Best Ticket in Town

Christian Ledan is a Black person, bald with brown skin and black facial hair, wearing a black trench coat. He looking upward as if screaming with excitement or rage. He is holding a silver mask next to his face. He has a silver ring on his left hand.

532 West 27th Street, that’s where I was headed, to the legendary Sound Factory nightclub.  Walking from Port Authority after taking the last bus from the Nanuet Mall, in Rockland County, to New York City.  There I was on the West Side Highway without a care in the world.  All I know is that I was going to meet a guy that I met on a phone party line for gays.  Yes, I’m that old.  

There would be one stop on my journey.  Before arriving at my final destination, he would take me to The Tunnel, another legendary NYC nightclub on 12th Avenue but whose entrance was on West 27th Street. I stood out like a sore thumb as I wasn’t as stylish as the others waiting in line.  He found me fairly quickly and brought me to the door where we just walked in. I’m loving this; I didn’t have to wait and I didn’t have to pay. Yes, more, please.

We soon found ourselves in an upstairs lounge and he offered me something on a key. “Crystal,” he said it was, and I said, “OK!”  I snorted it,  it burned and a tear came to my eye.  If only I had known all the tears that would be shed because of that drug, I would have said, “No, thank you!”

We ended up at Sound Factory. It was amazing. And I felt that I had arrived, that I found my tribe. This is what I had been looking for my entire shy closeted gay boy existence. A month later I was back and he introduced me to his friends and it seemed like they each had a different drug on them. Just like that, I was popping X, snorting K, doing a hit of Angel Dust, and whatever else they were offered me. All my insecurities were gone.  I was still shy, but could hold a conversation.  I still had scars from eczema, but I didn’t care.  I was black and didn’t seem like anyone on the dance floor cared. 

A few months later, I moved to New York City and into an extra room that my father had. This began my nightlife career.  No, I didn’t work in nightlife. I made it a point to be out, on the scene, as much as possible.  I didn’t make it to every fierce party; but I liked to go where I liked to go. And with that came the drugs (including alcohol).  

I had to go out, I had to escape my mediocre life and dance the night away.  I once was sexually assaulted after getting wasted on a beer blast and was back at the same club two nights later. 

For years, I never thought I had a problem. You see, I did all my drugs at the club.  I didn’t bring it home with me.  Well, only if I knew I was going out the very next night and would need it for a party.  Club drugs were meant for the club. 

A few years go by, parties are shut down, new parties start, bars close and others open. 9/11 happens and changes the landscape.  I think to myself, maybe I can make a change. I'm getting older and the scene is not what it was. I had experienced a romantic obsession just before all this and it nearly destroyed me. And in the Spring of 2002, I was diagnosed with HIV.  I was through with New York.  

It took a couple of years but I found myself in Tampa, FL. New job, new life, and for non-driver like me, a slower pace.  

That slow pace could not hold me down though.  I would pay a $35 cab ride to get to the nearest club, or at least what they called a club, and try and have a good time.  A few times meeting someone who had some blow and maybe get them to drive me home.  And there it was, bringing the drug to my home.  It was just a few times, I didn't have a problem. Did I?

A long time ago there were party lines, now there were websites.  I won’t name them but I’m sure you know what they are. Occasional hookups and invites to “parties”.  It was fun, and then one day I invited someone over and he asked if I partied.  I said that I had been known to drop a tab or do a line and spend the rest of the night on the dance floor.  He laughed and pulled out a pipe.  “What’s that,” I asked.  “Crystal,” he answered.  “OK,” I said to him and to myself. 

It was off to the races!

I had to find a connection.  It became my mission and I succeeded. I soon became a daily user.  I had only been in Florida for a year and half.  The next year and a half would be me doing all that I could to find the next hit.  I showed up to work high. I missed days of work. I failed classes and somehow passed others.  I didn’t tell my family or friends back home what was happening. Soon they stopped calling because I wasn’t going to answer the phone anyway.

Nothing is exciting to tell about the next year, although I did start hearing something.  I thought it was my neighbor saying my name over and over.  He wanted to be a recording artist and he would sometimes rap a few bars over a beat.  But now it sounded like he was saying my name and even worse, rapping about what was going on in my apartment. Shhh! It was the drugs but I didn’t know that. 

