He liked to party. He liked the clubs. Sometimes he'd wake up his roommate, Mike Glenn, in the middle of the night and insist Glenn accompany him to the disco. He liked to drive his cars—Porsches, BMWs, Jaguars—careening wildly around Manhattan, frightening even the cabdrivers, telling Glenn, "You've got to drive like this. If you don't, you won't get nowhere." He borrowed fifteen hundred dollars from his first agent to make a down payment on a Datsun 280Z. It was not uncommon to see his Mercedes 450SL (the word Sugar engraved in gold on the stickshift) parked outside of Studio 54, or near the infamous swinger's club known as Plato's Retreat. Given the lifestyle, cocaine was a natural fit. By 1983, Micheal Ray had burned through six agents, sixteen cars, and a wife, the detritus of a promising career piling up around him.
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