Thread: Ecstasy

This is a 2 year old story. I wrote it after an average night at the clubs, using and aiding in the distribution of narcotics. It is nonfiction.



"Ever fuck a girl on cocaine?" Nick asks, his knee spasming against the underside of the table in a steady rhythm and shaking the glasses of water. It's 5:30 in the morning and in a little while the sun will come up over the ocean and beam through the blinds. The television is on low, Raquel Welsh running from giant iguanas and the vibrations from a bed headboard against sheet rock is almost as loud as the wails from down the hall.

"Are you talking about the song?" I ask, not truly interested. My friend is coming out of the bathroom now, his face as pasty as curdled milk, and wet from him splashing cold water on his face. He slowly stumbles to the floor in front of the television, resembling a zombie from cheap George Romaro movies. He curls up silently under a yellow blanket.

"No, you degenerate." He holds his pinky under his nostril. "Bro, I'm telling you, it's nuts. You're like a freight train." He starts to thrust his crotch into the table, grinding his teeth like an angry dog. I grab my glass of water before it tips and sip. I imagine being that water, cold, moist fluid, rushing down my throat, through my stomach where it swirls around like the water in a bathtub going down the drain. It extinguishes that invisible liquid heat inside me wherever it touches. For a moment I am cool. I shut my eyes and watch the dark purple shades of my eyelids spiral.

I try to remember how I got there, and why I feel like shit. And why it's not the drugs or alcohol or the microwave turkey dinner half eaten in front of me. That's a different shitty feeling. It has something to do with my reflection in the mirror just beside the front door. It has something to do with my cell phone that sits numb on the glass countertop. It has something to do with a girl a hundred miles away and probably sleeping off her own drunkenness like an innocent child. If I wasn't as dehydrated as a Pharaoh and weak in the knees, a dull pain, rising in my legs and heels, I'd probably wander out to the backyard, dangle my feet off the dock and stare at the icy blackness of the still water. What would it be like to just slip off the old pier, arms stretched out, and feel the blanketing cool water swallow me up. I'd curl my knees to my chest and hug them, and sink to the murky bottom where I'd lay for nine months, the only sound the dull vibration of my heart.

"Maybe I will," I mutter. I get up from the table, carrying my water and staring at my unresponsive cell phone, and carry myself to the couch in which I sink like a lead weight. Nick's still talking about the wonders of cocaine, and Rachel is bending over giving me and the two other poor souls still watching T.V. an interesting view. It's just another Saturday. With my eyes closed I go back and watch it all again.



THE PRE-GAME
Every game has a warm up. Ours isn't any different. There is music on the stereo, some club CD this kid bought from his friend who DJ's. There are a few people huddled around the baseball game, and countless bottles of Coors light scattered across the living room and open kitchen like glass carcasses.

I count twelve people in different stages of readiness. Nick's brother, Jimmy, whose shore house we are all camped in, is still in sweats despite his girlfriend prodding. Some guy named Josh is dancing by himself in the foyer.

I wander to the bathroom and watch as my friend Nuno does his hair. It's a long process. First in goes the gel, combed in by his fingers, followed by hairspray. The sides then are toweled off and he turns a blow dryer to his hair. This is followed by another coating of spray and towel. "You don't want it to drip, that's why I towel it. It's taken me five years to perfect my routine."

I open another Coors, it's my fourth. I watch as Jimmy throws his sweatshirt into a corner and stands in front of the mirror by the door admiring what two hours a day at the gym and a little bump of Juice for the last three years has done to his body. Every guy in the house with the exception of Nuno and I have done their best to acquire a likeness to Lou Ferrigno We spent the entire day at the beach with them posturing and baking cancer into their skin. Italian is the fashion of the day. A little secret they've taught me: buy your clothes at Nordstrom's, a measly $120 for imported shirts and keep the receipt and the price tags all on. In two days, return it and get your money back. These kids have more money in their wallet then I have in my bank account, and they rent their clothes. These are guys who spent sixty dollars for a twelve dollar hair cut.

Nick breaks out a small dime bag and a Philly Cigar and calls Nuno over, who, after 15 minutes has finally finishes sculpting his hair. We sit down at the counter, push away the bottles and Nuno goes to work. He takes out a razor and slices the Cigar in half along the side. The tobacco is dumped into the empty brown Burger King bag and tossed in the trash. He breaks apart the marijuana with his thumb and finger and lays in a neat line along the rolling paper. This is rolled up and lick sealed.

