Authors: Joe Putignano
With no money, I asked Jonathan, promising to pay him back. If I made the appointment and got fourteen days of abstinence, he said I could borrow the money. I mixed up my regular methadone-and-Xanax cocktail, went back to meetings, and started into recovery again. I wanted to use every day, but fought the desire.
After two weeks Jonathan rented a car, and after an hour’s drive we arrived at the clinic and were greeted by a waiting room full of fellow junkies. Most of them did not look sober or pleased to be there. I could feel their pain and thirst. We were vampiric entities, possessed by the evil we shot into ourselves, now all in a room praying for some form of salvation.
The doctor was astonished that I had come in of my own accord, as most of his patients were court-mandated for the implant. I told him I was willing to do anything to get into recovery. Before starting, he gave me a shot of naltrexone to test the truth that I was completely opiate-free. He expected to see me go into withdrawals from that “polygraph injection” like most of the other junkies, but I passed. I was clean and ready for the implant. He started the procedure with two shots of Novocain. It was bizarre to have a needle in my arm without a high; it felt like sex without orgasm. He waited until the area was numb, made a one-inch incision behind my left triceps, crammed the implant under the skin, and clamped it shut with three staples. It hurt, but was over quickly. It was trapped inside my body. I had finally surrendered. It was rare for an addict to willingly put himself in pain, with no escape in sight. I stupidly took the two antibiotics afterward on an empty stomach and threw up for our whole drive home to New York.
With my implant I would be safe from heroin no matter what. I feared being in a devastating accident, screaming in terror with agonizing burns in an emergency room and unable to receive painkillers since my implant would block their opiate effects—but I needed this to work. The doctor said some patients try using huge amounts of heroin to override the implant, but they overdose and die. Others cut open their own flesh in desperation, digging out the pellet so they
can use. While it seemed unfathomable, I knew it wasn’t beneath me, for once the demon wakes, the addict is powerless over its demands.
A month passed, and I was continuing my contortion work relentlessly with Jonathan. I wasn’t using and feeling better. Knowing I couldn’t get high even if I shot up brought great relief and let me focus on my recovery issues while attending meetings every day. People learn to dance by doing what dancers do, and learn to paint by doing what painters do; to get into recovery, I started doing what people in recovery do. I put my dreams aside and focused on recovery while training like an Olympian. It helped me focus on positive aspects of myself and provided small, achievable goals. Years of mental corrosion slowly began to clear.
Jonathan had recently booked a workshop for a Broadway-bound show choreographed and directed by Twyla Tharp. I had also auditioned for it, but had no recollection of how I did. The show was moving forward, and I received a call from my agent to be seen again. Jonathan loved Twyla, finding her creative and inspiring to be around. I still had almost no dance experience, but the few classes I took made me feel good, moving without restrictions, feeling free, and experiencing a sense of being at home in my body.
I walked into the audition room slightly paralyzed by fear and saw Twyla sitting behind a desk. She had gorgeous silver hair cut short and was eating soup. Her smile was intense, and she looked pleased with the group of men in front of her, gymnasts who dance. I could tumble, but dancing was out of the question. Her assistant taught us the combination, and I couldn’t remember a single step. I was a disaster—tripping on the guy beside me and bumping into the guy behind. Then she had us reverse the choreography. If I hadn’t learned the first direction, how on Earth could I learn the second? I didn’t get called back, but I wasn’t distraught; that show was beyond my abilities, and I was simply proud to have auditioned without getting high. A month later they called me in again. I didn’t want to embarrass myself once again, but I went in, and it went the same way. I wasn’t cut out for that type of movement. The dancers in the room had trained in their art for as many years as I had done gymnastics and drugs combined.
But that audition wouldn’t go away. A few weeks later I got called in again; Twyla still hadn’t found what she was looking for. I wanted to be the one, but knew I wasn’t. She had seen hundreds of dancers, all with incredibly honed skills and God-given talent. Athletically, I had advanced tremendously, training with Jonathan in different circus arts like juggling, aerial work, and unicycle, but I was nowhere near in the same movement dimensions as those other performers. However, my agent said Twyla had specifically requested me, and this time she needed to hear me sing. I laughed. I had trouble just speaking out loud, so singing was out of the question. Jonathan had his role secured for the show, and encouraged me to try. While certain that I wasn’t what she was looking for, I had learned that sometimes even those who are casting don’t know what they’re looking for. And though it seemed ridiculous to audition again, I gave it a try. Jonathan recommended a vocal coach to find an audition song and some confidence.
