Anatomy of a Regrettable Night (9/10/05-9/11/05)

9:45
     “Matt, do you know where we can get some coke?” Alli asked.
     “Yeah, sure,” I said.

9:48
     My finger hovered uncertainly over the “Send” button, but then I looked through the window of the bar and saw Alli taking a digital photo of her drunk, attractive friends.  
     “Evan?  What’s up – it’s Matt.”
     “Hey, man.  What are you doing?” he asked.
     “Uh, I’m on the Upper East Side, actually, with a friend from back home.  What are you doing?”
     “Just chilling.”
     “Cool.  Actually, I’ve got a question for you: do you know where we can score some blow?  My friend really wants some, and her friends are kinda hot.  I feel shitty for asking…” This was true.  I did feel shitty.  But I would feel worse if I walked back into the bar unsuccessful.  I hadn’t seen Alli in a while, and I wanted to show her that I had connections in New York City, that I had transitioned well from our past life in the suburbs.  
     “Ah, I don’t know.  Hold on a sec,” he said.  I was nervous now, pacing Lexington Avenue in the humid half-light of the evening.  It had been a long time since I bought drugs, but the familiar, gnawing anticipation churned my stomach just as it had when I was a greasy-skinned 17-year old waiting in the parking lot of Jack in the Box for a twenty sack.  
     “Yeah, I think we can do that,” Evan said.  “How much do you want?”
     “Fuck, I don’t know.  Um, an 8-ball?  No, that’s a lot, isn’t it?  How about 2 grams?  Does that sound right?”
     “I guess so.”
     I couldn’t tell if Evan was cool with this.
     “Yo, man.  I really appreciate you helping me out.  I hate to do it, but you know how things go.  I’ll definitely break you off some.  And I don’t know what your lady situation is looking like, but there are some interesting options up here.”
     “Don’t worry about it.  I’ll see you in a bit.”
     “Yeah – thanks again.”
     Before I went back into the bar I stopped in a deli and bought some bubble gum.

10:30
     Alli, her friend Diana (whom I had flirted with shamelessly during the cab ride downtown), and I waited expectantly at the front door of Evan’s Murray Hill apartment, carrying two six-packs of Amstel Light as a goodwill gesture.  After a few knocks the door opened.
     “What up, guy?” Evan absent-mindedly slapped my palm as he appraised the two girls.  I was confident he would like what he saw; Alli was one of the more gorgeous girls I had ever had the pleasure of knowing, tall and raven-haired with a hawkish face and sharply defined features, and Diana was pretty in a Jappy way.  I put the beers in the fridge as the girls cooed about the apartment, and then squealed in shock when they heard how much it rented for.  New York, it’s expensive.  We settled in the living room, where a muted TV was showing college football highlights.  Evan pulled out two small, brown glass vials.
     “It was $120,” he said.  The three of us rushed for our money, anxious to right this financial imbalance.  The beers that I had already consumed dulled the reflexive tinge of regret that accompanied my every purchase, and I handed Evan two crisp twenties.
     “All right.  Let’s do this,” I said.  I tapped a small mound of cocaine onto the glass table in front of us, pulled out my work ID, and began cutting the lumpy pile into a fine powder.  My first line was long and uneven
     “Hey, if anyone is better at this than me, feel free to take over.  I really don’t do this very often,” I said in all honesty.  There were no takers, so I continued until I had divvied up four fat, crooked lines.  Diana, who was sitting conspicuously close to me on the couch, handed me a rolled $50 bill.  I bent over, snorted the first line, and sat back on the couch, eyes wide, nasal cavity burning.  The dry, bitter taste was instantly familiar.  Alli, with whom I had never done coke, was next up.
     “Who’d have thunk it, Alli, two nice kids like us?  Wouldn’t they be proud?” I asked.  Drugs and alcohol heightened my natural tendency towards sentimentality, a trait I found embarrassing but impossible to temper.  Alli smiled nervously as she hovered over the table, the rolled bill in her nose, elbows out.  She slowly inhaled the powder, looking pleasantly surprised.  Diana was next, and she sucked up her portion deftly, leaving me impressed and self-conscious.  I insisted that Evan partake, and he acceded with minimal resistance.  As soon as I had finished my first dose I was ready for another, and I wasted little time plowing another 4 rows, and then another.  After those had been hoovered up I began dumping out more, but everyone protested that they were good for now, and I grudgingly desisted.
     We were all pretty high now, manic and wide-eyed, madly agreeing with each other and chattering aimlessly.  Evan seemed to be enjoying himself, which comforted me.  As the topic shifted to where we should go (Uptown or downtown? East or West?  Bar or club?  Line or no line?  Dress code or casual?), I began leafing through Evan’s CDs.
     “What do you want to hear, Diana?” I asked, hoping to spark a connection.
     “Oh, I don’t know.  Whatever,” she laughed.  She was smiling at me, and I felt the nervous anticipation that always accompanied the prospect of a hook.  Judging on past performance, the odds weren’t in my favor, but the fact that she was A) clearly looking to have a good time during her weekend in the Big City, and B) high as a kite seemed to play in my favor.  
     “Allright, how do you feel about rap music?” I asked, eyeing a burned copy of Jay-Z’s Black Album, which I suddenly needed to hear.  
     “Sure, I guess.  I mean, I’m not really a huge hip-hop fan, but whatever.”  
     “Trust me, you’ll love it,” I said, moving towards the CD player.  Evan was talking to Alli about something, but I was unable to get a handle on their conversation.  The music burst through the speakers, and a shot of energy surged through the room.  
     “What do you think about Pioneer Bar?” Evan asked me.
     “Sounds good.  How about a few more lines for the road?”