Two more girls emerge from the bedroom down the hall. Tall, tanned and wearing very little, perfect for easy access later on. They push aside Josh and take another look in the mirror.

Nuno takes the blunt and walks over to the sliding door that's open halfway for the smoke to escape. I give him my lighter as I finish off my drink and he holds the flame to the end of his blunt. "This is a packed roll, so take it easy," he tells Nick, who stands beside him in anticipation of the pull. "You hitting this, Dug?"

I politely decline as I make my way to the fridge, I don't want to be sleepy. I had taken two stacker pills, and I can start to feel them working, first in my knees, an almost weightless feeling. Nuno coughs, and pounds his chest.

Josh is walking around the house. He's taken a small plastic baggie from his backpack that's half filled with small pills. "How many do you want?" he's asking everyone. Nick's taking a drag, pinching the end of the blunt tight with one hand, and holding up two fingers with his right. I toss the beer cap into the sink and take a seat on the couch, trying not to watch the clock.

Josh asks me for my cigarettes. He takes the plastic wrapper off the bottom and fills it halfway with pills, folds the top a little and seals it with a lighter. He does this again with Jimmy's pack.

The clock is looking at me now, staring at me with digital crimson eyes. It's 10:00, do you know where the love of your life is? I pat my pocket and feel for my cell phone. Does she know where I am? I reply. I want to get out of there. It's too quiet, I can hear my heartbeats in my temple.

Jimmy's dressed, and like a vulture to the smell of blood, he's caught a whiff of pot and he's running over, despite his girlfriends obvious annoyed tone. "Alright," he screams as he's handed the blunt. "Make yourself useful and bake me a pie or something, bitch." I smirk at the charm.

Ten minutes later everyone's up, and double checking their wallets. Nuno's eyes are pulled so tight he bumps into a table as he's reaching for his beer. We all file out the door, into the cool summer night breeze and load up into the cars, fine German models, the kind only a father can afford.

We drive fast along the highway bridge. I am scrunched against the window, gazing across the smooth abysmal bay below me, assaulted by Jimmy's girlfriend's fragrance. I ignore the streaming lights, the cars full of punk kids trying desperately to be tough. All I can think about is a girl in New York, and the way she sits, leaning forward and brushing back her brown hair behind her ear and how she smells better after she's come from the shower, her hair still wet, then any expensive Chanel perfume. I think about the way my head feels, nestled in her lap with her hand softly on my forehead as we lay under the stars. I think about how far it is to the Catskills and if I turn around now how long it would take for me to get there, just to tell her all those things I had never said.

Fuck it, we're there.


THE FIRST HALF
There is a way to take Ecstasy, at least that's what we've come to learn. Simple executions of movement. Check the pill, a quick glance to make sure. Pop it in your mouth. A sip of water. Face up, head back. Swallow. Pound your chest. We all do this in unadorned synchrony as we abandon the cars in a lot for ten bucks a BMW.

I watch Josh as he walks with childlike amusement. He is almost Cro-Magnon, his fists balled up at his belt buckle, elbows out and swaying with arrogance. He doesn't mind bumping the high school trash that clog the sidewalks like night pigeons. We walk in a tight formation, girls in the center, with animal instinct. The line for the club is long. Mostly guys dressed in dark, not too covered, they want everyone to see their bodies, billboards of ink and muscle. The ladies look like strippers, the expensive kind, $350 for two hours at a bachelor party. Jimmy leads us past the line straight to the door, where he gives the bouncer a slap on the shoulder and a smile. Poor suckers, I think of the crowd. Fifteen bucks to stand in line and we are in for free. I guess condescension is an airborne virus.

As soon as we pass through the glass doors I am hit with the concussion of the aggressive base, a rhythmic assault on my body that vibrates down to my intestines. I can feel it already, the testosterone. I'm walking into the lion's cage and I can smell the vibrant sent of tension. From now on I don't breathe air, only menthol.

We are here for one reason as is everyone else. The retail of narcotics.

We all take our positions, we will only be here for an hour or so. The art of the sale is pretty complex, and after an entire summer we've all learned our roles. The pills go in this girl Lisa's handbag. She's a short Italian with dark hair and skin, who, during the week, works as a receptionist at a pediatrician's office. The girl that hands the crying kids their lollipop as they head out is the girl that holds two hundred pills of E a night. Josh and this other guy, who, if painted green could be the spokesman for canned peas, walk around the club and find the potential buyers. They work as a team. When a mark is located Josh will find a third guy, named Nigel and tell him how many. Nigel returns to Lisa, gets the number of pills needed and gives them to Jolly Green Giant, who delivers the pill, Josh collects the money. It all goes with smooth precision, an act that has been practiced for years. I think the two years Josh and Nigel did in county taught them how to be meticulous.

