Death Punch'd

by Jeremy Spencer

  “But what should I do? Am I supposed to pray or what?”

  “You have to do what you feel works for you. If you want, try this . . . Tonight, right before you go to sleep, have a conversation with your higher self. Ask to be shown what you need to do. Ask for the tools to accomplish what you need to do. Ask, and you’ll receive. But you have to be patient enough for things to manifest. No sitting around wondering why you haven’t gotten what you asked for . . . yet. Doubting undoes your best intentions. It requires some faith.”

  I really didn’t understand everything he told me, but that night I had “the conversation.” The next time they came to visit, I couldn’t wait to tell them how I felt. “I did what you said. I don’t know why, but I felt better. So I’ve been doing that every night, right before I fall asleep.”

  I finally made it to the part of treatment where they let me go home with my parents to have lunch. Though they were both vegetarian, they fixed me what I requested: lamb chops. I couldn’t believe how much I’d missed home cooking. Then, even though I wasn’t supposed to, I went to my room for a minute to listen to music. We were under strict rules during treatment: no TV and no music. I got to listen to one song before it was time to head back.

  On the way to Parkside, the topic turned to me having to lose all the friends I’d partied with and limit the amount of music I listened to, or at least the amount of metal. One of the things the counselors preached to us in treatment was changing old habits. This didn’t sit well with me at all. As far as I was concerned, I wasn’t going to party ever again, so why couldn’t I see my friends and listen to the music I wanted, when I wanted? And there was no way I would agree to give up being in my band. However, I played along—knowing damn well I wasn’t going to stick to those bogus rules.

  Another thing I was unaware of at the time was that my main counselor told my parents that out of all the kids in my group, the staff voted me “mostly likely to relapse,” because I refused to give up friends, drop out of my band, and go to a shitload of meetings. There’s nothing like a no-confidence vote from the very people whom I counted on to help me heal. But had I known their prediction, it would’ve only made me more determined to prove them wrong.

  Lots of people were graduating through the program and leaving. I made friends with many of them and we exchanged numbers, planning to hang out when we were released. The families in my group decided to meet once a month. I was happy because I’d get to see Brittany, a really cute and nice girl. Our parents seemed to get along, so I was looking forward to it.

  I now had a connection with my higher power. It was something I couldn’t really explain. But I just knew I was being guided, that I was going to be successful with sobriety. I’ve got this, I thought. For the most part, I really did have it dialed. The plan was to stick to the guidelines of going to meetings—though not as many as they suggested—and work the steps of the program.

  The day finally came for me to be released. Super excited, I packed my stuff and said good-bye to everyone. My parents picked me up and announced we were going to Florida the very next day for a family vacation. I was so happy and proud of myself for graduating the program, but now the real work was to begin. It’s easy to stay sober in a protected environment; it’s another thing to be out in the real world and maintain sobriety. Still, I had a few more days before I had to worry about any of that. I was going to fucking Florida!

  We drove to one of Dad’s friends’ condos in Seagrove Beach. It was only an eight-hour trip from southern Indiana to the Gulf. Seagrove is next to Seaside, that really ritzy but plastic community used for the setting of The Truman Show. It was a great getaway, beautiful weather and a perfect follow-up to a successful stay in rehab.

  I was on the beach every day, listening to music on my Walkman. Dad smoked cigarettes at that time, so we smoked together, watched movies, hung out at the condo or near the water. It was super-cool fun. Mom kind of kept to herself, lying on the beach and meditating the whole time.

  While I was there, I called my friend Jarred to let him know I was out of rehab and that I’d be home in a couple of days. He told me he’d gotten a “minor consumption” charge and was determined to quit drinking. I said that was a bummer . . . but, on a selfish note, I knew I’d be able to hang out with him because he no longer drank. Now I wouldn’t have to get rid of my best friend. I’d have support in my sobriety and get to have my buddy, too.