11:35
     Evan and I were standing outside Duane Reade while the girls visited the ATM.  I was smoking a bummed Parliament and frantically chewing a piece of bubble gum.
     “So what do you think of the girls?  Pretty cute, huh?” I asked.  
     “Yeah, not bad.”
     “Not bad?  Buddy, those girls are smoking.”
     “Yeah, they’re cute.  I mean, I’d fuck them.  Just not my type, I guess.”
     His judgment discouraged me, but I was too stimulated to stay down for long.
     “Hey man, I want to thank you again for hooking us up.  I feel bad, but you know how it is,” I said.
     “No worries, seriously.”
     “Man, I’m definitely jacked up right now.  How are you doing?  I mean, I’m high.  You know, I’m jealous of guys like you, who can be high and still keep their cool.  When I’m high, everyone definitely knows it.  I figure it costs enough, I might as well just go with it, know what I mean?”
     “Yeah, I hear you,” Evan said, warily bemused with my antics.  I wanted to shut up, but more than that I wanted another bump.  

12:00
     Pioneer Bar was packed.  The scene was not what I expected, borderline frat, an over-scented sea of collared shirts and pleated skirts.  If I hadn’t been stuffed to the gills with mediocre cocaine I probably would have suggested an alternate location.  The space was huge, and we waded through the crowd for a few minutes before finding the birthday party Evan had heard rumors of.  I didn’t know anyone from the party, and Alli and Diana seemed disinterested, so we elbowed up to the bar, where I bought a Heineken for myself and two vodka tonics for the girls.
     “Whaddya think?” I shouted.  
     “Oh, um, it’s cool,” Alli replied.  Diana nodded disinterestedly.  I could tell that my inability to remain cool, coupled with the interest she was drawing from the scores of other guys in the bar, was quickly eroding any connection I may have forged with her earlier in the night.  The girls clearly weren’t enjoying themselves, and there was no one else to help me carry the conversational ball.  
     “You ladies up for a shot?” I asked.
     “Definitely.”  If I was buying, they were drinking.  I made my way back to the bar and tried to make eye contact with the bartender.  My reflection in the mirror behind the bar resembled nothing so much as a rabid chipmunk.  This was not going well, and I could feel myself coming down, plunging rapidly into the nether regions of my seratonin-depleted psyche.  Memories of every seven-in-the-morning post-binge exorcism rushed back to me as I simultaneously looked into the future and saw myself home tossing fitfully in bed a few hours hence, alone and despairing.  It was now inevitable; all I could do was put it off.  I paid for the shots and made my way back to the girls.
     “I hope you like tequila,” I said.  They made the requisite faces but downed the shots effortlessly.  I wagged my hand impatiently at Diana.
     “What?” she asked.  “Oh, OK.”  She handed me the vial.  I took a step toward the bathroom before realizing that because of the crowd and the fact that the bathroom only had one stall it would be at least ten minutes before I could get my fix.  I couldn’t wait that long, so I kneeled down on the floor, extracted a rolled bill from the pocket of my jeans, and snorted a massive bump.  
     “Oh my God, dude.  I can’t believe you just did that,” Diana said.  
     “Believe it, toots,” I said, smiling, happy again.  .
     “I can believe it,” Alli said.  We grinned at each other, sharing the evening’s first real moment of warmth.  “Matt has a long history of doing stupid shit.”
     “Guilty as charged.”  I suddenly needed a cigarette and, paradoxically, fresh air.  “Do you want to get out of here?”
     “Sure, I guess,” Alli replied.  I think the East Village made her nervous.
     “Any ideas?” I asked.
     “How about Dorian’s?”

