The Cocaine Chronicles (13 page)

I looked to Jeff for support but he looked both nauseated and in a struggle to control his rage. The little ones thought we were there to play; they were thrilled. From the other room I heard Nicole stifle a sob.

How do you reckon a course of action when you are so caught up in your own concerns—and your own
habits
—that you are unable to perceive the full weight of a very serious problem? And open confrontation of this very problem could certainly threaten the frequent drug trafficking so conveniently wrought through my tenant’s door. In that moment, it seemed there were only two available options: Avoid making waves with a charade of ignorance, or take all-out aggressive action despite the consequences.

I am ashamed to say I chose inaction.

After I had taken a bolt cutter to Autumn’s chains, I retired to the main house and Jeff remained with the kids for the night.

I really, really needed something to lift my spirits, yet there was to be no consolation in subsequent toots. Nor did I have the high and faithful expectations I usually did at the sight of Jeff, when, around midnight, he snuck over to use the phone. Strangely, he too did not feel reassured that supplemental blasts would fortify our moods. Fortunately, he had his glass pipe handy so we could smoke some hits instead; smoking crank gives a completely different, more brain-deadening effect.

“The fuckin’ phone’s been turned off again,” I complained in response to his request—in those days neither of us had cell phones.

“Listen. I
gotta
go make a call. Can you keep an ear out till I get back?” And he left, trailing a ribbon of bluish smoke behind him. At the time, I merely figured he had personal business to tend to. All the same, the chore was no big deal for me as long as it didn’t entail reentering the guesthouse again. Even should one of the girls have awakened, I trusted that Nicole would be far more qualified than myself at handling any quandaries. Fortunately, all remained peaceful.

Jeff returned, bid me goodnight, and I passed out. And I never saw the girls again.

Late the next morning I awoke to deadening silence. Something seemed wrong, for silence is not natural where children do dwell. Kinda freaky! A sense of dread spread over me along with a terrible urge to run out there and see what was going on—I immediately broke into my own stash so I could load in a waker-upper. Ouch! . . . Nothing burns like
that
first thing in the morning.

As I stepped through my back door, I could already see the guesthouse door was slightly ajar. I advanced and rapped on it. There was no answer. “Hello . . .
hello
!” I called. No answer. I slowly pushed the door open the rest of the way and was not surprised to find no one there. Circumstances being what they were, I did not think it tactless to proceed. The girls’ door to the yard was also fully open. It felt strange; it
was
strange. All seemed the same as I last saw it except that the bathroom lacked amenities. No toothpaste, no hairbrushes, no girls, no Jeff, no note. Silence.

I tried phoning Jeff several times that day, got tired of running out to phone booths, and finally drove by his house, only to harvest the same result. Damn! I realized I should have stocked up while he was around. It meant I’d just have to go over to Pacoima and settle for some lower-grade shit.

Four days later there came a banging at my door. I answered in a downcast temperament, becoming delighted as soon as I saw whom it was. “Hi, Jeff! Come in.
Come in
.” Needless to say, we went through our traditional formality before commencing with the idle chatter.

That done, I chattered, “What happened?”

Turns out that the phone call Jeff had gone to make was directed to some cousins of the girls’ father—Daddy himself being in prison— who’d leapt into action, swooping down from the mountains where they lived to scoop up the girls and spirit them away. As their uncle explained, they’d secretly had this in the works a long time. They’d already pulled the legal papers and were just waiting for their chance. It had all been expected. Meanwhile, it was
not
Lorna’s first drug offense, which hung her up a week before they rescinded the bail and let her out on O.R. The courts, though, quickly made provisions that, until she proved herself under a year of random drug testing, Lorna was banned from all communication with her kids and from the welfare benefits connected to them.

Matter of fact, the only person
not
banned from visiting the girls was Uncle Jeff.

“They live on a ten-acre ranch with horses and miniature goats and pigs. Both cousins have jobs and are financially supplemented by their church, and the church has already filled the girls’ closets with new clothes.” Jeff continued, “By the way, I want to trade some shit for that old gas-driven lawnmower of yours. We’re gonna build Nicole a minibike so she can ride it around the ranch.”

I was
ecstatic
and demanded exclusive rights to the oil change.

