Dusted
True story of being drugged without consent in New York City, 1984. Took place at a club called s.n.a.f.u.
“Want to smoke a joint?” “Sure!” We went outside and stood on the corner of 6th Ave and 21st Street. Taxis, limousines, busses, and the occasional truck went by. The one-armed biker lit up. We watched the traffic and passed the joint back and forth. He was skilled with his prosthetic metal claw-like arm. I could feel the high sneaking up on me. The buzz wasn't typical though. It didn't feel right. When the joint was almost finished, the biker offered, “by the way, it's dusted.”
“Shit!” was the first thought that ran through my head. The last thing I needed was to get all fucked up on angel dust. I could feel the effect and didn't like it. I went into the bar. “Patti! I need six Long Island iced teas.” “What's wrong hon?” she said. “I just smoked a joint with Lou Rudolf's boyfriend. It had angel dust in it. I feel like shit.” “Well hon... getting drunk won't fix it but you'll probably pass out. I guess it's not a bad idea. Okay, babydoll.”
She iced and lined up the large glasses and started pouring liquor. Her teased red hair was glistening as her head bobbed. Bracelets were jangling as her thin white arms moved nervously. Breasts nearly popped out playfully from time to time from the strategically ripped white t-shirt. Patti put the six tumblers of poison in front of me, lit a cigarette, and leaned back watching me. Her lips came to cracks, breaking the foundation make-up, as they tightened around the Marlboro. I could hear her exhale over the crowd talking and the piano playing while the singer sang a twisted version of a long lost show tune. I sensed too many details. Each drag of the cigarette was like a short film to me. The smoke was speaking.
The choices were clear to Patti and me: have a horrible hallucinogenic high that would, in all probability, be terribly frightening, or drink until I puke and pass out. Puking and passing out seemed preferable. I hate chemicals. They affect me terribly without exception. I drank with reckless abandon. All sense of time was gone from the angel dust but I know those drinks went down fast. I willingly, no... insistently jumped into the abyss... drowning in sound and light - forgetting all.
“You okay hon?” I looked up at Patty and Lou. How much time had passed? The walls were bending. “We're going to get you a cab buddy”, Lou offered. I saw the words come out of him. My tongue was numb. I felt I couldn't answer. I was drunk, paranoid, and lying on the floor of the bar. Everything and everyone looked like a terrible funhouse mirror.
Bobby, the punch-drunk door man, and Lou picked me up and walked me outside. I felt I could see the wind caused by the passing cars. The light trails from them were akin to little purple and red snakes or the tentacles of an undersea creature following behind -flailing and bending light. I could hear Lou talking to the cabbie and we were off.
I was nauseous from the ride. Every turn and the ocean of liquor in my stomach turned into crashing waves. The cabbie didn't bother me. I knew he would get me to my apartment sooner or later. But the paranoia had set in. Evil faces started to pop up everywhere. All the people on the street looked sinister. I felt the Checker cab was the only safe place from them. I was worried about the the journey - from the cab, across the sidewalk and into the confines of my building. Those ten feet in the general public seemed insurmountable in my state. “Go for it boy”, I told myself, “that's right... keys... door... lock... turn... in!”
I managed to walk the length of the hall that led to the flight of stairs that opened into the courtyard and went back in to the squalid basement apartment. Hell of a journey! Home sweet home – such as it was. I felt safe. The dust and concrete were welcome sights. All that was there were my few possessions and the two junkie room mates, Chris and Terry. The junkies were always sleeping or nodding on a heroin high it seemed. Chris was a dealer to the stars, mostly trading cocaine. California boy into health food and heroin along with his creepy sidechick, the goth princess of the nod. Strange pair – colorfully clothed and manicured Chris and pasty Terry all in black. They shared the religion, lover and master that kept them occupied. Even in my state of heightened delusions these two were totally harmless to me.
I got into my room. The cheap, beat-up mattress lay on the floor like a sack of potatoes. Still it seemed welcoming. I had made the right decision. I felt terrible but rationality slowly started to seep into my thought process. All I could do was ride out the buzz. I felt absolutely toxic. I had heard people talk about the bed spinning but this was the only time I would actually experience it. The dizziness was overwhelming. I felt pinned down and like I was moving really fast all at once. It was like being strapped into a carnival ride that was conceived by a sadist. It was too much. I had to vomit and could not get up. I managed to empty my stomach onto the floor next to the mattress.
I couldn't believe how much better I felt. Still very drunk, but compared to the hell I'd been through this was euphoria. The light trails morphed into a warm glow. I could feel that my body wasn't fighting the chemicals anymore. I was calm and ready to sleep and slowly, almost blissfully, drifted away.
I awoke to Chris creeping into my room. He quietly turned on the light. I knew what was going on pretty quickly. The light in his room was out and he needed to fix. I didn't say anything. I just watched. He had his works, spoon, and lighter in hand and was getting ready to sit where the light was best. I watched him slowly set his dainty California-tanned, corduroy-clad bottom into the pile of vomit I had left earlier. “Ohhhhhhhh...”, he said in an ascending weak, whiney junkie voice. I chuckled a little, turned over, and went back to sleep.