Episode Three: Blood Pressure, Self- Awareness, Paranoia And A Big Mac.
“Crack is wack!” – Whitney Houston
See, Norman’s plan was to sell those refill razors @ $5/ea. He had about a dozen, so about $60 – some of which would go towards the weed I was gonna smoke while i hang out so that he wouldn’t be “crackin’ by himself”. He got $20 and he spent it all on a 1/4g of cocaine. No weed.
While Norman was getting ready to do what he referred to as a “blast” (taking a hit), I tried to make up a plausible reason for being there in case my parents or the police show up. I couldn’t think of anything. I was pissed about the weed, you know? I don’t smoke crack. Wtf?
So finally tells me to ash my cigarette in the bowl of the toilet paper tube pipe. I did it. He then carefully put about half of what was is the spoon onto this little bed of ash in the bowl of the toilet paper tube pipe. He put it to his mouth and temporarily went cross-eyed as he focused on the bowl. Flicked his lighter and quickly set it on top of the bowl, inhaled and…HOLY SHIT! THE SHIT JUST MELTED INTO THE ASHES! Into nothing. That’s science and chemistry.
Out of his mouth came a thick cloud of white smoke. He didn’t cough. I looked for changes in his behavior. Nothing. He just went back to scraping the rest of what was left in the spoon onto the little bed of ash in the bowl of the toilet paper tube pipe. This time with maybe a little more urgency. Hard to tell, really.
So this next, and final, hit was just about ready to go when he offered it to me, like some sort of demented version of a peace pipe.
I’m exhausted, disappointed and hungry. And I’m in what is essentially a ghetto. In a crack shack, no less. Alone with a sweaty, shirtless man.
It’s like the world paused while I pondered my next move. I could, in the spirit of youthfulness and adventure, just go ahead and try it to say I did. You know, for the life experience. XP, if you will. Plus, I didn’t come all this way to not get high. Or I could just wave my hand and say “No Thanks, I’m driving”.
Then again, there’s just the two of us there.
“Cool” is all I said as I grabbed the makeshift “pipe”. Cool? Like I smoke crack all the time. So I do the lighter thing and I’m puffing really slow and weak, like a real pussy. I hold it for a second and I exhale. Other than a slight headrush, nothing major. Pffft.
After witnessing my feeble attempt at crack smoking, Norman took the cardboard tube pipe thingie from me (quite rudely, I might add) and just annihilated the rest. He even crushed the pipe in his fist when he was done, as if to let me know that this crack smoking sesh was over.
He suddenly got up and quickly headed back to the house. Seconds later, he emerges from the house with his paranoid friend who owns the dog with the thumby nipples. Now wearing a shirt, but not the same one, he gets in a grey Ford Focus’ passenger seat while his friend gets in the driver’s seat. They back out, turn left, and just leave.
This is just great!
I’ve been abandoned. Anyone who’s spent any amount of time with a dope fiend knows that being abandoned by this person in a dangerous, strange or smelly place is always a possibility.
Meanwhile, my face started to feel weird. Like it was on fire, actually. My heart was pounding to the rhythm of “Raining Blood“. My face felt like it was gonna burst now. It felt so hot and tight. I needed to walk this off.
Leaving the shitty girlbike behind, I hit the street and stay on the main drag heading downtown. Walking feels good. Alright. Breathe in…breathe out…trapped in purgatory.
Good. I’m highly alert now. And sweating a whole lot. I felt like I was in a 3rd (Third) Person Shooter.
Once I’ve finally regulated my breathing, and convinced my heart to calm down, I started thinking. Thinking “I just tried crack. I did that.”
What followed was a paranoid self-awareness that was so intense, it’s effects linger on to this day.
“What if someone saw me? Shit. Someone probably saw me.”
“What if I never recover?”
“Am I addicted? Omg I’m addicted! Am i?”
“Do I smell like crack?”
Out of nowhere, this jerk-off named Jason (real name) pulls up next to me in a blue Tracker. The window slowly goes down.
“You going home, man?” He asked.
“Nah, man” I answered quickly, not looking at him, still walking. I was hoping he’d take a hint. Besides, I didn’t want to turn around and face him. Then he’ll know I tried the crack for sure.
“So, you don’t need a ride?”
“Got a smoke?”
“NO.” I answered, raising my voice, hoping he’d leave me alone.
Doesn’t he see my teeth are clenched and blood is starting to leak from my eyeballs?
“I’m going to McDonald’s.” I yell, a little too loudly, over the imaginary loud noise.
“OK, cool man!” he says, totally knowing I just smoked crackaine. That’s when he drove off, surely to tell all his friends, family, acquaintances and strangers that I’m a crackhead now. I’m sweating profusely now.
As I continue my trek to McDonalds, I somehow convince myself that a Big Mac, and only a Big Mac, was gonna make things normal again.
But for now, nothing was normal. My blood pressure was way up; I could feel my heart beat all over my body. I could hear it in my head. I was grinding my teeth so hard it was giving me a headache. I had tunnel vision. I was scared shitless of seeing anyone else I knew. I was walking at a brisk pace, and I had the feeling that if I was to stop walking abruptly, I would die.
Slowing my pace down a tad; McDicks appears. I’m close. I have to learn to blink again. My eyes are dry. Very dry. They are not bleeding, though. That’s good.
Be cool. Breathe. I tuck my long, greasy black hair behind my ears. My hair is soaked.
As I closed in on the entrance, I checked my look in the window. My face was beet red. Shit. That’s OK. I have high blood pressure. Yes. That’s why.
End Of Episode Three (03)
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