My first day with the vocal coach was tragic. I stood in front of him, shaking and trembling, and he could barely get a sound out of me. I tried singing so low that it was hardly audible. Then he said, “I don’t know why you aren’t singing louder. You’re strong and have such a nice, high range.” I felt as though I’d been hit by a crowbar. Confused, I said, “What?”
“You have such a high range. This is what they’re looking for.” Though it wasn’t what I wanted, I could hit high notes easily, and when I put some air behind the words it sounded decent enough to audition. Still, reaching a few notes didn’t mean I could sing in front of strangers. For the next two weeks I sang every day, visualizing shooting the notes out above Twyla’s head, but I didn’t know how to stand, where to look, or what to do with my arms. Should I mime the song, move to it, rock back and forth? I had no clue.
Every morning I made Jonathan listen to me sing to the point of annoyance; but my perfectionism demanded I get it right. I stretched, lifted, flipped, held handstands, and sang until I was exhausted. I was coming close to ninety days of not using and was thrilled with the implant—enthralled and bewildered that I had gone to such lengths to stay drug-free.
I spent the night before the audition sleeplessly recounting my journey, lying in disbelief at my present place, proud of my uncomfortably hard work. Gymnastics, a gift bestowed on me, was as easy as child’s play, but after I had readily exchanged it for a life of drug addiction, nothing had ever come easily again. I was forced to fight for everything, to work harder than anyone I ever knew to reclaim and relearn my life’s true love. I faced recovery with the same adamancy, battling emotional crises every day.
I could barely breathe as I entered the audition room in terror—this time not as much of the dancing, and certainly not the acrobatics, but of the singing. The floor was covered with perfect-bodied dancers warming up, people who did this daily and had trained their entire existence for that moment. If they saw my track marks they would have kept their distance, but I was proud of my scars.
Twyla sat confidently next to her assistant and orchestrator. The audition began with strength, flexibility, and handstand endurance tests. I excelled at them all. She then made a first huge cut, and I was still there, still standing. I thought she had made a mistake until she looked directly at me and smiled. I nearly peed my pants. Then she taught the dance portion, and I was disastrous. With only three of us dancing in a large, open space, I managed to smash into both guys. With all my new recovery I still looked like a falling-down drunk. “Joe,” Twyla said, “I know you can do this, but it’s going to take some time. You go in the back. Stand behind them and do your own thing.” I could do that. I wiggled around to my own rhythm. Then we did the acrobatic portion, which I nailed. Twyla was impressed; but the worst was yet to come.
The other remaining guys sang first, and those dancers could sing. As I waited outside, their huge, clear voices filled the space and resonated through the closed door. Their volume destroyed my confidence—there was no way I could continue. I needed to either leave or get high. I texted Jonathan, “I’m still here, but I can’t do this. I can’t stop shaking. I hate my voice, I’m so embarrassed. Please . . . can’t I just leave?” He replied, “No, you can do this. Just do it like you practiced.”
The door opened and it was my turn. I handed my sheet music to the musical director and he asked, “Where did you get this song?” I shyly said, “My roommates gave it to me.” He looked shocked. “I composed this almost twenty years ago,” he said. But at that moment, all I could think about was the paralyzing fear engulfing me.
Jonathan told me to take one deep breath before I sang—one breath, to connect with myself, to stand firmly on the ground and confidently mark my space. Take one breath for my hard work, for my past, and for where I’m going. Take one breath to protect me and remind me that none of those things really mattered. I took my breath and thought of Andrea Gruber at the Met—how she had confidently walked on stage, breathed, and belted out the purest notes I’d ever heard. I thought of her and borrowed her confidence, knowing she wouldn’t mind.
