A Dangerous Game

by Rick R. Reed

  A couple of lines wouldn’t be enough to hurt me. I mean, I know that there’s at least some cocaine in there. I know that smell, and there’s nothing like it.

  I begin assembling the tools of my trade: the dollar bill, the straw, the razor blade, the ballpoint pen. A pack of Marlboro Lights.

  March 13

  Well, as the song goes, I’m still here. The stuff was pretty good. Pretty bad… now that it’s 9:00 a.m. and I haven’t slept, haven’t put anything in the way of sustenance in my body but six Michelob Genuine Drafts since breakfast yesterday.

  Oh, it was quite a party. I stare dully at the TV screen, thinking.

  Is this how things will be from now on?

  Am I an addict?

  Where will it end?

  Is this the point where I have to admit to myself that I can’t control it?

  Six guys over last night. A record. What bugs, viruses, and diseases are beginning to bloom inside me right now? Now as I sit here staring at a cartoon on the Cartoon Network (I have to get that cable canceled), I wonder how I’m ever supposed to find another job at this rate. And if I did, how could I possibly keep it? I mean, this cocaine use has gone beyond the occasional Friday night party.

  Somewhere I have the number for a Chicago chapter of Cocaine Anonymous. But I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with that. I don’t know if such a group can really help me.

  Excuse?

  But I have to do something.

  How did I get here? How did I, a guy who got good—no, make that great—grades all through high school and college, end up here? This wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, I was the kind of guy the partiers in my dorms in college referred to as a lightweight, because I drank three beers and I was done for. Because I would turn down the bong or the joint when it was passed around with a sheepish smile. Because I didn’t even know anyone who used cocaine, let alone try it myself until relatively late in life.

  A boyfriend brought coke into my life. Funny how I haven’t spoken to him in months, yet his legacy lingers on… in the dusting of white powder on my coffee table, in the thick mucus now clogging my sinuses, in the teeth-grinding aftermath of a binge. Edward didn’t leave me with much: a gray-and-black lamb’s wool muffler and an addiction to cocaine. Yes, an addiction. I can’t pretend any differently… not now… not ever again.

  It had started so simply. He had a little coke in his apartment… what was it? Our third or fourth date. We were having sex, and he suggested we do a little. And looking back, a little was all there was… maybe two or three lines for each of us. What would be just a little kick start for me now. But then, God, did it make me feel good! It made the sex wonderful, long lasting, delicious, really. And afterward, we sat up talking, and it seemed my inhibitions about discussing anything were gone. I was witty and well-spoken. I smoked one of Edward’s cigarettes, then two. What I had previously found disgusting now seemed so satisfying.

  But even then I didn’t really think about wanting more. It had just been an isolated incident. A little harmless fun. And wasn’t it time I stop being such an overachiever and start to have a little fun? To experiment?

  It wasn’t until two or three weeks later that Edward casually suggested we buy some together. He knew a guy who would deliver it right to his apartment. Little did I know that the number for that guy would one day become branded on my brain, incapable of being forgotten.

  And that’s how it started. Back then, I still don’t know how well acquainted with coke Edward was, because we lasted only a month, maybe six weeks, longer. But that first weekend turned into a second, a second into a third, and so on until we were doing it every weekend. Until what I looked forward to on Friday nights was not so much seeing Edward as calling the number from which would grow cocaine.

  After things ended (badly… but that’s irrelevant), I stoked up the courage to call Edward, even though we said good-bye under circumstances that weren’t conducive to casual phone conversation. But see, it was always Edward who called Sam. I never knew the number.

  And I had to have it.

  Edward didn’t mind giving me the number. Knowing him, he was probably glad to, because he probably wanted to see me as addicted as he was. Edward was very handsome, you see, but under that gorgeous blond facade lurked a monster, something not pretty at all. Just a selfish thing. Edward wore blinders. He didn’t really know how to relate to people beyond satisfying his own needs. He could be absolutely charming, but I learned fast that the charm was nothing more than a means to an end.