One evening three months later, I went over to Jeff’s to party. He’d already been smoking heavily and I was making a commendable effort to catch up. He piped in, “Hey! I have something for you,” and nonchalantly leaned back in his chair to reach for a small photograph on the shelf behind him. He handed it to me. It showed a helmeted Nicole racing madly down a dirt road on her minibike, chased by a rip-roaring golden retriever that was in turn being pursued by a screaming little lunatic named Autumn. Aside and closer in the foreground was Jessica. She had a tiny piglet cradled gently in her arms whence upon she gazed protectively.

I beamed approvingly at the photo. Looking up, but not really caring, I asked in afterthought, “So what’s Lorna been up to?”

Jeff screwed up his lips and looked me straight and stonily in the eyes. “She’s pregnant again.”

Anne Fishbein

DEBORAH VANKIN
is the Books Editor and Food Editor of the
LA Weekly
. Her writing has also appeared in the
New York Times
, on NPR, and in several national magazines. Deborah has taught novel-into-film at L.A. City College and has authored chapters in the forthcoming books,
Taschen’s
Los Angeles
and
Based on a True Story
(But with More Car Crashes),
a collection of essays on film. She has lived in England, Israel, and Tokyo, Japan, and now resides in the Silverlake area of Los Angeles.

viki, flash, and the pied-piper of shoebies

by deborah vankin

I
lost my virginity three times—each occasion marked by the presence of coke. The first time, a medical procedure, came at the hands of Viki, our family doctor and my mom’s best friend. They’d met the night my mother, brother, and I moved into a low-rent high-rise on a downtown Pittsburgh side street. My mom was out of cigarettes that night and Viki, who lived in the neighboring apartment, bought Kool Menthol Lights by the carton. It was the early eighties; single mothers bonded over things like that back then.

Viki was a former teen beauty queen, now in her early forties, who wasn’t submitting gracefully to the aging process. “Huh? Huh? Does this look cute or
what?!”
she’d say, fingering her jaw-length, silky blond bob in our hallway entrance mirror when she arrived for weeknight happy hours. A gimlet, straight up. Viki was five-foot-nine and disproportionately leggy in tight Sassoon jeans—the dark blue kind, with script across the back pocket— and for emphasis, she’d jerk her bony hips to the right, then swivel a half step to the left, before slowly, cautiously, backing away from the mirror as if she were having separation anxiety parting with her reflection. “Nice, huh? Fifty bucks it cost me to go blond.” Then she’d break into this unnerving, too-wide smile.

This was our family doctor. And when I turned thirteen—“a woman now,
officially,”
my mom bragged to whomever at the supermarket would listen—I was not only bat mitzvahed in a tailored lavender pants suit that matched the one in my mom’s closet, but I was sent off to Viki for my first “Women’s Wellness Exam.”

I walked. Living in East Liberty, a busy commercial district, we hardly ever used the crappy silver Pinto except, from time to time, to lug groceries. And Viki’s office was just a few blocks away. Aside from a cluster of elaborately framed degrees and academic awards hovering above the reception desk, Viki’s practice was sparse, disturbingly devoid of activity. She’d converted the basement of a small-frame Victorian into a medical office and had just one employee, an obese Latvian woman named Odessa, who had a lisp and the most pronounced dimples I’d ever seen—as if someone had gone into her fleshy cheeks with a needle and thread and stitched a tight little notch into each one. Odessa had no medical training nor a valid work visa; but she was a friend of a friend and she needed the cash. Plus, Viki looked thinner and cuter by comparison—the real reason, I suspected, that she kept Odessa around.

While the cramped examining rooms in the back were strictly medical-looking, with lots of chrome, crinkly white paper, and cold tile flooring, the waiting area had clearly once been a child’s bedroom—and still could be, if you ignored the assorted cholesterol and AIDS-awareness brochures on the window sill. There were giant rainbow-colored butterflies sponge-painted across the upper crown molding and the nubby blue carpet featured a hopscotch pattern. “Fun, huh?” Viki had boasted when she opened for business. But really, she’d simply exhausted her divorce settlement and had no money left to replace it with beige plush.

As I waited for my appointment, it occurred to me that I’d never run into any other people at Viki’s. Who
were
her other patients? If you didn’t know exactly how much it had cost Viki to go blond, or that she habitually put crushed ice in white wine to keep it cold, or that she sometimes did coke (“just to stay awake, like for finals during med school”), would you take her seriously, like a real doctor? Would you depend on her to keep you well?

