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Xanax and cocaine
Saturday, May 1 1999
Today Kim and I arranged to meet up with one of Kim's old college chums, Ed Nel$on, a guy whom she honoured with such descriptions as "my best friend" and "one of the two most brilliant men I know" (the other might possibly be Dan Quayle). Ed lives with his wife and infant child in a big house in a nice, relatively crime-free greater-New Orleans neighborhood. He works as some sort of computer system manager for the the entire South Central United States power grid, making a hefty income in addition to a substantial cache of old money. Kim is very fond of him, however, according to her, he's always been "just a friend."
Ed Nel$on
Ed picked us up in front of the stone lions that guard Lindsay's place and we headed down the sunny, tree-lined streets to his house. His wife and infant child were there, as was some additional woman whose function was never made clear. We went out into the sunny backyard, drank a few Heinekens, smoked some pot, and talked about interesting things that my mind had no capacity to remember. I felt an unjustified familiarity with Ed Nel$on. He looked like a tall version of Matthew Hart and had every bit of Matthew's affability, enthusiasm and intelligence, with evidence of a refreshing dollop of ambition as well. One of the few things I can actually remember of our conversation concerned Ed and me possibly going into a web-related business together should Kim and I ever choose to move to New Orleans. He said he had the money to fund such a venture and that it would be a welcomed change from his present job "working for the man." But such giddy business talk was merely a symptom of an even greater enthusiasm Ed had for the tantalizing possibility that Kim and I might one day move to New Orleans. He kept suggesting that we move into the house directly across the dead-end street in his upscale neighborhood.
Eventually we went into the house and each ate several tablets of Xanax that Ed had inherited from a deceased grandparent. I didn't really want to, actually, but everybody else was doing it, so I just went with the flow. It seemed everyone knew what they were doing.
My memory not being perfectly linear.
My memory isn't perfectly linear past this point. We hooked up with Lisa L@tter and, with the help of the same fat white cop she'd manipulated yesterday, all of us got into Jazzfest for free. We watched "the Tchoupitoulas Indians" (or whatever they're called; they're an outlandishly flamboyant New Orleans musical staple) and then somehow moved on to other places. We stopped somewhere to chow down on various kinds of Po'boys, then moved on to a party at someone's house nearby. It was an absolutely wonderful party, featuring several kegs of beer, a table piled high with red crawfish, and at least one live rock and roll band. People were so drunk and festive they couldn't help themselves; they simply had to dance: young, old, black & white. I was eating crawfish like popcorn, with such expertise that Ed Nel$on said I looked like a native. I'd shuck the bigger ones and limit myself mostly to the tail meat, but I'd scarf the smaller ones down completely whole.
From left: Lisa L@tter, me and Ed at Lisa's parents' place (I don't remember going there at all, by the way, but here's the photographic evidence).
Later on, we found ourselves going between various friends' houses looking for more fun and excitement. Ed Nel$on headed back home and Kim, Lisa and I ended up at one of Lisa's friend's places. By this point the Xanax was definitely taking more away from the evening than it was adding back to it. I kept nodding off, causing Kim a certain amount of embarrassment. When someone produced a few little bags of cocaine, it didn't take much persuasion to convince me to snort a few lines. I'd never taken cocaine before. I've had my chances, but owing to an irregular heartbeat, I try to steer clear of the hard stimulants.
The cocaine didn't do anything for me that a few shots of espresso couldn't do. Indeed, discovering the mildness of a few thin lines of cocaine was a genuine let down. I just couldn't imagine how this stuff could possibly be destroying America. After awhile, though, it kicked in a little bit more and I felt a lot like the way I've felt after chowing down on a couple tablets of Ritalin, including the strange ritual of impulsively flexing my jaw. My creativity was somewhat stimulated, as was my desire to socialize. When I wasn't chatting with various unknown boys and girls, I joined with Kim in drawing preposterous images on a dry-erase board.
Lisa, Kim and I headed out to a bar to see some rock and roll band, but the hour had grown late, the band wasn't yet playing, the cocaine was wearing off, the Xanax was re-asserting itself, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. So the girls took me back to Lisa's place and put me to bed and went out on the town without me.
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