  Edward was, in the lingo, a sociopath.

  Can you say that, class? Sociopath.

  Never mind. I didn’t get any sexually transmitted diseases, or even a cold, from Edward. But he did infect me, and his giving me the number for Sam was the final entree for the disease of addiction.

  Or was it? Sure, there were some lonely nights when I called Sam, knowing I couldn’t afford it, knowing I needed to get up for work the next morning. It’s funny how I knew cocaine’s awful side effects right from the beginning. But what really put the finishing touch on things was that my next “involvement” was with someone who… surprise!… loved cocaine as much as I did. I think we went out twice before we started doing coke together. And then, forget going out to dinner, or a play, or a movie. No, we stayed in and stayed up all night, watching porn, snorting coke, and masturbating. Neither of us was much interested in sex with each other once coke got involved. Curious, because we started using the phone sex line to have guys over, and we would have three-ways.

  It all seems so sick now. But by that time I was through with Kevin. (I couldn’t even tell you why that one ended; we just stopped talking. I assume Kevin is probably in the same boat I am now. Well, I hope not.) What I didn’t realize was that my relationship with Kevin showed graphically how I was beginning to cut myself off from human contact. I was beginning to state my preference for blow over getting blown. Ha-ha. The truth, though, and I think anyone who’s been in a serious relationship with cocaine will tell you the same, is that we cokeheads eventually come to care less about human contact. Nothing can replace the allure of our new best friend.

  So this is where it stands. Will I get help? Or will this journal become like some recording, stuck on endless loop, playing the same notes over and over?

  March 14

  An entire day has passed without coke. The cycle is funny. That one day of rest makes all the difference in the world. It puts me almost back to square one. I say almost because my nose is still runny and I have a throbbing headache, which I know is from the clogged sinuses.

  And the craving, like a little quiet mouse, is creeping back. The craving thoughts are so primitive they use pictures rather than words to induce the allure, the need, the want… whatever you want to call it. Primitive because it comes to me only in the occasional image, not in words, not in a goal. I see myself leaning over with the straw in my hand. I see myself emptying the ground-up coke on the coffee table. I see myself sitting back on the couch, fortified by three fat white lines, lighting a cigarette and turning my attention to the porno on the TV screen.

  These little images are interspersed with my thoughts as a sensible person. The one who’s still there, but I wonder how long it will be before he too packs his bags and takes his leave.

  No matter. Right now I’m trying to think what I need to do to get out of this mess.

  I probably need to move. Gabe, of course, would give me extra time to pay the rent, but that would just mean my debt would increase, and by the time I did find something, I’d end up owing him so much I don’t know how I could ever get square again.

  I don’t want that kind of debt hanging over my shoulders, not when my credit cards are already bearing down, demanding payment but also saying “Don’t worry about it” as the interest and finance charges accrue, until I’m barely paying anything off each month.

  I could move someplace like Rogers Park, where my friend Billie lives and swears that you can get more for y
our money up there. Rogers Park is on the northern end of Chicago, bordering the suburb of Evanston. It has close proximity to the lake to recommend it, along with some pretty decent older buildings. But it doesn’t offer much in the way of safety… the neighborhoods change from okay to horrible in one block and then back again.

  But I could probably get a studio for half of what I’m paying here (and then I would have more money for coke! stop it), and maybe I could begin paying off some debt once I found a job again. But the cost of moving is always a lot: security deposit, first and often last month’s rent, the cost of movers or at least a truck rental.

  In the midst of these musings, the phone rings. I look at the little display on my phone and see the word “private.” My heart begins to hum, in spite of my sensible head telling me not to answer it. I’ve been conditioned to understand that word “private” to mean one of two things: coke has arrived or is on its way, or some trick I gave my number to is calling me for sex.

  “Hello,” I say, instinctively deepening my voice.

  “Okay, Rufus. Come on downstairs.”

  I recognize the Middle Eastern accent immediately. Sam.

  But I didn’t call him. Lord knows I didn’t. Am I doing things now and immediately forgetting?

