The next time they asked for a beer stop, I said, “Sure—and, hey, get me one, too.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, a red light was flashing, but I ignored it. My problem was drugs, not alcohol, I told myself—though I’d had it explained to me that a buzz is a buzz, and anything could set me off.
I was trying to do a good thing with my old friends. But if you’re surrounded by people in a room, and you’re standing on a chair, what’s easier—to pull your friends up or to be pulled down? The law of gravity answers that one, and I was already feeling that tug. With the beer, I was on my way down from my height; with the cigarette, which always had to go with a beer, I was down a little more. I was smoking and drinking, and boy, I felt good.
At first, some of these guys hadn’t trusted me; they thought I might be an informer. But I was building trust.
I thought about a couple of guys I particularly wanted to save—I felt God was really laying them on my heart. One of them was Elliot, with whom I’d come so close to being arrested with drugs in the car on St. Claude. He lived in Jackson Square in a multilevel apartment, and I called him on the phone and asked if I could come by and hang out, tell him what God was doing in my life. He told me to come by any time.
When I got to Elliot’s apartment, I said, “Do you mind if I sit down and share about my life?”
“Sure, fine. Do you mind if I roll a joint while you do it?”
I smiled and told him to go ahead. Remember, I was invincible.
After that, things become blurry over a two-week period. I do remember visiting his apartment several times during those weeks, but I can’t tell you the exact events leading up to the day the wheels came off.
One Saturday night, less than two weeks from the first joyride in the Cadillac, I was walking back to Elliot’s apartment, Bud Light in hand, to snort an eight-ball of coke, while I talked about Jesus with less and less credibility. I’d hit floor level. Somewhere along the line, it became too easy to give in, I let myself get pulled down, and I found out just how un-invincible I was.
As I’ve said, you don’t “start over again” with addictions; you pick right up where you left off. This is the main reason so many people die when they relapse. I’d told Jeremy “the body never forgets,” but I was talking about illusions. The body never forgets addiction either. The real “illusion” was that I, as a Christian, was invincible, bulletproof, unconquerable.
Was I a new creation in Christ? Saved? Born again? Absolutely.
Was I still a target for temptation? Still capable of stumbling and falling back into slavery? That too. Even Jesus, in the garden, said to Peter, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
Me too. I had a spirit hungry for God, and a body that still craved all the substitutes that do nothing but destroy.
Because the body never forgets.
Chapter 15
The Put-On
Now I was a Christian, and a Christian addict. How could this happen?
It was, of course, my spiritual ignorance and naiveté, but also my need for accountability. We all need that—impulsive, addictive personalities need it all the more.
I’d once been an addict without a penny. Later, I became one again with a monthly check from the lawyer. Now I was one with a large bank account from the final settlement—$28,000 in the bank and a tremendous need for a high. To this day, I’m not sure why that deadly combination didn’t take me right out of this life, like so many of my friends.
Correction: I do know why. The grace, love, and master plan of God are the only possible explanation. Despite all my self-destructive impulses, he continued to watch over me. “I am sure of this, that he who started a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Phil. 1:6).
On the weekends, I was telling students all about Jesus as I performed magic tricks. Jeremy had no idea what was really going on with me. He’d moved forward in faith to do this ministry—faith not only in God, but in his old friend who claimed he was clean and sober. He never suspected that, during the week, as each day went by, I blew through three hundred dollars or more. Sometimes it was a thousand, if I was partying seriously and had some friends along. I no longer bought from Elliot. I could go straight to the Pimp, who respected healthy bank accounts like mine. I was a big-time customer now.
I’d wake up at maybe 10:30 or 11:00 in the morning and go immediately to the New Orleans Original Daiquiris shop to get my early buzz going. The bartender there was named Christy, and over the weeks I got to know her pretty well. I was still under the impression I was an evangelist whose main work was sharing Christ, though I was high most of the time. I talked about Jesus non-stop.
I chatted with Christy as I ordered another 190 Octane Large, a specialty of the house. It had orange juice, so I thought of it as my morning beverage. Christy would polish glasses or unpack bottles, listening with a bemused expression as I talked about all the things Jesus was doing in my life. I wasn’t a sloppy drunk, especially this time of day—but it was a strange picture, a guy starting in early every morning while trying to win souls. I was a slave
