Grape Kool-aid

I joined the Peoples Temple in 1974, I was twenty three at the time. I had been looking for something to belong to, a group of people who shared my same beliefs, and unfortunately I found it. On that day in December, I knew that my life had taken a turn, but at that time it felt like a relief, rather than how it feels now. Joining the Temple, I never had to physically commit to anything, but the day I joined I mentally signed the dotted line, Michael James Draye. My joining was based on the intentions of goodwill and charity. At that time the Temple had been known for their charitable acts such as operating homes for the elderly, running soup kitchens and orphanages. These things were what I was looking for after all of my previous hardships, I'll talk about that later. 

I had lived in San Francisco for a number of years prior to joining the Temple, but it somehow seemed a little different after I became a member of the church. At first, things were great, I worked in the soup kitchens, I participated as a member of the congregation, and even became an avid supporter of racial equality. It felt odd to have such diverse beliefs compared to those that were common in my generation, but I liked it. When I first met the leader of the Temple, Jim Jones, he seemed to be an outwardly kind and well put together man. That just goes to show how first impressions can sometimes be deceiving. Jones shook my hand the first time we met, his grip was that of a man who meant business, and it seemed as though I could feel his ego through his hand. His appearance was that of a businessman, or at least that's how I saw him. His dark brown hair was always combed over into an almost car salesman style. In a morbid way, he almost looked like Elvis, the comparison makes me feel like less of a music lover. Jones seemed to always be wearing glasses, the kind that faded to dark when he stepped out into the sun. Later on I would see that they served as a covering for his evil eyes, I was thankful for this blindfold of sorts, but that gaze is burned into my brain to this day. When he wasn't wearing his robe and toting around a Bible, he wore button up shirts and slacks. An iconic outfit of his was a cherry red short sleeved button up and tan khakis, I remember that he wore this outfit for an interview once, but I cannot remember what it was for.

The services were large in population, for our church I mean. Obviously we weren't the most conventional church, but for a relatively new group we had a pretty large congregation. The church's headquarters was a large stone building on Geary Boulevard. Stone arches stood tall over the entrance and a large lettered sign read "Peoples Temple of the Disciples of Christ Denominational Brotherhood". The sign hung high above the sidewalk, a welcome for all those who bothered to read it.

In those first few months in the Temple I felt like a renewed soul. I was doing community service, studying the good word, and devoting significantly more time to my personal growth. I needed these changes after all I had experienced in the past few years. Throughout the early seventies I had been in and out of rehab, a member of many anonymous drug use groups, and quite frankly in the worst shape of my life. Heroin was my mistress. She was cold and heartless, leaving me shaky and covered in an awful itch that could never be satiated. But, she was also warm and forgiving; she never hesitated to take me back when I strayed away, and in her arms I felt warm and numb to pain. I used for at least three consecutive years. The rehabs never worked, no matter how much money my mother paid for me to be there, the need for my fix was unavoidable, and quite frankly I just never really cared to get better. I felt like I could stop at anytime, I just didn't want to. After my third escape from rehab, I found myself face down in an alley puddle. I didn't really know how I got there, but based on prior experience I could make a few assumptions. These escape benders were always the same, I made a fool of myself in the rehabilitation center lobby, screaming and spitting about how these places were just a money waster, and how nobody ever got any better when they were here. After my speech I would run out the door, down some dark alley where I would find the daily dealer, and that's all I could ever remember. In the morning, I would wake up face down in a puddle of mud or trash, with a needle stuck in my arm from the night before. That morning after my third escape, I rolled over and stared at the blinding sun. It was hot that morning in San Francisco, but something about me felt cool. Maybe it was the fever I always had after a hard night with the mistress, but this time it felt different, like a sign from some unknown god. I needed to get my shit together, it needed to happen today.