  In her attempt to support me, Mom pledged to never touch alcohol again. I thought that was unnecessary, but I appreciated her commitment (one she’s kept to this day). While we were in Seagrove, Dad tracked down some nearby A.A. meetings. He went with me. Man, having to sit around and listen to World War II vets tell the same old stories they’d been telling for forty years was a monumental drag. Hopefully, when I got back home, we’d find some meetings with kids who’d never heard of General MacArthur, the beaches of Normandy, or D-day.

  Going home also meant returning to school. I wondered what school would be like sober. Boonville being a small town in every way, everyone knew I’d been in rehab . . . so that was weird. But, to my surprise, almost everyone was nice and supportive about my attempted life change. Teachers all shook my hand and welcomed me back. Even people who thought I was a druggie loser were pretty cool. I’d underestimated what the positive reaction would be toward someone trying to get his life in order.

  I was feeling good until someone said they’d heard a rumor that I went into rehab for fear of being upstaged in the talent show by a friend and fellow drummer. Huh? It’s incredible the shit kids come up with. At first it made me angry, but then I thought, Let the assholes think what they want. The truth is I was going to die . . . and somehow that seemed reason enough to go into rehab! I felt free in ways I hadn’t in years, and I wasn’t going to let anyone alter that feeling.

  My parents ended up being cool with me staying in Anesthesia with Jarred and Neil. It also helped that Jarred decided to clean himself up. He and I hung out all the time. We were sober and inseparable.

  Believe me when I say I had no intention of ever auditioning for a fucking musical! But when the high school drama department announced auditions for the yearly spring musical, Godspell, my interest was piqued. I’d been a fan of the soundtrack since I was a kid . . . not necessarily because of the music, but because of the red-black-and-white album cover featuring the abstract face of a hippie. I’d also sung along with the musical’s most popular song, “Day by Day.” So the rock drummer decided to audition. So much for having an unshakable conviction.

  Mom, who taught voice and music history for years at Oakland City College, helped me prepare. Unfortunately, even though we practiced hard, I gave an average audition. Afterward, I explained how it went, how I’d probably end up in the ensemble, which I had absolutely no interest being in; I’d had my sights set on the fucking lead.

  Dad told me to go back to the school and talk to the director, to be completely honest with her, to acknowledge my audition wasn’t very good but to assure her that I would work hard and was the right guy for the role. I repeated his exact words to the director, a really nice lady who heard me out. The cast list was to be posted the next day.

  I anxiously awaited the news. I could barely pay attention in any of my classes (not that unusual, really). When the final bell rang, I hurried down to the auditorium where the cast list was posted. There was a gaggle of students gathered in front of the bulletin board. I worked my way to the front. Next to the name “Stephen” (the part of Jesus) was: JEREMY HEYDE. I’d gotten the lead role! Man, was I stoked. I was going to play Jesus. Christ Almighty . . . who in his wildest dreams would have ever thought the former druggie loser was perfect to play the Son of God? The universe had a fucking great sense of humor. Life was truly the shit!

  I heard kids muttering under their breath about how “Heyde’s never even been in the drama department,” how “unfair” it was “to give him the lead.”

  I thought, Ya know . . . it’s called
acting. And I acted with sincerity to the director and got the part . . . so suck it! (I had yet to perfect Christ’s turn-the-other-cheek philosophy. Still haven’t . . . unless you count the gluteus maximus.)

  I ran home and told my parents, who were equally excited. I got busy learning the role. Mom worked with me every day on the songs. I wasn’t a singer, and there was a shitload of songs I had to pull off. Being up front and leading the show was a different vibe, quite an adjustment from being behind a drum kit. Still, I was determined to pull it off.

  I’ve never lacked confidence, but there was a lot of dialogue. And, though I’d quit using, I had trouble staying focused. ADD or ADHD were not terms anyone knew about, but attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder would be one that described me to a tee. However, I was compulsive enough that when I decided to do something, I could will myself to do it.

