by Cleo Odzer
"Coke'll do that, especially if you don't get enough sleep," Neal said. "You know that much by Starko's? I'm positive it followed me home the other night."
I fell back in laughter and knocked the bhong over.
Neal's visits definitely brightened my day.
modelling composite from a talent agency
A soft drink ad featuring Cleo
Cleo's Car
Cover
Taking sannyas with Bhagwan
Watching movies in the theatre
Cleo in Goa
Graham playing backgammon in the dining room
December consisted of constant partying. Music wailed nightly on the beach and continued till the next afternoon, when people went home to sleep. Since no one kept track of days, Christmas went by without felicitations, though Alehandro wished me "Happy New Year" at, or near, the correct date.
Petra lived in a house not far from mine, and she too dropped by every day to say hello. "Ou, it's so nice and COOL in here," she said, raising her arms as if standing under a waterfall. She leaned an elbow on the four-foot high platform the carpenter had made for me. "What IS this thing?" she asked.
"Do you like it? I designed it myself. Sometimes I like to be up high, so I sit up there. Other times I like to crawl into a little space, so I sit underneath."
Like Neal, Petra smiled tolerantly at my enthusiasm. She looked inside the satin surrounding the platform and commented, "Interesting."
Petra came often to keep me company while I worked.
One afternoon she and Neal visited at the same time. It was the day the Goans started the bathroom. We watched as three locals laid bricks across a doorway to convert it to a window (I didn't need a door going outside from the bathroom!). A few feet away, three others planned the wall that would divide the kitchen in two. While Neal told stories and made lines of coke, Petra flashed me disapproving looks. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
When Neal left, she coaxed me away from the renovation site for a moment.
"My dEAr, what is GOing ON between you and NEAI?"
"We're friends."
She raised one eyebrow and lowered the other in the most disbelieving Look I'd ever seen. "Is thAt so?" She put one hand on her hip and tossed her head dismissively. "Neal is a suPERB man. I met him years ago in Kathmandu—beFORE he was into smack. BeFORE he got everybody ELSE into smack too." She lowered her eyebrow again. "And before he had EVE and the BAby. Just be CAREful, my dear. Are you getting enough SLEEP with all this COKE?"
No, I wasn't getting enough sleep. I'd be up for days, coked-out, spaced-out, designing weird things. I hadn't been eating much either. Who needed sleep and food? All I needed was coke and a pencil.
A few days later, as I tried to figure out what colour to paint the front room, a voice called through the open window. "Are you Miss Cleo?" I turned to see a pretty face surrounded by black curls. "I heard you might be interested in buying coke," he stated.
"Actually, I don't have money on me at the moment," I answered. "I'm going to Bombay tomorrow to pick some up. Maybe next time."
Again I'd run out of money. I'd bought a colossal amount of coke since I'd been in Goa. That, plus smack, plus the construction, had really swallowed my finances. Living in Goa could be stupendously inexpensive. Food and rent cost little and I paid the Goan maid twenty-two dollars a month for coming in seven days a week and doing everything.
Drugs were the main rupee eaters. I loved playing benefactor. It was exhilarating to slip a spoonful under everyone's nose. I loved having people flock around me, nostrils twitching, waiting expectantly.
Later that day Petra came by to ask, "Did you receive my PREsent?"
"Present? No. What was it?"
"Aw, I TOLD him to come here. This DARling boy knocked on my door selling coke. He was STUNning. I thought you'd LOVE him so I told him to come HERE, that you were SURE to want some."
"Oh, yes! He was here. But I didn't have money on me."
"He looked your TYPE, THAT'S why I sent him Over." Then she added. "To keep you out of TROUble."
Keep me out of trouble? To keep me away from Neal, she meant. Unfortunately, I had a feeling it was already too late for that.
Bombay was crowded with late-season arrivals. I stayed in town only long enough to stop at my safety deposit box, change money on the black-market, visit my favorite opium den in Chor Bazaar, leave a few rolls of movie film to be developed, buy a dozen fancy doorknobs at Crawford Market, and gorge on Dipti's jackfruit and ice cream.