Nuno, Nick and I safe guard Lisa along with two other large guys. In a place frequented by gorillas in gold chains, safety is in numbers. The DJ plays house music, but the place is full of people who want one thing, that precious assortment tucked in Lisa's Prada handbag. In an hour the place has become congested, someone's shoulder pressed firmly against the center of my back, and Josh has made a grand. He comes back to our little assembly with a grin. "Just another day at work."


HALF TIME
Nick is rambling on about food as we leave the club. We cross the street, snaking through the line of kids and their parade of illegal tints and chrome rims to a pizza parlor. I count each step, watch carefully as I place my feet flat on the cool macadam. I can't keep my eyes from shutting and opening, widening and narrowing. They just won't stay right.

"Burger King, Whopper with extra cheese. A bacon egg and cheese from that bagel shop. Oh, White Castle. A sack of twenty."

"Turkey dinner," Nuno adds as he misses a step and almost takes a spill.

"Yes, that's it. Turkey dinner. And hot pockets."

"Shut up and have some pizza," Nick brother shouts, leading his girlfriend by the hand to the door. I can still hear the music. Not just hear it, feel it in my eardrums.

"Pizza, with pepperoni, and sausage, and extra cheese and sausage."

Inside the pizza parlor it is very bright and it hurts my eyes. The calmness is almost dizzying and I already miss the attack of the bass on my senses. I walk to the bathroom slowly.

Josh and Nigel follow me in, and Nigel stands by the door. As I make my way to the urinal Josh has taken out an Altoid's can containing a small vial and a razor blade and sets it on the sink counter.

"Bro, I sold almost everything. I paid for shit tonight."

"I hear you, good money."

"Gimmie a dollar bill."

My eyes struggle against me. I try to simplify my actions. Unzip. Piss. Sigh. Shake. Zip. Flush.

"Did you see Mariah? That fucking whore was a road wreck. She was all up on that kids junk."

"Every week it's a new guy. She's got issues."

Josh is bent over the cocaine with the dollar bill rolled up. He takes a line and comes up blinking, wiping his nose, his eyes watery. He hands Nigel the bill and switch places. "You taking a hit, kid?"

Outside Nick is swallowing pizza like a fish. Nuno's leaned up against the wall and Jimmy and his girlfriend sit with bottles of water in front of them, cradling them in both hands-like a holy chalice. Jimmy's face looks like a giant tomato, the blood has seemed to collected in his cheeks. "Are they done yet?" he asks me. I shrug and stand by the door, breathing in the cool air.

Nigel and Josh emerge from the bathroom and walk like they are on some giant balloon. "Finally," Jimmy groans and pushes his girlfriend off the bench. She struggles to her feet and punches him in the arm.

Our convoy makes its way out the door, with Nick trying to eat his last slice while walking. Nuno's having trouble, he can't keep from swaying to the side.

I try to ignore the heat that is boiling inside me, and the sticky sweat that's collecting along my collar despite the chilly breeze off the ocean. In my mind I am not drunk and high, and I am not walking across the boulevard accompanied by a bunch of drug dealers. I'm sitting on the beach, my bare feet tucked under the cool sand, laying back against a blanket. I imagine that the melodic waves breaking are soothing me, and I imagine the feeling of soft brown hair that smells like tangerines and kiwi tucked below my chin, and the soft fingertips that cover my heart.

We come to the second club, a place of less debauchery. There is still a line for this place, but Dirty Dan is bouncing the door. He's talking on a walkie talkie and as Jimmy approaches he holds a hand up. "Watch yourself." He backs up and opens the door.

A large shape suddenly catapults from the club, landing hard on the concrete, rolling into a bench and emitting a loud grunt. It's some guy in a shirt and khakis who is drenched in beer and bleeding from a cut over his eye. Everyone outside regards him with pitiless stares of amusement. Dirty Dan laughs as he stamps Jimmy's hand. Just another day at the office.