Before I sang my first note, I made the decision to sing for my recovery. I had only been singing for two weeks, with no actual idea of what I was doing, but I put truth behind the words and pushed them from my lungs as clearly and passionately as possible. The sound of my voice deafened my ears, and while my brain told me to stop, I didn’t. I sang for that college boy, kicked out of school, homeless in a park, and waiting for a miracle. I sang for my first injection and the way the needle broke my skin. I sang for Kimi and her abused girlfriend. I sang for the methadone line, terrified of becoming a part of it. And finally, I sang for the accomplishment of singing against fear, which was something I could never have done before.
I don’t know how it sounded or what they thought, but Twyla thanked me for the audition and said I would hear something either way. That was commonly said in the industry, and I didn’t expect to hear anything. Two hours later, Jonathan and I met for lunch and I told him about the audition. I was proud of doing my best, and my phone rang midstory. It was my agent: “You got the job!”
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EOXYRIBONUCLEIC ACID IS A NUCLEIC ACID THAT CONTAINS THE GENETIC INSTRUCTIONS USED IN THE DEVELOPMENT AND FUNCTIONING OF ALL KNOWN LIVING ORGANISMS
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HE MAIN ROLE OF
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MOLECULES IS THE LONG-TERM STORAGE OF INFORMATION
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T IS OFTEN COMPARED TO A SET OF BLUEPRINTS, LIKE A RECIPE OR A CODE, SINCE IT CONTAINS ALL THE INSTRUCTIONS NEEDED TO CONSTRUCT OTHER COMPONENTS OF CELLS
.
After having seen hundreds of dancers in countless auditions—she picked me. Did she make a mistake? I did not question the outcome; it was a good grace for me and my recovery. But the real work would start soon and, regardless of the pressures, I couldn’t use. The desire to get high was ever present, but a new phenomenon presented itself—my addiction was hushed, slowly getting pushed from the front of my thoughts.
I was cast as Jonathan’s understudy, being one of few men who could cover his contortion scene. The character’s name was Stilts and his role encompassed twenty years of acquired circus and music skills—I had a lot to learn in a limited time.
I couldn’t remember the last time I felt I was in the right place. Years ago, during one of my many detoxes, I heard a popular daytime TV host say, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.” If that were true, then I was lucky. In two months we would leave for San Diego to work and open the show before Broadway.
Before leaving for the West Coast, we worked the show in New York at City Center. The McDonald’s where Nick and I had met Asten for heroin was on the way, and I passed it daily going to rehearsals. I lowered my eyes for fear of seeing Asten. I had heard he moved back to the neighborhood and was using again. Once in the rehearsal space I was safe and could switch mind-sets into the hardworking environment. The other dancers were breathtaking. Many had previously worked with Twyla and they clearly adored her, dancing with a velocity that was passed down through her vital force. I quickly perceived a kindred spirit: an unbreakable, working perfectionist who never gives up, pushes her body beyond human limitations, and guides others to do the same. I found Twyla to be an elegant, fearless leader and, having made that connection, swore to die in her army. It was no coincidence I ended up there.
The next two weeks were spent hovering behind the real dancers, mimicking their movements and bending my body in odd ways so that I could create their compelling lines. I wished I had been dancing my whole life. When our legs could no longer move, we worked the songs, the music of Bob Dylan. In the past, I would get blind, stinking stoned while singing Dylan. Now in recovery, I was dancing and singing his music in a Broadway-bound show, and I wished Tara were here beside me. The first week of rehearsals I tore the bottoms off my feet, making walking excruciating, but I just kept marching forward through the pain.
The cast was extraordinary—some of the most talented, hardworking people I’d ever met, readily helping me when I couldn’t follow a step or staging. One day Twyla kept me after rehearsal.
Uh-oh . . . this is it
, I thought.
She realized she made a mistake and is letting me go
. She asked about my gymnastics history and had me demonstrate every acrobatic skill doable on a dance floor. Afterward, when I was thoroughly exhausted, she asked if I would be willing to teach acrobatics to the dancers who didn’t tumble well, in addition to being Jonathan’s understudy. I was honored and accepted the responsibility, wanting to help in any way possible. Being part of that project was a privilege, and helping others helped to keep me steady on the complex path of recovery. I wanted to tell Twyla the story behind the large
scar on my triceps and that I had just recently achieved ninety days of recovery, but I didn’t. I gave a little bow as I said, “Thank you.”