruins the camaraderie. Anyway, I do this for fun. I love it. And the day I don’t I’ll take up knitting!” He hit me in my stomach as he made that last remark, while I was trying to scrub the sink in our bathroom. I’d noticed that I was a lot cleaner with the drugs out of my system.
“In a week you’ve already put some size back on those shoulders,” Pete said. “Now that you’re not taking that poison anymore, you’re getting into better ‘rassling form. Just keep away from that stuff, and you’ll be fine.” I looked in the bathroom mirror and secretly asked myself was I really here with “Pete the ‘Rassler” discussing my addiction?
Later that evening, Pete and I sat together and talked while we ate. I asked him to tell me what it was like to wrestle straight men. Did they ever get hard, or seem overly excited?
“Most of the men that I ‘rassle are straight, “ Pete said, “but they get off from man-to-man contact. I just ignore ‘em if their dicks get stiff. Just last month I had a married accountant. I don’t know what he told the missus, but he showed up at my flat at 11 one night... and we didn’t end until way after 2 in the mornin’. It was awesome. I guess he told his wife he was up late doing someone’s taxes, or somethin’...”
He had a wide variety of wrestling stories, and with each one I learned a little more about what wrestling was and why Pete loved it so much. With each of his stories, I found myself starting to love wrestling a little bit more.
“I ‘rassled this guy, a German former pro ‘rassler like me, for over eleven years. We’d ‘rassle grudge matches, winner owns the loser, for stakes. Ask me who won,” Pete said, his missing teeth glaring through his crooked smile as I swept the game room floor. I no longer cared about meetings or my own issues… just hearing Pete’s wrestling stories.
By the start of the second week I almost had a PhD in the sport. As we watched the WWE he explained why on television they played the characters the way that they did... and why each character was prone to change his point of view or switch from good to bad at a moment’s notice.
“In pro ‘rassling,' he explained, “there is usually a guy, called a “face” or “baby face”, which is the good guy, and usually loses! The “heel” is the bad guy, who is the ugly brutal ‘rassler who fights and beats up on the baby face. It’s all staged, of course, but crowds pay good to see it. The heels beat up on the face, and the crowd loves to hate it… and it makes it all the more sweet when the face wins in the end. Sometimes the stories will go on for months, but it’s all a set-up for the big pay-per-view events so that the fans’ll watch to see who wins the big matches.”
I sat there, taking it all in. Of course, Pete didn’t have to tell me which character he played… with his broken up face, he had to be a professional heel.
Thirteen days into my treatment, Will came to visit. I appreciated the support, but I found that I couldn’t stop thinking about Pete. It was hard talking to Will, and I think he knew I seemed distant and unappreciative. He flew all that way, but only stayed a few hours to bring me some candy. I felt like crap when he left.
I wanted some GHB to take away the guilt, or some X to just take everything away. I went right back to my room, and back to my strange relationship with Pete. He and I would move the game room furniture around and wrestle until Pam or one of the counselors told us to stop. We tried to wrestle in our room, but it was too small... just as well, I suppose, since I wouldn’t want them thinking we were trying to do something more.
I never actually had sex with Pete, but our wrestling was so intense that once or twice we both got hard. It was never about sex, though… it was something so different that I barely know how to describe it. There was pure intellectual pleasure, and it was more mental to mental contact than man to man. I was at Promises to work on the things in my mind, but it seemed that I spent all of my time facing off with Pete and fighting to be on top. I suppose that it was my way of never having to stop being a coward and actually confront my drug addiction issues; I just had to confront Pete.
Eighteen days into my treatment, Pete’s time was up. He kissed me on the cheek and gave me a huge hug when he left. His hug was so tight that I almost lost my breath.
“Good luck mate,” he said, and then just like that he was gone. Afterwards, I was consumed once again by my loneliness.
That night in my group session, I admitted that I’d been using the wrestling matches with Pete as a way to avoid my actual problems. It happened after Pam confronted me about it, and I finally admitted I was really hiding from my problems with drugs and alcohol. I cried uncontrollably.
Laying in my bed after the group meeting, I realized I needed to end my relationship with Will. I never physically cheated on Will during our time together, but everything with Pete had played with my emotions and I knew that I wasn’t really being true to Will.
Will visited me again on Thanksgiving weekend. Maybe he hoped a few weeks at the center would’ve cleared my head, or that I’d be over whatever problems I’d had before. He came in with flowers made of fall colors… shades of orange, yellow, and brown. He said that he was thankful I was in his life, and told me that he loved me. He swore that he would stick by me, no matter what.
We sat at table in the cafeteria and ate cold turkey and mashed potatoes with gravy with all the other addicts in the center. He held my hand, and looked into my eyes. I wanted to just give myself over to him, but I knew that I’d just end up daydreaming about Pete.
I was appreciative of my growing clarity on that Thanksgiving. If I stayed with Will now, it would be for all of the wrong reasons. I was still scared, but it was partially of being sober and alone. I loved Will; I just needed to fight the disease my way. I didn’t want to live a lie anymore, so I told him that it was over.
He cried. I just stared at the different flowers that made up my fall bouquet. We were both broken, with him crying and me staring.
The week after he left I felt a desire to fill myself up with something. My heart and my soul were both so empty, and I didn’t know what I could fill them with. I’d ended the relationship with Will, but in the end I knew that he was too good for me. Imagine that… a retired porn star that was too good for hotshot lawyer. I knew that it was the truth, though, and I needed to start saying the truth.
I had cheated on Will. I never had sex with Pete, but over our wrestling sessions we’d developed something psychological that transcended sex.
Pete had taught me to fight on my own.
It was at that moment I decided to face my fears. I would stay an extra two weeks to work on myself, or longer if I needed it. Taking a deep breath, I sat there on my bed and opened the smooth black cover of my Bible to see if I might be able to find some other truth inside.
Copyright © 2006 Ken Cimino
|