THE SECOND HALF
There are different types of people that go to the clubs and are identified pretty easily. You have the people that just happen to wander in, wanting a change from their normal routine. They wear khakis and plain button down shirts and cling against the bar, or wall, where they can see the action but they won't move. The dance floor becomes a little stage, the girls are putting on an erotic show for their amusement. The rare few that do venture away from a stable leaning spot always dance like they are from the movie Footloose. Guys don't look right dancing with their arms raised above their heads. You also have the frat boys, taking a break from their pool halls and beer pong. They gawk too obviously at the display of skin, they're loud and they often end up getting tossed headlong out the door. There are also the rave kids, swinging their green and red glow sticks haphazardly around, always inches from your face and they just seem to get in your way.

Lastly you have my companions, who have made it almost a way of life. Extremely territorial, they first case the place and claim their area.

I follow them around, again drowning in the familiar blast of music that becomes almost addictive. I borrow Jimmy's water bottle. Check the pill, a quick glance to make sure. Pop it in my mouth. A sip of water. Face up, head back. Swallow. Pound my chest.

With our business complete at the prior club it is now time to have fun. Here's a few words about dancing. The guys form a circle in which there is space in the center. One guy will come out, do a few moves; some twists, jumps, pumps and kicks. He will finish off sliding into someone else, in other words challenging him. We refer to it as Battling. It closely resembles Indian tribal dancing. There is something quite animalistic about it. The purpose is to show who's the best and therefore to attract the women. I think about peacocks.

Subtly I break away from the group and ascend the stairs to the upper level. The drugs are working, my heart feels like its trying to burrow from my chest, my eyelids filling up with sweat. Around me people dance and drink and fondle. I hate them. I hate everyone in this place. Nothing real has meaning, nothing concrete value. To these people my extensive collection of Tim O'Brian and Don Delillo mean shit. To these people the girl in my heart means shit. It's about the image portrayed. You don't have to be rich, but you have to look like you are.

I find my way around, through the crowds past the bar when I come upon a familiar face. It's Nuno and he is desperately clinging to the metal railing with white knuckled hands. "Are you OK? You gonna puke?" He shrugs his shoulders and I take him and start toward the bathroom. Weed, E, Coors light and Long Island Ice teas are slowly brewing in his stomach. He doesn't make the bathroom, just grabs a nearby trash can and erupts. After the second current he wipes his face and we continue to the bathroom.

Inside there are guys standing in front of the mirror. Their shirts are balled in their fists and they are flexing in front of their reflections. Nuno stops at a faucet and washes his face, beside one such brute who's hitting a bump of K. He smiles in reassurance. "Power puke," He dries his hands and walks out the door.

I find myself at a bar. I don't remember actually walking to the bar, the actual struggle against the tides of people, only that I'm resting my elbows on a drenched bar top beside a rather fat young man. Three shots. Blackhaus. As the bartender goes for the bottle the fat man nudges me with his elbow. "She doesn't know this but she's naked in my head. She doesn't know the things I am doing to her mentally."

I slip a twenty to the barmaid. Or, later on, the things you will be doing to yourself physically.

Head back, pound. Head back, pound. Head back, pound. I set the three plastic shot cups in a stack and turn around. The drugs and the alcohol are really fucking me up. I've lost the fear, the intimidated feeling like a mouse. I am the toughest mother fucker in this place. I will fuck anyone up. I've become Bill Bixby. Don't get me angry, you wouldn't like me when I am angry.

I begin to fill with anger red and choking. I imagine my girl, the one that was meant for me, now on her back, legs spread with some scumbag sweating all over her. I don't need her. I don't need her.

Walking with my hands balled up at my belt, my elbows pitched outward and my body swaying, I begin to case the place. I don't care anymore about the young girl that left me behind. I don't smell her skin, I don't feel her touch. I'm looking for a victim. I've become predatory, and I see my prey.

She's all alone, dancing by herself, dressed in tight black leather and trying to look of age. I catch her look, not too hard to see, and I find myself pressed up against her, my hands on her stomach and the round softness of her butt cheeks pressed hard against my crotch. The lights have become something physical, everything has, and I feel them as easily as her hand on my balls. I feel the heat of her breath as she leans in. "Do you know where I can score?" she mutters quite difficultly.

I tell her she's come to the right place and that I'll be right back. Walking swiftly I find Josh. I hold up my thumb and finger in a circle with one hand. He nods retrieves the pill for the twenty I hand him.

She checks the pill, a quick glance to make sure. Pops it in her mouth. A sip of water. Face up, head back. She swallows. She pounds her chest.

