On Christmas morning, the man I thought I needed left me in another man’s cabin.
Hours earlier, Thom and I had been sprawled on the floor of a Santa Rosa utility closet where we’d been living, passing a meth pipe between us. I was 34 at the time. The mattress barely fit and it folded like a taco beside lube and dead torch lighters. Thom, in his 50s, had become my partner in chaos.
“Christmas. Anything you wanna do?” he asked with a tenderness I didn’t trust.
I scrolled Grindr. I’d traded seeing my family for crystal meth and the relief of nobody expecting anything of me.
After crashing my mom’s car and a stint in jail, I couldn’t face her disappointment. A decade in New York had promised stardom; by Christmas 2016, the promise had curdled. All I had left were men who only wanted my body. That was all I had left to give.
I showed Thom a torso-only photo on Grindr. “This guy’s having people over.”
He squinted. “That’s Ed.”
Thom’s Prius wound into Guerneville, a gay mountain retreat with meth undercurrents. That’s where Ed, a onetime costume designer, held his gatherings. Porn playing, GHB Gatorade, torch lighters that actually worked — everything we’d failed at. Billy, who was in his mid-20s, answered the door naked.
The cabin smelled of rot and wood smoke. We stripped down. It was part ritual, part performance. It’s how I’d stayed high and housed for the last few months. So I knew what came next. I knew my role. I pulled on a jockstrap two sizes too small.
Ed, who was in his 60s, grinned. “You’ve got that ‘West Side Story’ face, like you’re about to break into dance at the gym,” he said.
“Well, I played Tony,” I shot back. “No dancing for me.”
He laughed, and we were off, trading theater jokes, wardrobe malfunction stories and references Thom couldn’t follow. Thom’s jaw tightened as our connection excluded him.
He watched, his contempt spilling over, calculating whether I was worth competing for.
His face said exactly what I was: too much, replaceable. We were all using each other: Ed and Thom locked in an old rivalry, me the bait that kept older men supplied with boys. Billy was about to be replaced by me — I didn’t care. That was the cycle.
Thom yanked on his jeans, gave me one last sharp look and slammed the door. I waited for his car to circle back, even just to tell me off, but it never did. So I stayed with Ed.
Months blurred together without Thom. His absence weighed more than his presence ever had. With Ed, there was more than meth and sex. He spoke to the part of me that still loved literature, pop culture, acting — the part I assumed died. It wasn’t love the way people imagine it, but it was the closest thing I’d felt in years.
We settled into a routine of smoking, not sleeping, drawn curtains and dirty dishes until one morning I made peace with dying in a chemical haze.
“You really loved Thom,” Ed whispered over eggs neither of us wanted and then added, “I’m just glad I won.”
The words were petty, but I knew what he meant. I wasn’t just another Billy. In his own broken way, Ed cared, enough to know I didn’t belong there, not forever.
I stared at him, trying to read his next move. Was he kicking me out?
“If I let you stay here, I’d never forgive myself.” His voice was low, steadier than usual.
Ed was a dark character, fueled by his own hurt — he didn’t need to consider my future, he could’ve kept using me like everyone else had.
“Would you take me to L.A.?” I asked.
Ed nodded. “I’ve got an uncle in Venice.”
So we packed up his orange Honda Element. We tried leaving a few times, car loaded, engine running, but we were too high or too terrified of life on life’s terms. Then we finally made it. Even collapse felt easier in motion than rotting in that cabin.
The Central Valley stretched endlessly with dead grass and lawyer billboards. As palm trees started appearing, the air felt different — warmer, full of promises I hadn’t earned. But I told myself I would — if I could just get clean.
Ed’s uncle’s garage apartment reeked of must and jug wine. It was blocks from Venice Beach, yet still a prison. I didn’t know how to break free from the drug or the cycle that had trapped me. “Isn’t there a Ferris wheel on the beach?”
This was me trying to sound like I’d be willing to brave the world outside. But Ed knew better.
“That’s Santa Monica, the pier.”
The next day I reached out to Diana, an old college friend in North Hollywood. I’d told myself just get to L.A. — old connections would save me. But the look on her face when she saw me, my emaciated frame, the chemical burn under my clavicle, sour smell I couldn’t mask, told me otherwise. She hugged me stiffly, then pulled back.
“Jesus, Nick,” she said.
Ed said he was leaving and going back to Guerneville, but I begged for one more night. At a cheap motel, I accused him of hiding drugs.
“They’re my drugs,” Ed snapped. He grabbed his keys and was gone.
Abandonment had a sound — engine noise fading into Ventura Boulevard traffic. By morning, I still hadn’t slept. Outside, the sky burned neon pink and orange, the kind of L.A. sunrise that’s beautiful even if it’s born from smog. I just lay there, listening. Every car that slowed could be Diana or nobody.
At 10 a.m., she knocked, flinched when she saw me and helped me into her car. On the drive, she filled the silence with inconsequential chatter, as if nothing had changed. I pressed my forehead to the glass and counted palm trees to slow my heart.
Three months later, I landed at Van Ness Recovery House, an old Victorian in Beachwood Canyon under the Hollywood sign — 20 beds, three group sessions a day and nowhere left to lie.
The program director, Kathy, slid me a scrap of paper. It had a phone number with an area code I recognized.
“Ed?” I asked, though it wasn’t really a question. I knew what was next. I’d told the whole story in group. She knew everything.
“No contact. Ever,” Kathy said. I nodded.
“Tell him it’s over, and then hang up.”
Kathy handed me the phone. My hands shook as I dialed.
“Nick! How are you, sweetheart?” Ed answered, his voice warm and familiar.
Tears came before words. “Ed, I can’t … They say I can’t talk to you anymore.”
Silence stretched as Kathy watched and waited.
“But you helped me. You got me here. You …”
“Hang up, Nick,” she said firmly. “He’s a backdoor to your recovery.”
“I have to go,” I whispered.
“Wait, Nick, …” he started, but I hung up, Kathy’s eyes still on me. I handed the receiver back to her.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” she said. “This is your last chance. You can’t afford an escape route.”
Outside, the Hollywood sign caught the afternoon light. For the first time in months, no meth psychosis obstructed my view. It looked different, not a destination, but a witness.
Ten years later, I’m married to someone I met at an AA meeting; a quiet, steady love, the opposite of the chaos I once mistook for devotion. We bought a house in the Valley, have two rescue bulldogs. Today, when I drive past Van Ness — that old Victorian recovery house where I learned to tell the truth — I remember the Nick who thought survival was the same as love.
It wasn’t. But it got me to Los Angeles, where I finally learned the difference.
The author is a Los Angeles–based writer with recent bylines in the Cut, HuffPost and the Washington Post.
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