  “Hi, Sam,” I say tentatively. My heart is beginning to beat harder, with the same sense of anticipation as if I had called. “Did I call you?”

  “Yes.” Sam sounds tired.

  I’m puzzled. But already I’m trying to think how I can get that little bag of coke in my hands. “And my number came up on your caller ID?”

  “No.”

  Sam sighs. He’s not the most outgoing guy, but I’ve never really cared about that before. As long as he delivers.

  “It was a different number. You said you were calling from a pay phone.”

  I scratch my head and can’t think of anything to say. My gift outside the door comes back to me. That was nice. But this time it wouldn’t be free… and I don’t have the money I would need.

  “Are you coming down, Rufus? I don’t have much time.”

  I think for only a second. “Sure. I’ll be right there.”

  I struggle into a pair of nylon running pants, a T-shirt, and an old pair of deck shoes I keep near the front door for just such a purpose.

  Outside, Sam’s black Lexus idles, parked near the fire hydrant in front of my building that always makes it so convenient for him to pull up in front. I wonder, as I always do, what I will say to Gabe if he comes outside and happens to witness my brief rendezvous in the dark car. He’d ask. He’s nosy, and there’s something suspicious about my running out of the house, hopping in a car for a minute or two, and then running back in. It’s amazing to me that our paths have never crossed during any of my exchanges.

  “Sam, I got a small problem.” I get in the car and slam the door.

  Sam looks over at me, and I’m struck, as usual, by what a handsome man he is. I suppose he has Israeli or Iranian heritage: black hair, eyes so dark the pupils disappear within the irises, a perpetual five o’clock shadow, dark skin, and full lips. Sam is a cipher to me. I really know nothing about him, and I’m sure that’s the way he likes to keep it. He always smiles and asks how I’m doing, but our exchanges are always brief. Number one, I usually can’t wait to get back upstairs and to get that first line or two up my nose. Number two, out of necessity, Sam probably likes to keep clues to his identity low. No telling what a paranoid or disappointed customer might do if he knew, for example, Sam’s address.

  “What’s the problem, Rufus?”

  “I don’t have the money.”

  “No credit,” Sam says right away, his hand immediately going to the gearshift.

  “No, no, I don’t want credit. I just want you to pull around the corner here. There’s a bank with an ATM.”

  “No problem.”

  And the car is in motion. I think again about offering to blow Sam in exchange for some coke (blow for blow, get it?) but again reject the idea because there’s not a single thing about him that indicates he might take me up on such an offer. Besides, I think scornfully and not without a little inner sarcastic laugh, what’s in it for him?

  The vestibule of the bank is cool, and I try to tell myself, as I punch in my PIN, that this isn’t my fault. I don’t know who called Sam, but I sure as hell didn’t, and I can’t be expected to resist temptation when it’s being thrust so overtly in my face. Still, I’m really low on money, and adding yet another cash advance to my Visa isn’t smart.

  Hell, it isn’t even sane.

  But none of that makes any difference once I’ve got the little bag of coke in my hand as I hurry back to my apartment, already tasting the bitter little drip in the back of my throat that’s on its way.

  The first thing I do once I get back upstairs is to grab a dollar bill from my wallet, a pen from the desk, and do my little rolling technique to grind up the chunks of coke. It’s only a minute before a little mound of white appears on my coffee table, less than a minute before two fat lines are snorted up my nose.

  And then a flurry of activity. A cigarette is lit. Clothes are whipped off and thrown onto the rocking chair next to the couch. In the bedroom, a can of Crisco is brought out from a drawer in my bedside table and a snappable leather cock ring encircles my balls and dick as tight as it will go. A stained white hand towel and a bottle of poppers are snatched up from another drawer.