When I returned to Anjuna Beach, I searched for the pretty boy who'd been sent as a present by Petra. He was easy to spot at parties. He always wore white on the bottom and red on top, and he cruised the crowd slowly, making himself visible to potential customers. His name was Serge, and he was French-Egyptian. He'd grown up in Egypt but went to college in England, which accounted for his impeccable British English. He and his English wife had been living for years on Colva Beach, two hours from Anjuna, with their son. During the last monsoon, his wife had made a scam, bringing three kilos of coke from Bolivia to India. It had been her trip—her money, her connections. Serge had had nothing to do with it. Now, in Goa, if he wanted to share the profits, it was his job to sell the powder while his wife stayed in their isolated Colva home.
I became a regular customer of Serge's at parties. Tish and I began each night by splitting a gram, and we'd buy second and third grams as the night progressed. Besides business transactions, though, and my filming his prowl through the crowd once, I never had much contact with him. Then one evening I saw him at Gregory's restaurant, stated at a nearby table.
"Hi, Serge," yelled Mental, an American with wavy, dark hair hanging to his waist. "Tee hee, how's it going?"
"He's gorgeous," I whispered to Mental. By then I was so enthralled with Serge I could barely aim the forkful of buffalo meat at my mouth. "I've been trying to get to know him for weeks now."
Thinking more of scamming free coke than of doing me a favour, Mental asked me, "Why don't we all go to your place after dinner, tee hee?" He addressed our table, "Wanna come to Cleo's? Hey," he shouted to the other tables, "Cleo's house, tonight." Then he went personally to invite Serge. Serge accepted.
We left Gregory's restaurant in a group.
"Thanks, Mental," I said to him as we crossed the paddy field.
It turned out to be a small party that went on most of the night. Serge supplied coke for everybody. I sat next to him and monopolized his attention. Just before dawn he went to the kitchen to make coffee. I never used the stove, especially with Goans around to do those stores. Serge was a gourmet cook, chummy with kitchens, and the Goans were asleep.
"This kitchen is amazing for Goa," he said. "I've never seen chimneys here before."
"I had them made. I designed everything. This whole back area was one room until I had the wall put in." Serge's eyes twinkled as he watched me skip excitedly, exhibiting my creations. I pointed out the snake-head doorknob on a closet, then said, "Come look at this," as I took him to the hallway between the kitchen and the bathroom. I stopped by a painting hanging there and explained, "This is my fantasy house. I'm fulfilling my childhood wishes. The canopy over my bed, the stairs, the hammock, and this." I lifted the painting off its hook to reveal what lay beneath. "I've always dreamed of having a safe behind a painting—like so. Just like in the movies, huh?"
Serge's smile widened as I demonstrated the excellence of my security system by yanking on the safe's metal handle. "How did you get the Goans to do that?" he asked.
"It wasn't easy—they'd never heard of such a thing. See how burglar proof it is?"
"Miss Cleo," he said, taking my arm and pulling me close. "Would you be still a moment." I stopped yanking and looked up at him. Black kohl, the Indian cosmetic, outlined his eyes, exaggerating their size. "At least slow down enough so I can kiss you," he added, laughing.
We swayed across the inch separating us. I loved the feel of his satin vest.
&
nbsp; "Hmmm. Very nice, Miss Cleo," he said when we broke apart. "I think by now our coffee water must have boiled into evaporation."
By the time we returned to the living room, many people had left. Mental was still there. He was injecting powder into his arm. Though in the past the Goa Freaks had disparaged needle use, lately it was becoming more tolerated, especially for coke.
"Where'd you get the coke?" Serge asked Mental in an annoyed tone.
"I had some of my own, tee hee."
"And yet you let me be the one to turn everyone on?"
"You have so much," Mental answered, absorbed in watching blood flow into the syringe.
"Let's go up," I said, taking Serge's arm and leading him to the stairs. "That's typically Mental."
"I don't like when people take advantage of my generosity. It isn't my coke either."
We passed through the "boudoir" to the bedroom. In one motion I removed my dress and turned to watch Serge disrobe. He threw his pink scarf over a Balinese statue and smiled down at me lying on the bed.
"I bought this canopy in Laos," I said, painting to the fringed thing hanging overhead. "It's supposed to be for wedding ceremonies. What's that string?" I asked noticing one around his waist.
"This was given to me long ago. I never take it off."
"Never?"
He laughed. "Once in jail in Kabul they made me, but that doesn't count." He leaned over and we kissed.
"Ow. What's that?" I objected to something digging into my chest.
He lifted to reveal the silver phallus he wore around his neck. "A shiva Unigram."
"I suppose you never take that off either?"
"No, if it bothers you, remove it."
"Let's just slide it to the back."
