Stories from the Crowd: The Boy With The Pink Jeep
by Scott Ballew
“I’ve seen firsthand the terrible consequences of drug abuse. My heart is with all who suffer from addiction and the terrible consequences for their families.”
-Columba Bush
“But I will say that the drugs are much more ferocious than they used to be. There are people wrecking their lives with addiction, which seems much more severe.”
-Armistead Maupin ”
Screeching tires, loud music, lots of giggles.
So begins the story of my introduction to Carter Johnson. One cool Friday night in the fall of 1986, I was hanging out with two of my high school buddies, Allen and Michael. We were milling around Allen’s parents garage drinking beer and talking about cars. Reacting to the raucous, we opened the garage door and walked outside and were greeted by my friend Missy and a lanky, blonde-headed boy driving a Jeep Wrangler with its top down, music blaring. Having imbibed a little, my automobile aficionado friend, Allen, began making snarky remarks about Jeeps, rich kids, and how the car sitting in his driveway looked decidedly pink. Under the glow of the tungsten-halogen street lamps, we agreed the Jeep indeed had a pink cast to it, which only exacerbating the barrage of snarky comments coming from Allen’s mouth. He didn’t like the Jeep or the guy in it.
In a drawl that came across as being either manufactured or the result of significant consumption the driver blurted, “Hi I’m Carter Johnson.” We busied ourselves with introductions, carried on with mindless conversation, and talked about music, people, work and school. Missy and Carter shared that they were simply running around town passing the time by chasing down friends. It was a familiar activity in McAllen, Texas. Not that there wasn’t anything to do, one just had to be a bit creative when they wanted to consume alcohol undetected. Missy and Carter said their goodbyes and sped away tires chirping during upshifts. We carried on drinking our beer and having our aimless conversation into the night.
I started noticing Carter at house parties and the dance clubs and bars in Mexico. American kids from the states would cross the border to drink cheaply. Carter was a few years younger than me, but we had overlapping social circles. I noticed that most of his friends were generally older. Among his peers and their parents, Carter was plagued with a reputation that preceded him. He was known for skipping school, bad grades, a lethargic attitude towards work, and for being a “party kid,” if you will. He was from a well respected family having enough wealth to support his lifestyle. Carter had a knack for being quite entertaining and endearing. He was incredibly quick-tongued and quite silly, often making himself the punch line of his own jokes. He was amazingly funny and could make you laugh with his quirky understanding of life and the world around him.
Carter was never too far from a beer or a cocktail. He was quite frequently under the influence of alcohol. He had a way of getting his hands on beer and liquor in spite of being far away from the legal drinking age or looking anything like a 21 year old. He possessed the epitome of boyish looks. He was always poised with a Jack & Coke in his right hand and a Marlboro cigarette lifted high with his left hand, relentlessly taking drag after drag. He wasn’t particularly masculine, but he had dated enough of McAllen’s young ladies throughout his high-school career to elude those who suspected him of being gay; however, he was a bit flamboyant. He dropped out of high school during his Junior year, much to the chagrin of his family and grandmother, the family matriarch. Everybody seemed to know that Carter was a little different, special, and delicate. He didn’t quite fit into any subculture. He wasn’t a loner as he was well-liked and he had numerous friends, but he didn’t possess much drive or have any aspiration to do anything significant. He kind of meandered through his life, day by day, party. He worked for his father who owned a remodeling business. Carter tended to the office and the minutia of daily operations. He helped clients pick out fabrics, wallpaper, paint color, etc… Carter was never enthusiastic about his work, but it gave him enough capital to exist and entertain himself.
Move forward a year or so. Carter and I were just naturally drawn to each other and eventually became quite close friends. We we essentially inseparable. We ran around together and shared numerous mutual friends. We were ‘best friends,’ for all practical purposes, yet there was always an undercurrent of suspicion or curiosity between us. It was as if he was hiding something from me and I from him. I left for college and began living a double life; a girlfriend in one hand and a boyfriend in the other. Carter and I had never talked about our sexual curiosities. We knew of gay people in McAllen, but they were on the fringe of our social network. We were known for dating girls and being a couple of partiers. We shirked any queries about being gay by dismissing them at the onset and being seen with attractive girls at our side. One night in Mexico that all changed.
