I've been busy with stand up and writing jokes but i still care about my loyal readers (all 3 of you) and you guys will get a kick out of this; pretty shitty in terms of prose but ehhh...idk..enjoy
Let me start this chapter by saying my family, on both sides, has a history of substance abuse, I've got more alcoholic cousins and uncles than the Kennedys. I have an uncle in a blue collar rehab clinic in Milwaukee and a cousin who got arrested for getting busted with a half pound of grass in the mid nineties who still hasn’t got back on his feet (He lives in a one bed room apartment with his sister and her boyfriend. And by “apartment” I mean hotel and by “live” I mean survive.) Almost all of my family smokes pot casually and the few who don't drink pretty heavily. Not to give you the impression that we are a family of addicts and nere-do wells. The majority of us live the Disney channel special American dream, we just enjoy the good life, and our definition of said good life is being sufficently stoned, sauced or medicated. That being said, I was reluctant to try cocaine.
Cory Doyle, a stunning dame and possibly the most beautiful blonde I'd ever seen in real life, invited me to the monthly “White light.” party she threw in her apartment. I had no idea what a white light party even was, but if Corey Doyle would of invited me to a “ass juice and coffee” party I would of jumped at the opportunity.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world sugar titties.” I told her.
“Oh, you better not handsome.” She laughed as she walked off with her roommate Emily, a slightly less stunning blonde, and this tall gay guy who seemed to shadow them around everywhere.
Cory, Emily and I shared an odd sense of humor. It was refreshing to finally meet a girl other than Alissa who I could call rather sexist names like “sugar titties” or “Ms. Sweet rump.” without getting them angry or weirded out or worst of all been written off as “that funny oddball kid who I'd never have a meaningful conversation with.” I even referred to Emily as my “next rape victim” in an elevator one day and she just laughed it off. I thought of our exchanges as flirting, but for all I know they could have thought I was a creep. I had kissed Cory once, she came to our room to score one Saturday, upon opening the door she gave me seemly committed hug and before exiting she gave me a fourth grade style kiss, although I could classify it more as a “I'm so happy we have weed now.” celebratory peck. I vaguely recall on a different occasion tiring to have a full on make out session with her at one of the barb boys parties. I was rejected , and like most drunken defeats my subconscious blocked it out. But even in rejecting my liquor induced advances she still choose to sit next to me and finished the conversation my penis had rudely interrupted.
Later that day I got a text from Cory saying she was going to stop by to pick up my donation for the party, I assumed that I was donating alcohol, so the customary five bucks would cover my share. I looked in my wallet and saw that I only had two twenty dollar bills. I'd need change.
“Randy? You have change for a twenty?” I knocked on his already open door.
“Uh..yeah.” Randy told me. He then looked in his desk drawer and pulled out a tin box where he kept his cash. The box had separated compartments
for bills with different face values like a cash register, I guess in a way it was a perverse, cash register. Randy gave me 4 five dollar bills.
“Need change to get another hooker?” Randy jokingly asked.
“You know just as well as I do no prostitute in the south loop trusts me.” I say, we share a laugh and I continue with “But yeah, you know that Corey girl? The blonde?”
“Yeah Hannah Montana. Whats up?” Randy called her Hannah Montana because he thought she looked like the God forsaken teen sensation of the same name.
“Well she invited me to a party in her room this Friday and she's coming over for my donation for alcohol, she's probably getting a lot if she's coming over to get money 4 days in advance.”
Randy looked up at me from his desk chair. He gave me this confused look
That he often gave me when I said something ignorant or naïve.
“Dude I'm pretty sure she isn’t coming over for a liquor run.”
I look at Randy curiously and he continues;
“Yeah I knew a guy last year who used to date her, they used to have coke parties and shit...” Randy would go on but I had already zoned out.
The second Randy mentioned cocaine the term “white light” begin to make sense. She was throwing a blow party, she was going to turn her room into Studio 54 and I was contributing. I had limited knowledge with cocaine but I knew it was expensive and if I gave her 5 bones she'd think I was cheap sake. I was pretty cheap, but with a girl as high profile as Cory Doyle I'd have dig deep, I'd have????______????? Ten dollars should do it.
“Hmmm, she did say that it was a white light party.”
“Well there you go. Yeah dude I went to a few last year and.” Randy paused to snicker. He looked at the floor as if was remising. And what a sweet memory to reflect on, a gathering of privileged youths snorting Daddy's weekly allowance. Randy snapped out of his less than wholesome daydream to tell me that the parties we a lot of fun for the first hour or so.
“Around hour two, once the blow is all gone, you start the comedown. That's when you feel like total shit.”
Feeling like a shit bag wasn’t that new to me. I was pound of myself maybe a total of 4 hours a week, the other???______??? I was shaking my head and cursing my actions. But I still felt I needed more info.
“Total Shit, like how? We talking the normal frustration and mild loathing here? Or...what?” I said walking into the room a little more.
“Its like, “ he sighed and went on. “The only thing as bad as the come down is how good the high itself feels ya know? You go from 100 to negative 100, from on top of a mountain to fucking...I don’t know, New Orleans. Post Katrina.”
“It makes you feel super guilty, like imagine if you inadvertently killed your mom.” Michelle said from underneath Randy's bed cover. I didn’t even know she was in the room. This bitch was sneaky.
“Yeah and a bus of orphans and boat of puppies.” Randy concluded.
“Jesus H. Garcia.” I said looking at my handful of money. I was intrigued. Not by the promise of cationic guilt. But by the idea that there was a feeling out there equal to the opposite of accidently killing my mother. What a high.
“Do you know anywhere to get any Randy?” I asked in the tone a cop would have in an interrogation. If I was to go to this white light party I'd need experience. Practice, powder practice. You don't send a rookie to the super bowl. You don't send a virgin to an orgy.
“Not officially but I know Jerome across the hall as a pretty big private stash, he might throw you some.”
Jerome from 603 had been in our room a few times to talk shop with day.
I knew the guys in 603 were pretty big pot heads. I hung out with this guy Tyler from that room a few times, and I had run into their Asian roommate Matthew by the vending machines one night. I loaned him a dollar, still haven’t got it back to this day.
“Jerome huh? Think he'll let some go to me?” I asked.
“Maybe dude, he owes me favor anyway. Tell him it's for me.”
I thanked Randy and walked out. I thought about Jerome for a minute.. He was an interesting character in many rights. He was the only white man I ever met named Jerome. He was about five feet tall and walked with a limp. His girlfriend came over once to borrow one of Randy's books. Randy asked her where Jerome was and she explains that he was at the hospital for monthly physical therapy. She went on to explain that as a kid Jerome spent way to much time on his big wheel and it slowed his growth and gave him a pretty bad case of scoliosis. His family had been in a class action lawsuit with Fisher-price for the better part of 18 years. There were apparently file cabinets upon file cabin ants of cases from families claiming that riding big wheel had caused permanent damage to children. I owned a big wheel. I was short. I had a light case of scoliosis. I wonder?