  Rehearsals were fun, especially flirting with girls who would never have given me the time of day when I was the drug-addict metalhead. But there was so much to accomplish in such a short amount of time, it didn’t allow for much socializing. As the rehearsal process continued, it seemed like none of us was nailing all the details. We weren’t prepared the way we needed to be in order to pull it off. Like they say, ready or not . . . the curtain always goes up.

  The closer we got to opening night, the more I started to panic. I still had several pages of dialogue to memorize, and we hadn’t rehearsed some of the later scenes very much. My stress level rocketed out of the stratosphere. My confidence turned to, Oh fuck! If I don’t pull this off, I’m gonna look like a dicksack for not stepping up and being the man! I’d been given a shot against everyone’s wishes, and now I had to own.

  I developed insomnia, and I was suffering from acute anxiety. Only a few days before the first show, I was still memorizing lines. I finally realized I was going to have to step up and lead, or else be a laughing stock. This was my one opportunity to completely turn around my reputation in town, at school, and with everyone in general. I jokingly fantasized about what it would be like for the curtain to open on opening night and to blow my fucking brains out in front of an auditorium full of people. At least it would be a chance to do something they’d never forget.

  Finally: opening night! I was scared shitless. I went to the auditorium early, got dressed, and then walked down to the gym, needing to hang out by myself in the dark. I hadn’t really felt fear like that in my body ever before. It was almost paralyzing. I tried to visualize doing well. I asked for help from my higher power.

  I’ve always considered my higher power to be my subconscious, part of the energy that makes up what is God. I never considered God to be some old bearded asshole in a robe who sits around judging people—helping some, punishing others. To me we are all part of that divine energy. I embrace the God energy. To this day it’s been my driving force and my saving grace. It should be pretty obvious by my irreverent language and attitude that I don’t buy into organized horseshit religion and that fake, holier-than-thou attitude. I tap into what’s in me. I value that personal relationship above all else. So I asked for help and guidance and headed back to the auditorium.

  Backstage, the cast gathered before showtime to huddle, like we were a sports team. We put our arms around each other and then disbanded with “Break a leg!” before taking our places onstage.

  At this point I was so freaked it almost felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. Suddenly the lights lowered and the curtain opened. It’s amazing what a motivation sheer terror can be. I began my dialogue and somehow made it through the opening segment. The show was going well until, during a long stretch of dialogue, I totally went up on a line and froze.

  Everyone waited for me to finish my long monologue, the cue to get up and move on to the next scene. I stood there with a blank look on my face, having no idea what line came next. Though I skipped a section, I finally remembered the tail end of the speech, freeing myself from the deer-in-the-headlights mind freeze. I could almost feel everyone’s relief. We continued on, but I was wrecked and couldn’t stop thinking about it the rest of the act.

  During intermission, the director came into my dressing room. I asked how bad my fuck-up was, and she was totally cool. She said the scene still made sense, to just move on and not worry about it. That made me feel slightly better, but I was still bummed.

  Finally we reached the big finale where I get crucified and die. The auditorium was as quiet as a queen’s fart. Then I could hear people sniffling. A good portion of the audience started bawling. What a trip to see hundreds of people in tears. And when the final curtain dropped, there was dead silence . . . then tremendous applause.

  The cast took final bows, and, when it was my turn to take an individual bow, everyone in the auditorium stood up. It was overwhelming. When the curtain closed, I ran into my friend Harvey, who grabbed me and said, “You did it, man!” That’s what I needed to hear . . . from someone I could always trust to tell me the truth. I felt a two-ton weight slide from my shoulders; like a switch had been flipped on, here came a torrent of tears. I’d been so stressed preparing for this show, I was finally able to let down. Plus, it meant the world to me to nail it.

  After the show, I shook hands with “the multitudes,” most of whom I barely knew. It seemed like half the town was there. I’d made a big impact with my performance, and it completely changed people’s perception of me. My reputation did a 180-degree turn over the course of a two-hour show. I went home that night and collapsed into bed, thoroughly exhausted. From that first night’s success, I had the confidence to kick ass the rest of the run.