Time has no meaning nor cause. What has meaning is her breasts pushed tightly against me. What has meaning is the fluidity of our bodies, the pure sexual desires. There are no seconds or minutes, just a moment that flows continually until I grab her by the hand. "Lets go to the bathroom"

I lead her through the crowd and into the men's room but I am not in control. I am like a small little spirit trapped in another body and all I can do is go along for the ride. This is what you want, Body tells me. Everything you have done tonight is for this exact thing.

We are in a stall, I am squinting from the light, she's perched on the edge of the toilet and clumsily working the strap of my belt. I hold myself up against the walls of the stall, drowning out the noise around me and only feeling the warm wetness of her mouth. She's drunk, but she's trying.

I'm trying real hard too. I'm trying real hard not to think about that girl in the Catskills. Who the fuck needs love? What is love? Love is nothing tangible, nothing real. The only thing that is real is pleasure. Love has no meaning anymore to the person I have become. Love has brought me nothing but emptiness, and emptiness has replaced love. I tell myself I want this, that this is a great thing. I lean back against the door, biting my lip to hold back the animal grunts that fight to escape.

I look down when she finishes and slumps back onto the toilet, wiping her lips, her eyes watery and jelly-like. As I zip my pants I try to think of something to say, I owe her that much. "What's your name?"

"I don't know… Jessica" she mutters and I realize in about ten minutes her friend will be holding her hair up as she deposits everything in her stomach she's taken of me, and suddenly I feel disgust. What have I become? I was an eagle scout once! I was the kid that sat at lunch and read books. I had morals. Suddenly I had to get out of that bathroom.

I mutter a brief apology that goes unheard and I back out of the stall and quickly make my way back to my group of friends, but when I get there I freeze.

The brown haired girl is standing in front of me. She's wearing the same black fleece jacket I gave her the day we went to the softball game, the same one she wore the last time I had seen her, and a look of shame on her face. I smell her disgust as easily as I smell the tangerines and kiwi. I can't move for a second. How could she even recognize me and what I've become? That painful look of betrayal. The thought of her being there hits me like a battering ram and a stumble and fall heavily into the bench besides Jimmy's girlfriend. No one sees my agony through the neon and the smoke. They don't notice my hands clenching my hair in tight fists or the soggy wetness under my pained eyes, and if they do they assume it's the drugs and the alcohol.

I sit up, looking desperately around for compassion, the soft reassurance that I'm not the vile thing I see myself as, but empathy is not found in this place, in the cold dark shadows. Just the lonely, faking happiness through hypnotic chemicals. Here they fool themselves into the belief that contentment is episodic.

She is gone now. The image is no long visible, but burned into my soul. I bury my face into my knees. What have I done… What have I become?





Back at the shore house I am woken by Jimmy as he comes out from the room wrapped in a towel. He smiles at me. "Showed that bitch who's king," I laugh, as if I didn't know all the steroids he's taken has made him a limp noodle. Nick is passed out at the counter, his head limp on the Formica.

I sit up and watch as Jimmy grabs some water and slip back inside the room. When the door is shut I stand up and walk unsteadily to the sliding door and walk barefoot outside on the small smooth stones to the pier. There I sit looking down at its smooth surface to my reflection and beyond. I wish I could vomit, just puke myself inside out, expel the plague that has infected me. My reflection is crying and is broken by little ripples from my teardrops. I try to remember what it was like when all it took to warm that cold, deep hole inside my chest was the laughter of another girl. Once I had been happy listening to the softness in her voice or just from sitting silently with her in the dark. I can't remember where I went wrong but before I realized it I had become no better than Josh and the rest. I want to blame something. I want to blame the girl who I never told how much I needed her, but it didn't calm me. I had my chance, I've had plenty of them, but they slipped through like water through my fingertips.

I'm twenty-two years old and I am addicted to alcohol and narcotics. I am twenty-two years old and at night I get uncontrollable shakes in my hands and legs. I am twenty-two years old and I can't begin to count the number of times I have sat in my own vomit. I'm twenty-two years old and I am alone.

I'd like to think it's not too late, but I know that my cell phone isn't going to ring. I lay back onto the pier and look up at the stars and realize there is no one next to me. I don't smell tangerines and kiwi and I don't feel fingertips on my chest. Just the cold hard wood digging splinters in my back. I can only curl up, my arms hugging my knees, listening to the dull vibrations of my heartbeat and let my tears slowly cleanse my soul.

what will it be called? when can we expect to see it?