1:28

     “You ever heard of the Preppie Killer?” I asked.  The girl I was talking to shook her head. Alli, Diana and I had finished off the cocaine in the cab, and my mind was wound so tightly that it was hard to ascertain whether this poor girl was interested in the present line of conversation.  
     “I think it was back in the 80s, or maybe the early 90s, but anyway – this guy, some handsome, preppie dude, met a nice, upper crust girl here, took her to Central Park, behind the Met, and killed her.”  There was no mistaking it now – the girl was disgusted.
     “Yeah, pretty fucked up, right?  I can’t believe they didn’t close this place down.  Tell me the truth: couldn’t every guy here” – I gestured wildly around the bar, spilling my Bud Light on her – “be the Preppie Killer?  Seriously, look around – everyone here is crazy!”  She blinked her eyes at me and turned away.  
     “Hey, have you ever read American Psycho?” I yelled.

3:53

     “You can just let me out here,” I told the cabbie.
     “Are you sure?” asked Alli.  I could tell she was genuinely concerned for my safety.
     “Yeah, definitely.  Hey, it was good to see you.  Next time I won’t get us kicked out of the bar.”
     “Don’t worry about it.  Just get home safe.”
     “Give Diana my regards, assuming she makes it home alive.”
     “You’re just jealous she went home with someone else.  Take care.”
     “Will do.”
     I got out at 50th and Broadway.  The drugs had cooked down to a crisp, and I was coasting downhill at a frightening clip.  My cheeks were bleeding, and I had to wipe the snot away every few seconds.  Times Square wasn’t any more or less depressing than usual, and I was comforted by the presence of so many other losers.  I bought a Gatorade and a copy of the Sunday Times at the subway kiosk with my last $5 and sat down to wait for the A train.

Thursday, July 23, 1998

I wrote this in response to an open call for writing about music that was broadcast by a brilliant and enterprising friend of mine. Please see the comments section for more info. Also, if anyone knows how to indent text with CSS, please help me out.