  For the first time, I understood why my parents loved performing in musicals. Of course there was a sense of accomplishment, but the adulation and applause was infectious. Man, how I dug the spotlight!

  Once Godspell finished, the rest of the school year was a breeze. I had teachers and most of the student body, except for a few redneck assholes, back on my side. One cretin in particular was always picking on Jarred and me. He and a couple of his buddies decided to fuck with us because of our long hair, which they threatened to tie to the bumper of their trucks—dragging us to death.

  One day, while we were driving around in Jarred’s Jeep, one of that ilk started chasing us. This particular asshole jumped out of his truck, ran up to Jarred’s window, and punched him. Big mistake! Jarred flung his door open, jumped out, and put the dude in a headlock—tightening his grip until the redneck jerk begged him to let go. Because Jarred was still on probation, he couldn’t hit the guy, but he made him pay.

  We thought that would be the end of it; however, the next day at school, that same asshole pushed me into a locker. He told me he was gonna fuck me up. Another friend of mine was standing nearby. Anthony was a tough motherfucker whose nose had been broken so many times it barely had any cartilage. He came to my rescue.

  “Hey, man, what’s with you pickin’ on Heyde?”

  “Mind your own fucking business.”

  Anthony was never one to mince words. Instead of answering, he hit that kid hard enough to kill his whole family—spinning him around 360 degrees. He hit him with the other hand and spun him back 360 degrees the other way. He then grabbed him, flipped him, and smashed his head into a brick wall. A few teachers ran up to stop the fight (if you could call it that). They carried the kid, unconscious, to the nurse’s office. We found out later he was taken to the hospital with a concussion. The whole group of relentless fuckers started backing down after that.

  I’d never really had to fight much, except once in fifth grade when I punched a neighborhood bully in the face, knocking him off his bike because he kept talking shit. Other than that, I usually got along with everyone, happy to be the dude who made everyone laugh. Lucky for me, I had badass friends who had my back . . . since I was always smaller than the rest of the boys in my class. Besides, I had no interest in all that macho bullshit. I was more interested in becoming a rock star and enjoying all the perks that came with it.r />
  Once again, our band geared up to play the high school talent show, but this time my heart wasn’t in it. Not long after we rocked the talent show, the band dissolved. Jarred and I still hung out a lot, but Neil drifted off in his own direction. As with any “operation,” the anesthesia eventually wears off.

  I knew it was time to find a real band, one that had goals and ambition. That’s when a band found me.

  The summer before our senior year, Jarred and I decided to go to summer school and get some second-semester classes out of the way. By doing this, we could technically graduate early. I figured it was worth sacrificing summer vacation to be done with school forever. We signed up and breezed by.

  Besides summer school, I’d dedicated myself to practicing more. It all seemed to come together, and I really noticed a major improvement in my drumming chops and, particularly, shredding double bass. I’d been close to being able to shred the way I’d wanted; now it finally clicked.

  For the past few years, my parents had been into New Age metaphysical practices like meditation and channeling. Remember the Evergreens’ prediction of my life changing on my sixteenth birthday? Well, Mom and Dad had another life reading and asked about me. In a deep trance, the channel, Michael Blake Read, said, “Jeremy’s path is one of a career musician. We [meaning the soul grouping known as the Evergreens] see him touring with a band on the West Coast. It may take years for him to reach his goals, but he’s not alone on his journey. He has many spirit guides helping him.” And then these words really blew me away: “Tell Jeremy . . . Buddy Rich says ‘Hi-dee hi.’ Buddy’s interested in several drummers, but he’s specifically interested to see if Jeremy can learn to be a performer without using drugs and alcohol.” For those too young or uninformed, Buddy Rich was one of the finest jazz drummers who ever lived. He was the shit back in the ’40s, ’50s, and early ’60s, but he was an alcoholic and a drug addict, and it finally caught up with him.