Blood Sugar(6)
CHAPTER 5
COCAINE
When I was fifteen, my braces came off, my breasts settled into a C-cup, and my awkward early teenage phase was over. I landed in a place most would call a “seven.” Pretty, nice shape, clear skin, not going to be a model or a movie star.
Ellie left for college in New York that year. And for me the void was traumatic. We talked on the phone every few days and emailed, but I felt listless without her. My usual hobbies of Rollerblading on Ocean Drive, getting frozen yogurt with sprinkles in the bottom of the cup and on the top for equal distribution, and dancing all night to techno music in gay clubs on South Beach didn’t protect me from crumbling into the empty space in my chest. So I began to look for an escape. Being a local in a city that had morphed from run-down old-age homes and crack houses to renovated designer Art Deco hotels and red-velvet-roped bars gave me an all-access pass. I knew everyone, from bouncers to valets to bartenders to club promoters, and my age was never a factor. The lawless city of Miami didn’t adhere to checking IDs or worrying about underage drinking or drugging. At that time anything less egregious than gunning down tourists in the middle of the streets was mostly ignored by police.
So I was out at three in the morning, buzzed from drinking screwdrivers, hungry from dancing for hours with friends, and looking forward to onion rings and coffee at Denny’s. It was harmless and innocent enough. Until real danger that could change the trajectory of my life caught up to me.
My friend’s older brother was also there, hanging outside with a group of guys who were sexy in a just-got-released-from-prison kind of way. Neck tattoos, gold teeth, and a posture that dared, Fuck with me and see what happens. One of the guys called out to me in a voice so deep it swallowed up all the other sounds in the parking lot.
“Oye, mu?eca. Come over here.”
He was clearly the oldest of the group. From where I stood, I could see the black scruff on his face and the glint of a chain with a cross nestled in his abundant, dark chest hair. His arms, cut and thick, had the look of months of yard-time workouts and not upscale gym visits. This guy was not a teenage boy. And a tiny bit of familiar gold-glitter excitement swooshed through my inner void.
I sauntered over to the deep voice, trying to command a strong, sexy demeanor. Like a full-grown confident woman might.
“You want a bump?” he asked.
He showed me a little glass vial filled with white powder. And offered me a tiny gold spoon. I hesitated.
“Don’t worry so much. It’s good stuff.”
He did a bump himself, as if to prove to me it wasn’t poison. I could see his dark eyes light up for a moment as he swallowed the bitter taste that was dripping down his nasal canal and into his throat. Fuck it, I thought, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” So I took the little spoon, dipped it into the white powder, and held it up to my right nostril. I daintily snorted. The blob of cocaine got stuck halfway up my nose since I didn’t inhale forcefully enough. The man laughed. He then gently but purposefully grabbed my face with both his meaty hands and lowered his head. Was he going to kiss me? I wasn’t against it. But he bypassed my mouth and instead put his mouth around my right nostril. This gesture felt incredibly intimate, way more so than kissing, which I had done before, a bunch.
Before I could think too much about the bizarre sensation of full lips lined with manly hair pressed against one of my face holes, he blew up my nose. Like Poseidon blowing a ship to or fro in a vast sea, this man had the power to propel the now damp and stubborn powder into my nasal canal.
He leaned back. I breathed in again, nostrils clear, and felt a power surge through me. A crackle of invincibility. I didn’t need onion rings. Or coffee. I didn’t need anyone or anything. Other than maybe more cocaine.
“Can I do a line?” I asked.
He looked at me with knowing amusement—bumps were for pros—then started to walk away. Had I offended him somehow? Had I asked for too much? But he stopped a few cars down, at a navy blue Infiniti.
“This your car?”
I shook my head, nope. He gave one calm glance around, and then, with an adept thrust of his palm, he popped out one of the Infiniti’s side mirrors. He walked back to the Dodge Stealth we had been leaning on and opened the passenger door for me. My insides swooned. What a gentleman! I got in the car and sat, although my heart was thumping and I just wanted to run and run and run. Not out of nerves. But because I was so filled with life and energy I wanted to move, not sit low in the hard bucket seat.
It seemed my one bump was affecting me much more than his however many bumps. He clearly had more practice and a solid eighty pounds on me. I tried to stay still and play it cool, but I squirmed. I couldn’t stop my legs from jiggling up and down. I watched as he spilled the powder onto the newly acquired mirror. He pulled out his wallet and used his driver’s license to make two thick lines. I saw his name was Carlos Enrique Trujillo. And his license had been expired for over a year. He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from a large stack of hundreds in his wallet and rolled it into a straw. My heart now double thumped with the anticipation of getting more cocaine as well as with the thump of already having had some.
He handed me the “straw” and let me go first. Again, such a gentleman. I leaned down and snorted a whole line effortlessly. Then instinctively looked in his rearview mirror to make sure my nose was clean of white powder. My pupils stretched out, the black almost covering the auburn of my eyes. He did his line and turned the car on. His stereo blasted bass music. Every beat making me sure that my need to move was stronger than my need to stay close to the magical drug.