Friday, July 3, 2009

#9 - The Night I Got High On PCP

I was at one of those furtive warehouse parties deep in Flatbush when it happened. My friend “Greg” and I were tearing through cigarettes and four dollar vodka tonics. Greg was flying. He offered me some coke, but I declined; I only rarely even smoked pot. We were totally out of our element – we two bookstore clerks – but achieved a state of lucid comfort at around 2am on the roof of the warehouse.

On this roof, Greg and I spotted a cute girl and both attempted to hit on her at the same time. She wasn't having our drunken foolishness, but thought she might be able to get a cigarette out of the deal. Our packs were empty, so we both rushed out to try and bum one to curry her favor. A kid with Kanye West glasses and a shit-eating grin offered me a hand-rolled cigarette and I snatched it up immediately. Upon my return, our girl took one look at my gift and blanketly refused. As she walked away, Greg returned. “What the fuck was her problem?” We smoked that shit together and left the party.

I was by myself in the subway station when it hit me. I focused on the tiles on the opposite wall and time stopped. I was immediately aware of the musculature that ran from my shoulders to my fingertips. I could feel the underside of my skull. I sat there motionless waiting for the G train (probably for about 90 minutes, knowing the G train) and when it came I took great care in getting on, for with each footstep gravity seemed to have less of a hold on me.

Upon waking, I felt like shit obviously. I was catsitting in Williamsburg for the weekend and my friend “Joanna” came home to find me lying in her bed like a jelly. I told her of my night and her response was, “Yeah judging from your experience and where you were hanging out, it was probably PCP. Or maybe heroin.”

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