Thirty minutes I’d been sitting there when, finally, Odessa whirled herself around in the deluxe office chair that she’d insisted upon from the catalogue, and marched back to nudge Viki. There was some indiscernible quarreling, then stomping around, followed by the clank and clatter of steel instruments dropping. Then: “Damn, where
is
it?” Clank. “Fuck.” To which the response was a sort of sharp, singsongy outburst that, even in Russian, had the ring of condemnation. Odessa was laying into Viki for
something
. Then: quiet. A somewhat unsettling stillness took hold of the place, followed by a soft chopping, as if Viki were back there mincing herbs.

When Viki emerged, striding into the room confidently as if her white lab coat were a brand-new designer jacket she’d just scored on sale, her eyes were wide and her pupils dilated. I suppose on some level I knew she wasn’t amped up on caffeine. Lots of my mom’s friends did coke; it was always around at parties, along with crackers and a fragrant hunk of cheese.

“I’ll be with you in just a . . .” Viki ducked below the reception desk, then popped back up with a stack of mail, distracted, flipping through a book of coupons. “You know, it’s just been crazy-busy today.”

I nodded empathetically, as if I weren’t the only patient there.

“Odessa” she said, “has someone been calling and hanging up? It happened to me twice this morning. Twice. Like it was deliberate.” She tossed the mail aside and thumbed through her messages. “Okay, let’s get a look at you. Why don’t you get undressed.”

As I slipped into the green paper gown, I could hear Viki outside the door, still going at it: “But are we still getting that
static
on the line, like someone’s listening?”

Viki checked my weight. “One-twenty, nice,” she smirked. “Bet you look cute in a bathing suit.” From her tone, I could tell this wasn’t a straight-up compliment; it almost sounded like a challenge. Then my height: “Tall for your age. I’m tall, it’s sexy, you’ll see.” Another one of those sassy, crooked smiles. “And
I
still got it, right?” Again, the tone was clear: This wasn’t a question. Viki laughed, then sniffed brusquely, as if warding off a cold. “Allergies.”

“You know, when I was your age I had lots of boyfriends. My mom had to keep a schedule on the fridge just to keep track.” She checked my nascent breasts for lumps. “So, do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, not really.”

“But you’ve obviously fooled around, right?”

“Um . . .”

“Come on, I’m not that out of touch. Do you think you might, you know . . . soon?
You know
. . .”

She slipped on a pair of plastic gloves. Then the womanly part of the exam.

“All looks good. Do you want me to go ahead and clip your hymen?”

“What?”

“You know, so when it comes time, it won’t be complicated.

Really, it’s no big deal.”

“Um . . .”

“It’ll be easier, believe me. That’s what I did when I was your age.”

I couldn’t think of any excuse not to. It seemed to make sense.

I mean, I trusted Viki; she lived next door. So I shut my eyes and, for some reason, I thought of butterflies.

Afterwards, as I was dressing, Viki locked herself away in the bathroom for quite some time. Again, the mincing of herbs followed by another allergy attack. Viki did this occasionally, and I knew better than to wait around for a proper goodbye.

On the way home, aside from the swatch of cotton gauze in my underpants, I didn’t feel any different—just lighter, as if I’d lost or left something behind. I thought about the day Viki had alluded to, that moment in the future when I’d appreciate this practical maneuvering and reap the benefits for real. And I wondered if it was true what the girls at school said about the girls who,
you
know
: Did I walk differently now?

The second time I lost my virginity, I was on a college road trip along the Susquehanna River with a frat boy named Flash. Sophomore year. Flash was short and stocky and regardless of how hot and muggy the Pennsylvania weather, he’d always wear those itchy wool camping socks—gray with red trim—scrunched way down around his ankles. From his just-blossoming beer belly, one could imagine Flash, twenty years forward, kicking back in a cream pleather armchair from Sam’s Club while taking in the last quarter of a pivotal football game. But Flash had a great smile—hence, the nickname—and he always had coke.

Perhaps now, years later, Flash is a grizzled newspaper man writing obituaries or ad copy in a dusty corner cubicle (he wasn’t dumb), because Flash liked words. He had an affinity for rattling off synonyms, especially for the names of drugs—proof, he no doubt believed, that he was “in the know.” Flash was the “goodies buyer,” he bragged, for a fraternity we’d dubbed the House of Skull. Flash was “suburban street” long before hip-hop had become popular.