I had come home during the break between fall and spring semester. Carter and I proceeded across the border to Reynosa, post haste, for cheap afternoon cocktails. We got caught up with a group of winter Texans partying it up at a bar called Treviño’s. We drank hurricanes, took shots and consumed frozen cocktails of all kinds. We would dance with the seniors and they would send drinks to our table as a “thank you.” Essentially, we got schnockered. Carter and I walked into the men’s room to pee and he said, “I have have something to tell you” and without hesitation, I said the exact same thing at the exact same moment. Out it comes, “Scott, I’m gay.” In unison, “Carter, I am gay.” A solidarity was formed, but it was not without incident. We cried, we laughed, we drank, we left. Crossing the border in my mother’s Cadillac was not the smartest thing for a college kid to do. We were individually searched, the car was searched, and we were held for some time until the authorities released us as we had nothing in our possession except the alcohol in our system. Shocked and sobered, we ventured home, not saying much to each other at all.
A couple of days later, Carter calls and wants to go out again. I oblige and we were off to the next adventure. So we run around town, drinking, smoking, talking. A world of discovery and sharing of experiences. We were content to share and explore as friends and never found it necessary to have a an experience together; the friendship was sacred. Late into the evening, Cater looks towards me with mischief in his eye and says, “I have a place I want to take you. Don’t freak out, it’ll be fun.” So off we go. We arrived at a nondescript two-story house in north McAllen. Cars all over the place. We hop out and walk right in without even knocking. Carter evidently had plenty of experience with the crowd. “They all knew him by name. He was hugged, kissed and grabbed by all sorts of unfamiliar men, only men. It was game night at one of his “buddies” homes and we were the celebrity guests. I quickly learned the meaning of the term ‘chicken’ (a young, attractive, gay man). I was a bit uncomfortable for most of the evening, though many guests were quite welcoming and accommodating. It was simply unfamiliar territory for me, particularly in McAllen. Carter was completely at ease and elated. Liquor was flowing, pot was everywhere, and an occasional curious ‘sniff’ could be heard. It was a completely undiscovered world for me. Carter had nestled in quite nicely.
Eventually, we both came out publicly. Cater coined the phrase, “Scott didn’t come out of the closet, he flew out of the armoire!” Exposure and experiences in college turned me into quite the “gay.” I took a bit of a different route than Carter though; academics, activism, work and dating. Carter never really dated anyone. He was very content being the party boy. He was very good at it. Despite having a job, Carter never seemed to have any money. He’d barter his parent’s fuel card for drinks or cash. He would invite himself along knowing that he didn’t have a dime in his pocket. He’d simply flash a smile and his puppy eyes and say, “Can I have a drink?” and proceed to order a double Jack & Coke. Later it was discovered the lack of funds was because of another kind of coke. The powdery kind.
Dabbling in drugs was not really my thing. I was the control freak; the one who took care of everyone. I was the “stable” guy with a job, in college, a roof over my head, a nice car, etc… I did my fair share of partying, but I always felt I was in control of myself. Neither of us enjoyed pot. We both thought of it as a dirty, cheap-ass drug. Troublesome, stinky, and not particularly enjoyable. It wasn’t anything that we cared to do, but cocaine had its allure. Drink until you’re sleepy and pick right back up with some blow. It became Carter’s modus operandi. He loved it. Carter had no governor. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t say no. He was the life of the party and wanted that state of being to never end. He was caught up in the moment, the limelight, the intrigue, the fun. Alcohol and cocaine offered Carter something that sober life didn’t, escapism. He was desperately lonely and self-deprecating. He was all laughs and smiles on the outside, but terribly affected on the inside. Over time, he gained quite a bit of weight and became quite obese. He tried to lose the weight by walking, but his efforts were to no avail. He would come from the tanning salon saying, “Well at least fat looks better tanned” then laugh it off. That superficial response was only a mask. He was terribly embarrassed about his appearance. Once the hot twink, now the over weight twenty-something. His weight issues left him deeply scarred and his coping mechanisms were his worst enemy. Drugs and alcohol were a mainstay, a daily exercise.
Carter and I drifted apart. I graduated college, got a job, began dating, and started to run around in completely different social circles. We talked some, but it was strange to go on and on about my successes while Carter existed in essentially the same situation since high school. He was still funny, entertaining and caring, but he was also decisively defeated. It was evident in the way he carried himself, in the way he talked, and in his weak intonation. His family had been through some incredibly tragic situations. The family wealth had diminished along with his parents’ health. Carter tried to cope with changes, but he simply didn’t have the right tools to pull himself out of the slump. During the fall of 1999, his mother and I talked about Carter coming to Austin for rehabilitation. Carter and I even talked about the opportunities that awaited him after he “sobered up.” He was optimistic, but apprehensive.