Fast-forward to me moving back to New York City with a drug habit and continuing those searches on websites for more “connections”.  I found them and I found the guys, mostly white men, who would just give it to me.  And for three more years I would use crystal. [I started IV use.] The voices came back with a vengeance.  It was my former neighbor’s voice and a few others that would torment me day and night.  My solution was to use even more until I had enough. I tried to kill myself in December of 2009.  

But that didn’t stop me.  I used the day I returned home from the hospital.  

I used until I couldn’t feel the effects of the drug anymore but I couldn’t stop and using more didn’t get me higher.  I was done.  Broken, sad, miserable, and spiritually bankrupt.  I got myself into rehab. I got clean.

I stayed clean for four years.  I picked up photography during those years.  I reconnected with friends and family.  I even went to a club now and then without even needing a drink. What I didn’t do was throw away the water pipe I had in my nightstand.  

About a month after being four years clean, I was on an app and I found someone who was using it. Oh, by the way, we now have apps.  I didn’t even use that water pipe I had been keeping.  I went right back to the needle.  It was a terrible existence.  Somewhere in there I stopped and found a job. But I couldn’t stay stopped.  I was training people to become Recovery Coaches and facilitating modules while coming down.  Not even my Recovery Coach knowledge could keep me stopped. That contract was not renewed. 

Then the pandemic hit us.  The isolation was my spouse and my abuser. I had just moved into a luxury apartment. I used alone for the most part. The rest became a blur.  After only three months in the apartment, there was a fire.  A fire that could have killed me but I was not hurt and first responders got me to a hospital and I was put in a psych ward for eight days.  I came back out only to find that I was not allowed to go to the apartment.  Management would not allow it.  I had to get a court order for me to be allowed back in.

I was only allowed to pick up a few things; I was not allowed to stay overnight.  I found myself in hotels, SROs, and friends’ couches for months.  The courts found out that  management placed other tenants that were affected by the fire in hotels.  The judge ordered that I should receive the same treatment.  That was great, because I was running out of money.

Through all this, I could not stop using.  I was losing my mind as well. I was arrested and charged with a Class E felony.  The apartment was renovated and I moved back in and within a few months there was another fire.  By now the charges had been bumped up to second-degree felony. 

I do not remember much about either of those days and my public defendant did all that she could for me. I entered an outpatient drug program on my own and sought psychiatric services.  My attorney felt that I could qualify for Mental Health court.  

We went through the process and I was accepted.   I was then mandated to mental health treatment after taking a plea deal and pleading guilty.  For the 18 months, I attended weekly therapy sessions, monthly psychiatric visits, weekly check-ins with a monitor and monthly appearances in court.  I hit a few bumps in the road but I never missed one appointment. I graduated from the drug program and tried my best to take the next right action. 

Every check-in was better than the last.  I reconnected with people in recovery.  Especially the folks who started The Blackyard Collective (BYC).  I attended the BYC Juneteenth weekend events and was blown away by the community, the love, and the fellowship.  I thought I had arrived years ago at Sound Factory, but now truly my tribe is found. These beautiful Black, queer, and trans folks were at times the topic of discussion when I checked-in monthly at court.  The judge suggested that I keep these people close.

I was excited to share about the BYC Provincetown Retreat with the court and how important it was for me to be there, and to be there with my camera to document such a wonderful weekend. These folks get me.  They know what I mean when I say, “That White guy did…” or “I’m scared...the system is going to put me away…” or “I can’t have police contact”.  In Tampa, one of the codes for crystal is “...tickets to the show.”  Well, The Blackyard Collective and its events, workshops, retreats, et al are the best tickets in town.  

On November 22, 2023, I went to court to graduate from the Mental Health Court program.  I had forgotten about the plea deal I had taken a little over 18 months prior.  When the judge announced the plea [reduced to fourth-degree felony] I was facing a maximum of four years in jail.  I was terrified.  I thought I was going to be taken away right then and there.  

“Your Honor, If the court will allow it, we would like to make a change,” the prosecutor said.  “Being that Christian has done so well with this program and we have learned so much from him every month. The people would like to have all charges dismissed and the record sealed.”  “Is this the defendant’s first offense,” the judge asked. “Yes, it is.”

“I will allow it.”

There is a God!

I stayed clean, I took the next right action, and mercy was shown to me.