And the road goes on, and the band plays, and real life marches past you.
"Wanna do a line?"
When he ask you this, in a voice one octave lower than the voice he's been speaking to
you in for the last hour as you sit next to each other at the bar, you think, yes, I do. But
you don't say it. Not immediately anyway. You've done cocaine maybe three times in
your life, and all three times you were buzzed on alcohol. Not drunk. You don't get
drunk. You have the tolerance of a German tank. Drunk is for fools, people falling down,
making asses of themselves. If you are still talking and walking and dancing, then you
But as you follow him into the restroom, you are sufficiently stupid enough that cocaine
sounds like the perfect antidote, providing...instant sobriety! Sudden beauty! A rap like
Chris Rock! One hour, pushing two, of confident bullshitting to music that has never
sounded better, people who've never looked more attractive and yourself--who's never
been smarter or better looking.
But then there's the morning after in your real powder room at home. Head in a vice,
remorse beating on the wings of your heart, regret copper in your mouth. That white
powder, the one thatís taken your friends, turned them into blank-eyed, empty husk of
need, their possessions gone, their love abandoned, what the hell where you thinking?
Dragging around all day on a bumpy stagecoach ride of guilt, you swear, never again.
Weeks go by. You are the poster child of sobriety, working hard, behaving--keeping your
nose clean. But life can be so repetitious. Routine is your antithesis, drudge the enemy.
So you decide to stop off at the bar and have just a couple of drinks, you know, to take
the edge off.
"Wanna do a line?" He says, whispering in your ear as you dance.
You don't think twice. "Ok, but just one."
© 2006 Underground Voices