. We were driving down Steilacoom Boulevard towards Throop’s apartment because someone had heard that her mom wasn’t home. It was a summer afternoon, a Thursday, I think. Pat started flipping through my CD binder.
. “Hey, put in Friday,” I told him.
. “Damn - that’s all we ever listen to,” he said.
. “You can always walk.”
. “Chill, dog. Wait until I get my car – we’ll be listening to some real g-shit.”
. “Yeah, I saw some good stuff in the cassette tape clearance rack at Camelot.” Pat smirked, but put in the disc.
. The album kicked in with a fat bassline that sounded great on the subwoofer that I finally got to work the night before. Something in the dash rattled with every thump, and I made a mental note to look for loose screws tomorrow. Ice Cube’s voice floated over the rumble, angry as fuck, perhaps because he knew that somewhere in a suburb of Washington State – not the West Coast he was down with – two middle-class white teenagers were blithely mouthing his lyrics with an affected gangsta cadence - Forty sippin, set trippin, get the grip in, neva slippin. I turned it up as loud as I could without breaking the noise pollution limit, slouched deeper in my seat, hung my right wrist over the steering wheel, and draped my left arm out the window.
. We pulled up at a red light next to a car full of girls, with whom we shared sidelong glances. I hoped they liked my car, a 95 Honda Accord with rims and a tint job. Pat leaned forward to yell something at them out of my window, but I pushed him back and mouthed the word “Busted,” although they were actually pretty cute. The light changed and we squealed onto Lakewood Drive. I turned the music down for a moment as the track changed to Dr. Dre’s “Keep Their Heads Ringin’.”
. “So Throop’s inviting some of cute friends, right?” I asked.
. “Dude, chill. You’ll get yours,” Pat said.
. “Hey, I just don’t want to get stuck chillin on the couch with Uggs McGee while you’re upstairs getting shitty handjobs.”
. “Don’t hate the playa, hate the game! Ba-dow! Turn the music up.”
. We bobbed our heads in unison, happy to have somewhere to go where there were girls waiting, and maybe a liquor cabinet to raid. The violent, misogynist lyrics and aggressive beats bolstered our confidence. I pulled into a parking spot outside Throop’s condo. Pat went to the door alone in case her mother, who didn’t know me, was home. I started Dre’s song over - I’m up front, never in the backdrop / Step on stage and get faded just like a flat top / Your rhyme sound like you bought em at Stop N’ Go / Dre came to wax you so just call me Mop N’ Glo. An old lady drove by and gave me a nasty look so I skipped ahead a few tracks, looking for something less threatening. I landed on “Tryin’ To See Another Day” by the Isley Brothers. I don’t always feel the old school soul jams on this CD, but other times they fit the bill. I couldn’t remember hearing this song in the movie, which I had only seen once. But it was better that way; the music was mine.
. The next track was Bootsy Collins’s funky “You Got Me Wide Open,” which started me thinking about how Pat hadn’t yet come out to get me, and what he was probably up to in there, and the fact that I now had my license but still hadn’t so much as touched a girl’s breast.
I realized that I was worrying too much, which made me anxious, and girls can smell anxiety, so I took a deep breath of and laid my head back against the seat. My eyes were closed, and Bootsy smooth bass licks calmed me. Just as I had reassembled my fake bravado, Pat clambered into the car.
. “Go, motherfucker, go!” he yelled.
I looked out the window and saw the morbidly obese Mrs. Throop running across the front lawn towards me. I backed my car out into the road and sped through the complex with my eyes on the rearview mirror, watching Mrs. Throop’s pursuit of us quickly wane as she slowed herself to a jiggling trot and clutched her chest. I paused the CD.
. “Jesus Christ! What was that about?” I asked. Pat was laughing maniacally, rocking back and forth in his seat.
. “Oh my God! You wouldn’t believe – I’m in there making out with Throop, because you know how she is, and she said her mom wasn’t home, right? So we’re in her bedroom, and I’m going down her jeans, when all of a sudden Mrs. Throop busts in – I guess she came back cause she forgot something – you didn’t see her pull in?” I shake my head; it must have been during my all-too-brief meditation session. “Anyway, so she’s pissed, but I wasn’t hearing it. I busted through her and out the goddamn door like muthafucking pimp. Holy shit!”
. We were both busting up now, and I could hardly see the road. I pulled into the Safeway parking lot and rested my head against the steering wheel as I laughed. Eventually we got a grip on ourselves.
. “Well, what now?” I asked.
. “How about… we get stoned!” With that he dug into the pocket of his carpenter jeans and pulled out a crumpled plastic bag containing a chunky marijuana nugget.
. “Where’d you get that? I thought you didn’t have any.”
. “I didn’t – I stole this from Throop when she wasn’t looking!”
. After a second bout of laughter, Pat went into the Safeway to buy can of Coke. As I was searching in the center console for something sharp with which to transform the aluminum can into a makeshift pipe, I reached over and unpaused the CD. The falsetto trill of Rick James cooing the opening bars of “Mary Jane” slithered through the Rockford Fosgate tweeters, and by the second verse I had found a resin-crusted safety pin hiding under an Altoids tin.