Adventures In Social Cocaine Use, Exhibit A

Those who know say that the number one symptom of addiction is denial. Those who follow those who know say that denial "ain't no river in Egypt." I've had the fortune to be able to very intimately explore and challenge this "knowledge," and to later write reams of confessional about these very experiences in an attempt to rid myself of the shame and earn the right to have the hole in my septum rebuilt. See future post entitled "Okay, Was That Considered A Nose Job?"

My place, in the '80s, where everybody knew my name, was on East 58th Street and First Avenue in New York City: Hartley, four-star dinner, five-star clientele, really big brass bar. Denial had me throw in the "'80s" part I'm sure because after all, didn't everybody do coke in the '80s? Certainly everyone I knew. Please see future post, "Everyone I Knew In The '80s Has Done Time."

This was back in the more social, ambulatory days of my use, when it still seemed to me that I was the coolest thing walking. Cocaine gave my ever-diminishing capacity to drink LEGS, and baby that discovery made me very happy. I appeared very happy back then anyway, and why not? I was living on the posh Upper East Side of Manhattan, making more money than g_d, with a quite obvious knowledge of the important designers to wear, people to know, places to be seen. In fact, I was certain that it was only a matter of time before I was discovered. For what, I don't know, because I didn't really do anything to be discovered for, but in my celebrity-dotted life and my chemically-addled haze it seemed certain and inevitable that someone would finally realize who I really was!

Friday night at Hartley: I had scored a particularly beautiful glassine envelope filled with the purest, pretty white snow from my favorite bartender. And I paid the last pretty copper penny I had for it too. Paycheck received that morning, paycheck gone that night. But, hey, you should have seen the outfit I was wearing. These things count when you're broke!

So I saunter back through the restaurant, wave to Max on my left, retort over to my right "Oh, Penelope, you're so bad!" etc., and head for the ladies room, psyched, yes pumped - I can't wait to get into that stall!

Ach! It's full! Well, I'm just going to unfold this little envelope at one end, kind of, hmmm, you know they don't really unfold except for in the middle, but maybe I can juuuuuuust scoop a little bit onto my mutantly long fingernail and get us a little toot while we're waiting, right? Maybe not.

First, can I describe the skirt I had on? Here it is, and although that is not me wearing it (long legs?) it easily could have been (flat stomach!):


Yes, it is important to the progression of the story: it was a hot little number, kind of a cross between Madonna-loose and the Thompson Twins-cute - tacky as hell, though not for its time. Notice it's velvet.

So I'm a bit "tipsy" and struggling to secret a little snort of the primo stuff up my nose while I'm waiting for the stall to open up and, oh my! Ooooops?! The whole envelope opens up and empties down the front of me. Crap!! It's snowing down the velvet!

Well, what does a girl do? It's early in the evening, I've spent everything I've got, I need to keep drinking even though I'm already drunk (please see future post "My Name Is ______ And I'm An Alcoholic") and I'm in dire need of a pick-me-up so I can go on looking "hot(?)" enough to get the bartender and other assorted persons to buy me drinks. Okay, the answer is obvious to me, but if it's not to you, I'll just tell you. I lift my velvet skirt up over my face and begin to snort it. Can you believe the luck of wearing something with such a dense and grabby nap to it on such a clumsy night as this?

The woman who was occupying the stall (remember I'm still out in the public part of the ladies room) comes out to find me leaning up against the sinks with my skirt up over my head, sounding like I'm taking a test for asthma. "Would you mind if I wash my hands?" I lean forward, peeking out from my skirt and say, "No, certainly not." Then I drop my skirt halfway down and offer, "Coke? There's an awful lot here!" I pull it back down completely to show her.

She smiles big, and without a word, drops to her knees and begins to snort and lick my skirt.

Yes, well, together we huffed up as much as we could, brushed as much more as we could back into the little envelope, had a bit of trouble leaving the ladies room for want of a break in our high-speed conversation which touched lightly upon just about every subject known to mankind - all this while women were coming in and out of same said ladies room.

What might this have looked like to them? Hmmm. Probably like social cocaine use. I'm sorry, did I mention this was the '80s?

Okay, so today I'm grateful for not cocaining anymore.