The problem was, before I succumbed to the predations of big pharma I’d been sober for ten years. I never thought of taking a drink or doing a line of coke—Those were the drugs of the day, though my deep love and passion will always be for pills—and I basked in the glory of sobriety. Sobriety was a high in and of itself which is why something as mundane as a migraine and toothache’s ability to take my life away is something I’m yet to get over. Now I’m hooked on loss. My losses are glued to my soul even now.
Taking that Vicodin ignited a fuse and erased my ten sober years in an instant. Once drugs hit the pleasure center of my brain all bets were off and there wasn’t a drug, except for heroin, I wouldn’t do. I was held hostage by the reptile again and his deathly embrace. He was driving the car. Now couldn't pick up a glass of water or Diet Coke without taking a pill. It was as though the glass itself was navigating. I’d go get a glass of water and try my hardest not to take a pill and I couldn’t. Even the glass put me in that trance like state. This brings me to my visit to Solange.
It was a California day: 70 degrees and sunny with a bright blue sky. I can’t say it was a beautiful day, as California days were never beautiful to me. They never had the ripeness of seasons, the texture, the soft air of the days back east where my home was and always would be. California weather was static, whether it was hot, cold, mild, harsh, sunny or overcast.
I was looking forward to seeing Solange. She was kind and sweet and easy to be around, even though she was one of the most popular girls in West Hollywood. She never had that attitude that comes with being in the “in” crowd. She threw huge parties for girls in the “in” crowd and always invited me. Solange was not one of these girls. One of those girls who always intimidated me.
Solange knew where to get coke and suddenly I was craving it after my ten year hiatus, so I called her and drove over. “Hi honey,” she said when I arrived. “Shalom will be here in two minutes.” And in exactly two minutes a handsome young Isreali drove up in a Mercedes. He ran a clockwork-precision business. After introductions were made, “You want a gram? This is very good coke.” He said in a thick Israeli accent. Money exchanged hands while Solange made coffee in the other room. “Okay I have to go.” “Wait I said,” can you get Vicodin? “Yes I sell them in hundred lot pharmaceutical bottles only for $1500. I’ll let you know when I get them.” The money’s no problem,” I said “just call Solange when you get them in.”. A 100 lot bottle could mean death to me as I didn’t take them sparingly. I gave that issue no regard. “Okay I’ve got to go.” Said the White Rabbit of drug dealing. It wasn’t a minute before I opened the bindle, took the spoon off the top of my coke bottle and did a hit. The coke was scaly and pure with a pink shimmer. I gave a hit to Solange. Then I got sentimental for the old days after college in New York, when all my coke dealers (they were all friends with each other) got together and staged an intervention on me. They said they were afraid to sell to me anymore. I was doing too much. I wasn’t doing too much now. I was doing it very infrequently, but doing it at all was where the Vicodin had taken me.
I said good-bye to Solange with a thank you and a kiss. Now I had to come up with a story to tell Julia. It was a California day. A day for us to be outside. And I’d disappeared. Dammit I was going to gas light sweet Julia who did everything for me. I felt like pond scum. I knew I’d lie and a fight would ensue.