I Couldn’t Imagine Anything Better.
Nick – our Santa Claus – was a regular at The Elm, so Bonnie and I went there all the time.
We were daily drinkers by then and we wanted to be daily cocaine users, too. But we didn’t want to be arrested, and we didn’t want to splurge for the extreme amounts of cocaine we desired.
Nick was sweet, quiet and shy around us, like a high schooler who had never bloomed. Fortunately Bonnie and I talked enough for all of us, and we adored Nick.
Nick had a sweet spot for me, and he obviously had tons of cocaine, so it was a win-win situation. I would have done anything he asked, but he never asked for a single thing.
Nick brought me back to the dorm one night, in his car and without Bonnie. I don’t remember why but I found myself at 3 a.m. smuggling a male into my room, again, risking ramifications of social probation because there was still cocaine left in Santa Claus’ little brown vial.
I don’t know where Nick got the money, but a vial of cocaine cost about $100. For Nick, Bonnie and me, it lasted one night. Or so it seemed.
The night Nick drove me home from The Elm, I figured he wanted to sleep with me. It was rare that guys came home with me for any other reason. But Nick, who was at least as old as Larry, had other plans.
Like me, Nick just wanted to do cocaine. We were both wired but tried to be quiet so as not to be caught. I played quiet music – Alison Moyet’s Alf album – and did lines that Nick splayed on my desk. When the second playing of the album was over, Nick stood up to leave.
Suddenly desperately lonely and afraid, I tried to kiss Nick, hoping he would stay longer, but he didn’t want that.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I like you.”
This confused the heck out of me.
So I just walked him to the parking lot. It was snowing hard, and silent.
Nick reached into his pocket and took out a brand new, full vial of cocaine. He picked up my hand, put the vial into my open palm, then closed my hand around it.
“No!” I whined. “I can’t take this! It’s too much.”
It was, quite literally, too much. After all the coke I’d done already, it could have killed me. But the thought of having a full vial of cocaine to myself was beyond exhilarating; I couldn’t imagine anything better in the entire world.
“Take it,” he whispered, giving me a brief, awkward hug. “I’ll see ya later.”
So I pocketed it and watched him drive off.
I covertly moved the cocaine to my room where I stared at it, feeling guiltily ecstatic like I’d just successfully robbed a bank.
I recalled that night long ago, after The Firm concert, when I’d held my head out the window gasping for air, believing my heart was going to explode.
I opened the bottle anyway.
I used the little included spoon to do one hit from my very own cocaine bottle. After inserting some into my left nostril, I did another one on the right.
It was mine.
My heart was pounding; in addition to being wired, I was terrified.
I put a little coke on my finger, tasted it, wiped my finger on my gums. I wanted to have this forever.
I put it way in the back of my desk drawer, behind my pens, push-pins and post-its, and closed the drawer tight.