Santa With the Cocaine is Gone.
I can’t figure out why I don’t want to write about Bob and Nick.
Maybe it’s because I so loved Nick, our sapling Santa Claus, and I’m so sure (now) that he was married and that his grand gestures of giving me cocaine even though I didn’t sleep with him … well, that was just nobility, not guilt, causing that.
Maybe it’s because Nick was so shy and careful and because he treated me like a friend. Maybe it’s because I used him so obviously for his cocaine and never even knew his last name and he could have died and I wouldn’t have even known.
Maybe it’s because of Bob. Maybe it’s because Bob was the first consistent Black man in my life, unless you count Tyrone from high school. Bob was more brazen than anyone I’d ever known, even Larry.
Maybe Bob was the reason that my ex-roommate Donna said – and I quote: “At least my parents won’t let me date niggers,” ending our friendship forever.
Yes, really she said that.
But I didn’t date Bob, nor sleep with him. I’m pretty sure he was married too, because sitting for hours with two college-aged girls in his two-door Accord … well, that had to be enough guilt already. Bob never made a move on us, but he constantly talked about sex.
In order to obtain cocaine, Bonnie and I were willing to answer Bob’s questions. Maybe I don’t want to write about Bob because he asked me which finger I used to masturbate, which I proudly said was none of his fucking business.
But then I told him anyway and it makes me gag a little just to admit that. I got another blast of coke for that answer.
Maybe I don’t want to write about Bob, but I need to tell the finger story to explain why I didn’t like Bob and still like Nick to this day, even though they’re probably both dead, like Bonnie and I should be.
Maybe it’s because our name for Nick was Santa Claus – Saint Nick, get it? And Nick was a true saint who gave out cocaine like it was candy, to me at least. And once I tell the story of Nick, then the idea of Santa with the cocaine is gone forever.
Maybe it’s because these were the last good times with Bonnie, and maybe once I write about the good times, then they’re really over, just like the bad times wane when I write about them.
Hanging out with Bob and Nick … this is where my year went poof! up in smoke.
Maybe it’s because this was almost the end of college, and I don’t want to let go of the good memories.
Maybe I don’t want to write about Nick or Bob because I’m getting to the place in my story when I started giving away more of myself than I wanted to give, and maybe that’s what I don’t want to admit. Maybe this is when the tides really turned. Maybe this is when I went from being a happy-go-lucky sorority girl to a sleazy barfly.
Maybe I don’t want to write about Nick or Bob because once I write this, the story turns and I’ve crossed that line and it’s all downhill until the inevitable crash.
Maybe it’s because it’s sad that hanging out with two dirty old men were some of the happiest times I had during senior year, and all I remember is the incessant, insane craving for their cocaine.