  Back in the living room, I pull the porno out from the bottom of a secretary. Already I feel a tingle. Already there’s the delicious bitter drip at the back of my throat. I want to do a million things at once. The porn begins to look like a kid’s building blocks… scattered all over the floor, searching, searching for just the right one. Vintage or contemporary? I like the vintage, precondom ones better, always have, and slip in a compilation tape of Jon King that’s absolutely filthy. I settle back on the couch, point the remote at the VCR, and voila! there’s Jon King on the screen, taking it from two guys at once. I squelch the thought that King died from AIDS several years ago. None of that depressing shit for me. Today’s a party day! The lost job, the lost friends, the prospect of a future with no home and no love have escaped me for the time being.

  Thank you, Mr. Cocaine!

  I light another Marlboro off the butt of the last and begin pulling on my dick. Since I’ve only done a couple of lines, it gets hard, and I think how sex never feels nearly as wonderful without this beautiful drug up my nose.

  It’s time to get on the phone sex line and see who’s out there. What Prince Charmings will come over today to bring me ecstasy and to transport me to the land of erotoparadise?

  I call the 976 number and get a code, then call the Buddy line, punch in the code, and record my message. This is how it works: you record a message, telling other callers on line what it is you want, how and where you want it, and what you look like. Then the message goes into a kind of rotation. Everyone hears everyone else’s message, and if you like what you hear, you can send a private message. Once sent, the caller can respond with another message or a request to talk live. What usually happens, if things are progressing, is that one or the other of the guys gives out his phone number and you end up talking off line, making plans that may or may not come to fruition. Only half the time or less do people actually show up when they say they will.

  “Hot bottom here in Ravenswood. Looking to take dick all day long. Love to deep throat and love to get fucked long and hard. Good-looking guy, tight build. Hit me back.” Of course, like everyone else on the line, I’m sure, I try to sound more butch than I am. Phrases like “hit me back,” which wouldn’t emerge from my lips at any other time, now do. I deepen my voice just a little. I drive a truck for Bud, don’t you know? I shoot pool and hoops with my buddies, don’t you know? I don’t even know who Martha Stewart is.

  It isn’t long before more cigarettes are smoked (I’m gonna have to go out for more pretty soon), more lines are hoovered up, and I’ve got three
connections on their way. I’ll be happy if one out of the three actually shows up. But my code number is good for two days, so there’s lots of time to play cock roulette.

  And my dick is now soft from the coke. It will stay that way for a couple of days as well, but it still feels good when I yank on it. And it might wander up to half-mast if I can get someone hot inside me.

  Doorbell chimes. Cool.

  I do a quick snort, scoop the coke onto a CD, and take it, the bag, the dollar bill, the razor blade, and the pen and put them in the secretary. You never know when your Prince Charming might be a cop. I hurry to slide into my running pants and down the stairs to answer the door. This is the part that always makes my heart race even more, the anticipation of when I open the door. Hooking up with guys like this is always grab bag, no matter how they describe themselves on the phone. It’s like what’s behind door number two.

  And this time I’m a winner on my own personal sex Let’s Make a Deal. He’s hot. Oh yeah, I sniffle and wipe at the back of my nose with my hand, open the door, smile.

  “You Jason?”

  “Rufus?”

  “Yeah. Come on in.”

  A little plump but no complaints. About six three with straight reddish-blond hair that hangs down to his shoulders. Stubbly goatee and mustache. Said he was twenty-three, and that looks about right. Pale, pale blue eyes… almost translucent.

  I can’t wait to get him upstairs.

  Once we’re up there, he looks around, and for just a second I see my apartment through his eyes, and even with the cocaine, feel a pang of shame. Blue-gray cigarette smoke hangs near the ceiling, and it reeks. The coffee table is covered… with Crisco, with a half-drunk bottle of Budweiser Light, the cordless phone, several candles burned about halfway or more down, an ashtray close to overflowing, and the pack of Marlboros open next to it. At one end of the table, there’s a dusting of fine white powder. On the TV, Jon King is on his back (again) as some dark-haired groaning fella rams it home (again). The chair next to the couch is heaped with clothes, and my hand is still greasy with Crisco. I realize I’m almost panting. For just a second, I’m afraid he’ll leave.