...but it wasn't Sgt. Pepper, or Dr. Pepper, that taught this man to play.
Instead, it was a jewel case for my copy of the Footloose soundtrack and a couple of high school friends in for Halloween weekend during our freshman semester in college. And an 8-ball of cocaine -- which I was surprised wasn't anywhere close to the size of an actual billiards 8-ball. And half a dozen two-inched lines of fine, white powder expertly scratched across the photo of a head-phoned Kevin Bacon sporting a hip-clasped Walkman and rolled up sleeves.
I'd seen it done in movies and on TV so many times I didn't have to ask very many questions, even though I was a total virgin when it came to anything more than Boone's Strawberry Hill. Hell, at that point, I didn't even smoke grass or allow it in my presence. But for whatever reason, I'd decided to allow Halloween Night 1997 to be the night that I jumped right past every available gateway drug and straight into the hard stuff.
We did a few lines from Casey's stash and then we finished donning our Rocky Horror garb to head out to a midnight showing at LSU-S. A few more lines in the car and a few more at an "after-party" of sorts (really, just this seedy drug house inhabited -- I think -- by a dude that had an on-again/off-again relationship with another friend of ours).
I guess I kinda liked the coke. I mean, I didn't mind the post-snort drip down the back of my throat and I felt like I was talking a lot more than usual (and I already talked a lot before), but I didn't feel like I was really doing anything all that different from what sophisticated people like doctors and attorneys did when nobody was watching. I mean, it was okay to experiment a little.
Right?
I mean, it wasn't like I could become addicted to something the very first time I tried it, right?
I mean... right? Well...sort of. But only sort of.
For instance, I didn't instantly start doing cocaine all the time.
But the vodka sours felt a little glamorous when I tried them out and decided they'd be my college drink of choice, so there was something about the nightlife I'd been turned onto.
But it was another two years before I ever even tried my first hit from a joint... although, there were a few other behaviors linking the two events that were a little less wholesome than that of the image I'd spent two decades cultivating.
And these behaviors I mention, they were mostly of a singular and sexual nature, to be honest; which was where I was wanting to head with this hashtag and my stories of the men in my life that got me here: nearly 40 years old, still single and sitting in this coffeehouse night-after-night typing away on my keyboard (some of it for my blog and some of it for my eyes only), thinking maybe I'll write the great American novel or maybe I'll just be a "writer/blogger/journalist" without any substantial publishing credits to his name, turn 40 and still be single.
Who knows, and -- really -- does it even matter? Remaining single, I mean.
After all, my picker's been broken for so long, I'm not totally certain it can even be repaired.
But how did it get that way?
Well, it all started -- and I shit you not on this -- with the son of a preacher man.
But that's a story best told next time. It's one that deserves a post of its own.
No comments:
Post a Comment