J.R.: I never smoked a cigarette in my life. I was always into fitness. I ran at least five miles on Miami Beach every day. Running was how I made friends, too. The 1970s weren’t just about coke and Quaaludes. Fitness was a big craze in Miami. It was how I met Harvey Klug.* He was a runner on the beach. Harvey’s relatives owned a Nathan’s Hot Dog store in New York, and he was one of those nice, straight-arrow kids who grew up without a care in the world. Unfortunately, he got interested in betting, and after I hooked him with Bobby Erra, he ended up owing some money. The truth is, if you were hanging out with me, you weren’t ever a completely straight arrow. But everybody liked Harvey. He was such a good runner, he worked out with some of the top athletes. One day Harvey said to me, “I’ve got to turn you on to my friend.”
“Mercury Morris.”*
Merc was an amazing runner, ballplayer, you name it. I used to play basketball with him and some of his NFL friends, and these guys were so good, they could have played in the NBA. They would kick my ass up and down, but it was worth it just to play top athletes in the world. Merc was also one of the first spokesmen for Nautilus workout equipment. He’d travel around the country promoting fitness.
Merc also loved smoking weed and doing lines. One time we were at a club doing lines right at a table. Some asshole fan came up to him and said, “You’re a professional athlete. You can’t be getting high.”
Merc laughed, “Hey, man. Watch me play on TV. You’ll see how high I am.”
It was a little sad, because Merc was traded, then retired from the NFL right around the time he made that boast. By then I’d started hooking him up with kilos of coke that he was selling to his friends in the NFL with Randy Crowder,† another football great.
I’ll be honest. I probably sold them coke because I liked hanging out with these guys. Movie stars don’t impress me. Athletes do, and one of the magical things coke did was bring these heroes into my world. Merc was a special guy. Not just a great athlete—he had a heart. He went through some troubles. At one point he came to me needing money really bad, and he offered to sell me his Ferrari Daytona. He was so desperate, I gave him a ridiculous amount for the car, like fifteen grand. When they arrested him in 1982 for drug trafficking, he was not caught with my coke, but he could have given up my name anyway, and he didn’t. He was such a good guy, I felt a little bad for being so rotten to him with his Ferrari. But I’m not the good guy. That’s not my role.
AS MUCH as coke brought me up in the world, sometimes it did bring me down.
One day the Buffalo Bills were coming in to play Miami, and Merc called me up. He said, “Jon, I’m going to bring a guy by your house.”
“Merc, you’re my man. Bring anybody you want to bring.”
I’m in my house on Bay Drive, and in walks Merc with O.J. Simpson. I was taken aback. Here was O.J. Simpson—Juice,* one of the best running backs in history—in my house. We sat down and started putting shit up our noses, and everybody’s high as a motherfucker, and everybody’s laughing. O.J. turns to me and says, “Hey, man, if you’re ever in Buffalo, look me up.”
I said, “ ‘Ever in Buffalo’? Juice, are you out of your fucking mind? I ain’t never going to be in Buffalo unless they blow it up and put the pieces on a barge and bring it down here where it’s nice. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I don’t know what came over me. I guess O.J. rubbed me the wrong way. After an hour in my house, it was tiring to be around him. Even though all of us were doing coke, O.J. went beyond. He was a coke fiend. He was crazed.
Talking to O.J., the other impression I got was that he was very fortunate he had his talent as a running back. Without that, he would have been lucky to work flipping burgers. I’m not saying O.J. was a dummy. He told a lot of funny stories. But he was very stuck on himself, and I didn’t see that he had the brains to back that up.
When O.J. left my house that first night, I was glad.
A FEW weeks later he showed up again with Merc. After a few hours Merc had to go home to see his kids. Like I say, Merc was a good guy.
Now I’m alone with O.J. He came on a Thursday night, and the next day he’s still in my living room, blasted out of his mind, doing more lines. Suddenly I’m his babysitter. Outside of doing my coke, O.J.’s only other interest was, he wanted to fuck any white girl there was. But he was too crazed to leave the house. The easiest thing was to put him in the guest room and bring in a bunch of hookers. They could be ugly, as long as they had bleach-blond hair and were white. He’d party with one or two girls for a couple hours, then he’d want the next ones. I kept a small herd of whores in my living room, feeding them booze and blow, so they could be on call for O.J.
Saturday night I go into O.J.’s room and say, “Look, man, don’t you got to practice with your team? Isn’t there a curfew?”
“Curfew?” he says. “I’m O.J. I do anything I want.”
“Juice, you got a game tomorrow in Buffalo.”
“As long as you get me on the first plane in the morning, I’ll be fine.”
By Sunday morning the man is totally, totally gone. He’s burned through so much blow, so many whores, his eyes don’t even focus no more. He’s awake, but his head is rolling on his chest.
I call a friend to help me carry him to my car. By the time we get to the airport, O.J.’s in another world. I slap him in the face and shout, “Juice, I’m going to give you a big fucking line.” I spoon-feed a mountain of shit up his nose. I thought it would wake him up, but it works the opposite way. He goes out cold.
He’s almost in a coma when we carry him out of the car. A skycap gets us a wheelchair, and we roll him into the airport. O.J. was famous then for that commercial where he jumps over hurdles at the airport.* As he rolls him through the airport, my friend is goofing on the ad, shouting, “Go, O.J.! Go!”
We push him right up to the gate. I find a stewardess and say, “Ma’am, Mr. Simpson drank a little too much last night. Can you pour some coffee down his throat and make sure he gets on the flight to Buffalo?”
O.J. finally opens his eyes. “Hey, man. Where am I?”
“You’re getting into an airplane.”
“Jon, I left my rental car at your house.”
“Don’t worry, Juice. I’ll return it.”
“Just leave it until next weekend.”
“What do you mean, ‘next weekend’?” I say.
“I’ll be back, man. We’ll party some more.”
“Juice, man, I’m going to be out of town.”
Obviously, I was lying. Next weekend I was going to take some quiet runs at the beach and work on my fitness.
* Harvey Klug is a pseudonym to protect the identity of Jon’s friend.
* Eugene “Mercury,” or “Merc,” Morris is the former Miami Dolphins running back who helped lead the Dolphins to two Super Bowl victories. In 1982 he was convicted of cocaine trafficking. After serving four years in prison, his conviction was overturned on appeal. Today he is a motivational speaker.
* Juice was a popular nickname for Simpson in the 1970s.
* A Hertz ad that ran in the 1970s featured O.J. leaping over obstacles in an airport while an old lady shouts, “Go, O.J.! Go!”
† Crowder is a former Penn State All-American player. As a defensive lineman for the Dolphins, he was arrested in 1977 for selling a pound of coke to an undercover cop. He is the father of current NFL player Channing Crowder.