It’s 9 o’clock on a Wednesday morning, and Greg Jackson looks like hell. He looks like he’s still at home asleep, like his body got up and came to the Jackson-Winkeljohn gym on Acoma Street without the express written consent of his mind or spirit. It’s not his fault. It’s the energy drinks, a habit he’s been trying, however casually, to quit. Julie Kedzie sees it. Jackson’s longtime student and now his full-time personal assistant, she does everything from fetching gear out of his car to serving as a sort of walking external hard drive, the living memory bank that reminds him where he’s supposed to be and what he’s supposed to be doing