My father called me in tears, “You’re little buddy is gone.” That is all I really remember and the next thing I know, I’m a pallbearer. I don’t remember who I talked to, I don’t remember what I said, what I wore, what I did, or where I stayed. All I remember was lifting his casket. At the funeral one of my dear friends, Victoria, asked me to stop crying. I didn’t know what else to do but cry. The sense of sorrow was overwhelming. He was the third friend that I had lost to suicide.
As I remember it (which may or may not be completely accurate), three days before Carter was to leave for rehabilitation, he had a terrible fight with his mother. A vicious, furious confrontation. In his rage he grabbed a bottle of his mother’s back pain medicine from the counter and stormed out of the house. Days later, McAllen Police had a report of a man slumped over in a Camaro in a parking lot near a city park. Carter was pronounced dead at the scene. It was determined he had asphyxiated after ingesting narcotics mixed with alcohol. I can’t begin to think of what was going through his head, but he was likely too numb and inebriated to have any sense of the world around him. I never heard the outcome of the toxicology report. It didn’t matter. He was gone.
It has been some time since his passing, yet his impression lingers. Occasionally when mutual friends gather, we reminisce about his laugh, his tan, his repeating attire (if he liked an article of clothing, he wore the hell out of it), his charm, and his proclivity for Jack Daniels. The dark side we sweep away. I think sweeping away the unsavory parts is a disservice to his existence. While we loved the person who was witty and fun, we loathed the person who lied, cheated, stole, and manipulated. Carter’s death taught me just how volatile we are and that there are situations in life which challenge us and some of us just don’t have the coping mechanisms to contend with them. Some make it, some don’t. I know that sounds calloused, but it is my coping mechanism: reality, not romanticism.
As an aside, if you have a friend in trouble, there are resources available. Sometimes people are on a track that seems impossible to derail, but your conscious will feel better of you at least try to intervene.
Epilogue:
by Aprilee Thurman Humphreys
Carter Johnson would love to be immortalized via the printed word. I remember the first time I met him, wearing this atrocious Granny-Square sweater in the many shades of tans and browns that I am sure that nobody else would EVER have the nerve to wear. But wear it he did. Repeatedly. It accompanied his 501’s and Red Wing boots. And it matched his Jeep. He was from San Antonio, he said. Alamo Heights, to be exact. He said that the family had come South to be near his grandmother and had a remodeling business. He had been befriended by another friend of mine a year behind us named Ginger Andrews. Ginger was always a “straight arrow” and I believed her to be a good judge of character, which I still stand behind to this day although many years have passed since we last spoke. Carter was, upon his advent at McAllen High School, quite the ingenue. The “it” guy. He possessed a magnetic personality and great wit, and had the ability to attract all types of people: jocks, preps, FFA, band…..everyone loved Carter.
We ditched last period and went to Jones and Jones. We rode around McAllen in his Jeep for hours. We were the carefree kids that resided in the shades of gray called the border town, a place where lines can blur very quickly if one isn’t careful. We had enough money to have fun and enough freedom to get into trouble. While I chose to stay on path, avoiding the drug scene and visiting the bars in Mexico only rarely, Carter seemed to relish the “Less Than Zero” lifestyle. Needless to say, I still saw him on a semi-regular basis, and his antics were more than entertaining: getting pulled over by McAllen Police Department for a DUI and giving them Scott’s driver’s license (he was underage), being involved in a police chase which ended up with him taking his parent’s Cadillac Brougham through a golf course and him getting arrested, riding out a Tropical Storm in as he called it “the Canadian Mist,” making runs to the corner store in his Dad’s white Ram Charger and everyone having a telephone party via the great new invention called three way calling, Carter sloshed on Canadian Mist.
But we all knew what was really happening. And we were powerless, as friends and families of addicts often are. I was not privy to the extent to which it was happening, nor was I a part of Carter’s life when he chose to leave it. Did he choose to leave, or was it an accident? Carter took that secret with him. Through the years, I remember the bright side of Carter. I choose to remember the bright side, as it is less disappointing, sad and painful. I know how profoundly his leaving affected my dear friend Scott. I have few true friends, but Scott is one of them, and we have walked through the fires of life for many years now. So if it hurts Scott, it upsets me. I really only knew the details of the end of Carter’s life through Scott. And he was devastated. If Carter had been an animal, he would have been a peacock: flamboyant in personality and beautiful while his plumes were displayed. Captivating. Sought after. That part of him would love that he lives on in text. And living in text is much easier for Carter.
Excerpt From
Stories from the Crowd
Scott Ballew
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