When Meth Things Happen to Good People

A Good Person 2019: One who orders directly off the menu at their chosen restaurant.

​As I sat in the waiting area of the ER waiting to find out why the white blood cell count of an apparently healthy looking 34 year old was lower than the approval rating of our newly inaugurated president among liberals all I could ask myself was what the fuck? What the fuck went through your fucking head that made you think it was a good idea to inhale a cloud of meth from a bubble pipe brought to my lips by that guy? He had quite the bubble himself. He had been brought over as a joining third by my post clubbing night cap from grindr. “I’ll get some work done…”

One evening 6 years earlier while sipping some bubbly with a rose bouquet, Andre’s favorite no less, from my Veritas coupe admiring the architectural detail installed in the center of a bar overlooking the highline, one of my more refined friends, interrupting my silent enjoyment of RW, asked me: “would you want to get back into design? I have a lunch tomorrow with a design director and I could ask if you can come back to intern” I quickly answered yes. I had probably been waiting him a year to ask. I was too timid at this point in life to ask for more than what pure luck had already given me. This would be the beginning of another dream come true.

I was 28, retired from the first dream 3 years earlier. Twenty five was my cut off, I was not going to be the random guy at the castings with the subtle cornerstones of aging in the corners of my eyes. I rode that Italian Vogue cover form Milan to Tokyo (I really wish I had been booked a job in Minsk). From Galliano to Heatherette. (thank you Marras for my first Persols). I was finished and fortunate. Not every gay boy from Murray Utah winds up getting a tilak applied to his forehead by Pat McGrath during the Paris men’s spring season.

I was 28 and felt it was time to dress like a male more often and find out if riding subways during rush hour would make me hate the city. Something I always wondered on my way to Cafeteria 24/7 in the late afternoon. Spoiler alert; it did! I didn’t get another internship with the developer. That lunch meeting had a better opportunity. The chance to be the first intern for one of NYC’s most talented and accomplished interior designers. They had recently been awarded a contract to solely finish a very adult townhouse in the west village (GAY GASP) owned by one of the worlds top fashion designers(EVEN BIGGER GAY GASP).

First job of intern: select samples for throw pillow tape. It was about six months before I saw throw pillow tape executed. I will go to my grave wondering why they didn’t just say trim, NBD. This summer gig was brief but turned out to offer more than just access to the velvet swatches of the Prelle Showroom. It started many questions a human should ask themselves entering adulthood; such as: How is the fabrication of curtains $50,000? Can my arm make it to the nearest subway station holding up my umbrella and a bag of stone samples? How many people on this planet pay half a million for condiment holding Rhinos? Who is Duchamp? One google search into the latter moved me on to the following queery; Holy fuck how has art from the Dada movement end up in the hands of the modern Bourgeoisie? The summer ended and so did my contact with the designer. I went back to slinging mac n cheese to all the random walks of life NYC has to offer and hoping he’d call me back for a job.

As luck would have it, 9 months of silent hoping would actually pay off. I woke to a voicemail one Sunday morning, ok early afternoon, to him ending a 20 year analytically induced career choice paralysis asking me if I could come back. I would pay me this time. I had been asking myself since I was at least 8 years old what I should do with my life? Actor or Architect? I exercised much restraint not chasing the former after dealing with the reality of the modeling world. In the middle of this four year stint as a decorator, PA, and architectural goffer, this grounded career choice would wind up to be just one too many warps in my weft.

I somehow found something more stressful than waiting tables for 8 hours with no break five days a week. I thought burn out was reserved for bankers and Lawyers not gay decorators. My love of the design world plus my inherited Utah denial would allow me to ignore the many red flags. E.g. Your straight boss tossing tid bits from the track of the hell’s kitchen gay gossip train they put their ear to reprimand you for speaking out of turn in a meeting. (I was actually trying to get the CAD jockey to admit the deadline for the Tribeca project wasn’t gonna happen) I had been such a moron once for not knowing to bring the fabric samples of the husbands NYC office to the meeting with the wife about the Venice Beach project I needed to be shouted at in the back of a cab. My only regret in life; not walking out of the office when the art director shouted as they referred to my Trans friend as anything less than the beautiful human she was once they heard I added her as my plus one to a co workers wedding reception Woof, talk about triggered. Seriously what is the matter with humans? Sexual scandals are the tip of the iceberg when it comes to behavior that should have never started in the first place at the office. You don’t know someone’s past.

You don’t know who’s been manipulated into losing their virginity. You don’t know who’s a survivor of 18 years of verbal abuse. I knew I was in another abusive relationship. Albeit new variables after 10 years of trying to date gay NYC the equation was familiar. I thought I could handle it. I was wrong.

Who covers these costs of all this time it takes to inflict invisible wounds upon staff and coworkers? Its poor time management in the end. That was my best effort at catching this cloud and pinning it down as I fully understand that no matter how ancillary the level of power a human may fortune, no matter the industry, no matter the type of abuse in the workplace, this culture is standard.