“Do you have a dollar?”
We were laying in bed, so I would have asked questions about that strange request if it weren’t for the two drinks I’d had. Okay, eight drinks. Okay, twelve. Engrossed in strangers’ food photos on Instagram, I reached around blindly on the floor for my wallet, fished out a dollar bill and passed it across the bed. In my head she needed to get a soda from the vending machine, but that didn’t make sense. We were at my house, not a hotel, but even then it wasn’t until I heard the unmistakable “Snnnifffffff” that it clicked into place.
I glanced at the girl who was squatting naked over my bedside table, cutting white powder into lines with a credit card. “Want some?” she gestured with the dollar bill wildly.
“Nooo, I’m . . . gonna pass.”
“You don’t mind if I do, though, do you?” Do I mind? It’s a little late to ask, isn’t it? Do I care that you pulled a bag of cocaine out of your purse and have it spread across my nightstand? Do I mind that you’re using my dollar bill to snort that directly into your bloodstream? I wish I could say that I was a stronger person. That I said she should leave. But I’m only human. And more importantly, I’m only human with another naked human in bed with him.
Over the next four hours, as our activities resumed, my bedside table became a winter wonderland, powder coating its surface, filling every edge of the wood. My companion was frenzied and passionate and also paranoid and a little violent, and at one point I think possessed by Satan, but once she crashed, I slept blissfully.
A few days passed. I padded around the house, putting things away, tidying up before the housekeepers came to clean. It was when I began to take the sheets off the bed that I noticed it. Oh, no big deal – just a quarter-inch groove in my nightstand that was still filled with cocaine. In her excited state, she must have missed it, and in our excited states, we must have covered the nightstand with an extra pillow that hadn’t been moved until today. That didn’t help me right now, though, as I needed to make sure that my housekeepers didn’t see that. I’ve already pushed them far enough by leaving condoms, three-week old pizza, and a giant statue of Yoda around my house – why risk it?
But it wasn’t as simple as it seemed. In fact, cleaning it out proved to be nigh-impossible. My thumbnail only served to pack it further into the wood but not so much that it wasn’t unmistakably cocaine or baby powder, the existence of either of which would be really weird on my bedside table. A Q-tip wouldn’t really fit in there, and I didn’t have a vacuum cleaner with a thin enough attachment. There was really only one thing left to do.
I put my lips close to the groove and blew as hard as I could. And it worked! In a magical white cloud, the coke puffed off the table, where the ceiling fan promptly blew it right into my face. My response, of course, was to inhale instinctively.
That was this morning. And that was when I accidentally did cocaine. And also organized my closet, helped a friend write a four page paper, answered 84 emails, wrote a poem, did six loads of laundry, folded six loads of laundry, ironed 10 shirts, ironed my sheets, ironed my towels, sorted my photos, cleaned out four gigabytes of space on my hard drive, alphabetized my DVD collection, took a walk, and wrote this post.