The right offer will come.
I mean, it does.
It just doesn’t come the way I thought.
See, there’s this new girl working tonight. She started a couple days ago, and it’s not like we’ve even really talked or anything, but here she is, handing me a small baggy and whispering, “Here, quick, put this in your pocket before somebody sees.”
The half-pint of vodka I drank on the way over here probably isn’t helping my judgment any, but who am I kidding? I’m sure I woulda done what she told me anyway.
“Wh-what is it?” I whisper back, studying her round, cherubic face. She’s a tiny little girl with brown ringlets in her hair like Shirley Temple or something. Actually, I’d say she looks a lot like Shirley Temple in general, with dimples and a goddamn perfect button nose. Her teeth are small and spaced apart like a child’s. Her arms and hands are practically in miniature. Her voice is babyish, almost like it’s been sped up on one of those old reel-to-reel machines.
Of course, I’d like to be able to say that her eyes betray something secret and sinister hiding beneath the surface, but as far as I can tell, they’re just about as open and innocent as can be. As it is, I’m not even sure I hear her right when she says, “Come on, I know you party, don’t you?”
I nod, even though I don’t want it to be true anymore.
“Well,” she says, quieter, her mouth pressed up close to my ear, “that’s just a sample my husband wanted me to give out. He got a shipment of coke in the other day, and he’s offering some really great deals. So you go ahead and try that, and let me know if you need to get in touch with him, okay?”
My chest feels all tight suddenly—my lungs contracted—the air knocked out of me, like I just jumped out a window and then splattered across the sidewalk.
Somehow, I have a small bag of coke in my pocket.
And the truth is, I’m fucking scared.
But I don’t let on. I mean, I thank her, asking for her phone number and promising to call in the next couple of days.
That’s what a stand-up guy I am.
Christ.
She goes off to check on her table, and me? I go straight to the goddamn bathroom.
Looking at the little ball of white packed powder, I can’t help but laugh. I mean, as much as my drinking has gotten kind of out of control recently, I know damn well I’m a whole lot better off than I would be if I were using hard drugs again. I know what hard drugs have done to my life. Hell, they’re the reason I’m stuck in the goddamn South working at this goddamn restaurant. They’ve basically destroyed everything I’ve ever had. And I was totally cool staying away from them.
I mean, fuck. When I was using, there was no way some random person would come hand me a bag of coke. That would’ve been, like, the happiest day of my life.
So I guess it makes sense that now that I’m trying to stay clear of it, someone walks up and just stuffs it in my pocket. That really is the way this fucked-up world works, isn’t it?
Obviously, what I should do is flush the shit right now.
What I do instead is open the bag to see if it smells like the real thing.
It does.
The chunk she gave me really isn’t that big, but it’d be enough to make up a pretty strong shot if I had a needle.
My mind plays out possible scenarios for scoring needles.
Honestly, I can’t think of any.
My eyes dart quickly over all the bathroom surfaces.
Nowhere to set up a line except for on the tank above the toilet, which is kinda gnarly, though I’ve definitely done it before.
Fuck it, I tell myself. The sooner I get rid of this shit, the sooner I don’t have to think about it anymore.
I set up a line.
I don’t hesitate.
I take the powder up my goddamn nose.
Ch.25
Sue Ellen leaves early for class.
The door slams shut, and I immediately pull myself up to a half-sitting position, my ears straining to hear the signs that she’s really gone—the car engine firing, the wheels spinning against the gravel, the vague hint of music from the car stereo fading into the distance.
I listen till I’m sure. Though, of course, I still have to be careful. She could’ve forgotten something. Her class could be canceled. Or she could just randomly decide to come home early. Really, there’s no way of knowing absolutely.
But after waiting all the rest of last night and then feigning sleep for the past hour after the alarm went off, I’m not sure I could hold back now, even if she were still here. As ridiculous as this sounds, it’s almost as if there’s some invisible person whispering in my ear, repeating the word over and over—“cocaine, cocaine, cocaine.” Like a haunting, beautiful woman caressing my throat with the tips of her fingers—stripping off her clothes—pressing the warm softness of her body up against mine so I can feel every nerve ending just screaming with