“Blow, snow, flake, toot, marching powder,” he rattled off as we flew over the potholes of the bumpy, gravel-coated driveway. “Rock and roll!” he wailed. Then he leapt out of his 1987 red Jeep Wrangler Laredo, proudly, protectively tapped the side pocket of his khaki shorts, and shot me an expectant, conspiratorial grin. It was almost charming. His parents’ cabin had been empty for months and when I emerged from the master bathroom a few minutes later—which was fusty and moldy-smelling, with a little pile of polished river rocks resting in a dish on the sink—Flash was already cutting lines with a razor from his Dopp Kit. The one I’d planned on shaving my legs with on the off chance we went water-skiing.

Our backpacks were still lying in the hallway, but the stereo was already blasting: Billy Idol. Priorities. I noted the plethora of frosted pink in the decor, collapsed beside Flash on the living room couch, and set my feet on the edge of the glass coffee table. “Don’t rock the boat,” Flash whined, and he pushed my legs aside.

“You’ll spill.” He was fully absorbed in divvying our supply and didn’t even look up when I leaned forward in a stringy bikini top.

I ran my finger across the glass surface, collected a trace of powder, and sucked it off, smearing it over my gums with my tongue.

Numb. I appreciated numb in all its varying forms—even if that meant spiritually.

“Dance for me,” Flash said, finally breaking his concentration.

He knew it was a long shot. I never danced. I avoided parties because I had trouble saying no when some seemingly well-meaning boy walked up to me and asked, guilelessly, “Care to dance?” Like it was a 1940s USO event and we’d be doing the jitterbug. Or the opposite: an unthinking and drunken tug of the wrist to get me up from my bar stool. There were exceptions: nights at crowded frat parties when the wood dance floor, warped from years of spilled beer, filled to mosh pit capacity, and I could fall into the throng of people, letting it rough and tumble me until I was adequately flushed, covered with sweat, and no longer cared. But for the most part I preferred private parties, like this one.

“No.
You
dance. For
me,
” I teased Flash.

“Come on, babe. I’m not kidding. I’m doin’ all the work here.”

I leaned back and let my head drop off the back of the couch, contemplating the sparkly cottage-cheese ceiling. Flash (all proud and regal looking, presenting me with his supine palm) passed me his World Philosophy textbook, which had six meaty lines carefully arranged on the cover, as if he were the butler serving a tray of champagne.

I eyed them appreciatively. “I’m still not gonna dance,” I said.

Flash rolled his eyes and we took turns sucking up the good stuff until the coke was long gone and my sinuses started to burn.

For the rest of the evening, we subsisted on scraps of leftover snack food from the trip up—beef jerky, cheese curls, and warm Mountain Dew—and since we could no longer sit still, we resorted to a somewhat frenetic and disjointed version of charades. We alternated positions in the front of the room, performing wildly animated renditions of song titles and TV shows, while the viewer basically ignored the game from the couch, eventually looking up and saying something like: “I give up.”

“Lucille Ball, stupid.
I Love Lucy
. Duh!”

To mellow us out, we did chilled Jell-O shots off one another’s bellies until the sky lightened up and I came to realize that Flash’s parents’ cabin was a riverfront property.

“Come have almost-sex with me,” Flash pleaded, slapping the empty spot next to him on the oriental rug. There was a big difference back then, it’s worth pointing out, between “sex” and “almost-sex.” A girl could have engaged in “everything but,” been promiscuous enough to make even Madonna proud, but still, no matter how skilled she was at giving head, crossing that last frontier was a big deal. It was “reserved” for someone special.

I settled in next to Flash and he kissed the side of my neck with his parched, sun-cracked lips before gnawing gently on my ear. “Bump, charlie, nose candy,” he whispered. “She, her, lady flake . . .”

That’s pretty much the last thing I remember from that night— Flash’s warm breath on my earlobe, the litany of coke nicknames, and his itchy socks against my ankles as the ceiling fan whipped around, creating dark, elongated triangles that cut, repeatedly, across our strung-out faces.

The next morning, I woke up naked but for a wide-brimmed sombrero adorned, all the way around, with little bells—the kind you typically find on cats’ collars. I’ve no idea where the straw hat came from or why I’d woken up wearing it; but it jingled with earsplitting clarity as I made my way down the hall to the bathroom, the lumpy comforter draped around my bare shoulders and drag-
DEBORAH
ging behind me. When I flipped up the toilet seat, there, in the bowl, was Flash’s limp and waterlogged social security card floating around and around and around in the now blueish water. His runny, blurred signature was still legible:
Ronald P. Anson
.