Big Mike: My Drug Problem

Allow me to crow a bit here. Monday night I absolutely kicked the living crap out of the opposition in the weekly Trivia competition at Dick’s Pizza. Man, I was a superstar. Playing alone against one team of seven people, another of four people, and several other teams of varying sizes, I won the game by 31 points.

I felt like a victorious general parading into Rome on his chariot, a captured slave holding a laurel wreath above his head and whispering the words Memento mori (Remember, you too must die) in his ear.

I wish I could earn a living playing Trivia. I’d be as awash in cash as the sub-prime mortgage pimps of the last 15 years. The Loved One would be thrilled. For the moment, though, I had to be satisfied with my $25 winnings, meaning I’ll drain that much less out of the checking account. If that doesn’t necessarily thrill The Loved One, at least it ought make her fret a little less this week.

This is all a self-indulgent set-up for what happened next. Basking in my glory while sitting next to Trombone Skip at the bar, I noticed a woman named Heidi Montag on Larry King’s show up on the overhead giant flatscreens.

“Skip, old man,” I asked, “who in the hell is Heidi Montag?”

“Damned if I know,” came the rejoinder.

Now, I’ve seen her name time and again. My online source of gossip, dlisted, follows her every move. I know, for instance, that she was on the same brain-melting reality show – “I’m A Celebrity: Get Me Out Of Here!” – that Patti Blagojevich is on. Only I couldn’t figure out why Heidi Montag is a celebrity. So, I turned to the bartender, Rock Star Zach.

“Who’s Heidi Montag?”

Rock Star Zach is best described as a rubber band pulled dangerously taut. He bounces from one end of the bar to the other (except when he’s called upon to perform his professional services – then he becomes as ponderous as a tree sloth.) He often takes umbrage at imagined slights. This was one of those times. He glared at Skip and me and then loudly crashed some glasses and plates into the sink.

“Are you guys trying to piss me off or what?” he demanded.

Skip and I recoiled in shock. Eventually, we learned why Heidi Montag is a celebrity from a passing waitress. (Trust me, it’s for no good reason at all.) Then we watched Rock Star Zach stomping to and fro behind the bar.

“The rumor is,” Skip whispered, “that he’s got a little problem.” The implication, of course, is that our faithful server likes things he can put into his nose.

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” I said, shrugging.

I’m aware that bartenders are particularly susceptible to using drugs that give them bursts of energy. Cocaine is one. Methadrine is another. It’s no secret among people who spend time on either side of the bar.

When I was slinging cocktails for the Nardini boys at Club Lago in Chicago, dashing about like a pinball, it became obvious to me why a bartender might want to give the old adrenal glands a boost. I’m no prude but I’ve always drawn the line at heavy-duty specifics like cocaine and speed.

Under the critical eye of the younger Nardini, Guido, I ran like a madman. I was hired at the joint because I was a pal of his older brother Giancarlo. I surmised early on that Guido resented me because of it. He never failed to bust me over shortcomings, no matter how trivial or even merely imagined by him. Every time Guido was on duty, he cracked the verbal whip. I’d be racing around like an ant, yet he’d still be chiding me. Speed! he’d shout. Speed! I never had any idea how I could do things any faster.

One night we were slammed. Customers stood four-deep at the bar. Drink orders flew in my direction from every possible angle. If I were an octopus, I’d still need another arm. Covered with sweat, I shoved drinks out and made the boys’ antique cash register ring like a carillon. Still, Guido stood near me, pointing out customers, yelling Speed! and clucking his tongue as if I were moving in slow motion.

As this all was going on, my roommate Tim sat with his boyfriend at the time in a booth on the other side of the room. The two of them watched me as if I were putting on a show for their entertainment. At one point, the two of them stared at me, shaking their heads.

That night, Tim knocked on my bedroom door and asked to speak with me. He wore a face of concern and sadness.

“Mike,” he began, dolefully, “are you having any problems?”

“Me? No. Well, yeah, maybe. My back and feet hurt.”

“No. I don’t mean that. I mean…, I don’t know…, are you doing things you maybe shouldn’t be doing?”

“Huh?”

“C’mon, Mike. This is hard for me.”

“Whuh?”

“Steve (his boyfriend) thinks you’re on meth.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Why?”

“Have you seen yourself at work? You’re running around like a madman! It’s obvious what you’re doing?”

“It is?”

I spent the next half hour trying to convince my dear friend that I wasn’t a drug fiend. He left the room unconvinced. The next day he told me he’d spoken to his boyfriend about our late night chat.

“Steve says of course you’d deny it.”

“What?”

“Mike! C’mon! Using meth!”

“Oh, that. Well, I’m not.”

“Mike, you’ll never get over it until you come clean with yourself.”

And so began another half hour of denials. And again, Tim remained unconvinced. Only years later did he come around to the belief that I’d never done methadrine. I hated to disappoint Tim – I’d denied him the successful intervention he could have crowed about to his friends.