I pulled the charm across its chain and held it behind his head as we kissed deeply. After a while, as things heated up, I forgot and let go. I wasn't concerned when the silver Unigram started banging against my forehead, matching Serge's sexual movements stroke for stroke. But later, postorgasm, with Serge collapsed on top of me, I noticed an ache not only on my forehead but again at my breast bone, against which the damn thing was now crushed.
Serge laughed when I complained, saying "Pardon me."
A few hours into daylight Serge had to leave. "Business. I have to make up for the coke we consumed last night."
So walked Petra's present to the door. A handful of people still lounged downstairs, one asleep on the top of the platform. "Well, ciao. Have a nice day."
"You too. Bye, Miss Cleo."
As I closed the door, Doctor Bo approached me. Doctor Bo, an American, was a real doctor—though a doctor of what, nobody knew. "I think I should tell you Mental's been freaking out and making a mess," he said.
"Oh, no! Where is he?"
"In the dining room."
I rushed to the back of the house. "Oh, god!"
I didn't find Mental, but I found his trail of destruction. The lid of a plastic water-tank had been removed, and water was everywhere.
"He freaked out with the water," said Doctor Bo.
Pieces of things lay strewn about. "My Kashmiri boxes! My cassette tapes! Look what he did to the broom! He shredded it!"
"This is his wallet," said Doctor Bo, holding up a soggy rag. "Here's his passport. Look at these pictures—they're tom to bits."
"Uh-oh, I better find him."
I followed the signs of Destructo and panicked as I saw them lead up the stairs. "My movies!" I dashed up, burst into the room, and found Mental with his hands closing on a canister of film. "MENTAL, NO!" Gently I pried his fingers from my treasure. "Come on, Mental, time to go home. I'm going to sleep now. Everyone's leaving."
"I'm okay," he said. "Don't worry. I do another hit of smack and then go. I'm okay, tee hee, I'm okay."
It took a few minutes to get him downstairs because he kept stopping to look around and pat his pockets. Then he crouched on the floor and played with a scab on his ankle.
"Come on, Mental."
"Where's my smack?"
"I don't know, where did you leave it?"
"Here's a package of something," said Doctor Bo. "But whatever it was is wet."
"Wet? Wait, tee hee, wait."
"Get out of the water, Mental. Mental, stop splashing."
"Tee hee, wait, I'm looking."
"What are you looking for? Put down the broom. Mental! What are you doing?"
"I'm okay. I'm okay. Tee hee, I'm leaving."
"Don't tear up your passport. Give me that. No, don't put it in the water!"
It took another half hour to get Mental out of the house. I kept his passport, holding it for when he was less destructive. Apparently, when Mental consumed large amounts of coke, he ran amuck like that—rushed about out of control—a Coke Amuck. Many hotels in Bombay no longer let him in because he'd destroyed their bathrooms. He frequently obsessed on water. He'd tear plumbing from the walls. Once, the manager of the Nataraj Hotel used a pass key to get into Mental's room after the people underneath complained of flooding. The manager entered to find the sink and toilet smashed and a cowering Mental slamming around the bathtub yelling, "Roaches! Roaches! They're everywhere!"
It was more funny, though, when Mental had his Coke in someone ELSE's house.
People realized that when Neal and Eve came to visit, something would be missing when they left. Eve was a kleptomaniac.
Late one morning at a beach party, after Neal had Bone home, a commotion erupted behind the stage. Investigating the ruckus, I saw someone drag Eve along the ground while a crowd cheered him on. Her skirt bunched around her waist, revealing a bare bottom scratching across the dirt.
"She deserves it," I overheard someone say.
Because of my closeness with Neal, I felt responsible for Eve. I picked up the bag she'd dropped and ran after her as she screamed. I reached her as she broke free and turned on her assailant with curses and sharp nails.
"Come on, Eve, let's go," I said, trying to lead her away, but she was freaked out and screaming. "Come on, Eve. Let's go do some smack." I thought the smack might calm her down.
I pulled her away backwards as she yelled, "Fucking bastards." She kicked at a spectator and shrieked, "AAAhh."
"Come to my house," I said.
"No," she whispered.
Though she wouldn't leave the party, she let me usher her through the dancers to sit at someone's candle and sniff some dope. I really needed a snoot. Both of us had swallowed a dose of acid, and everything was spacey. Apprehension and eagerness engulfed me. Eve was restless. She didn't want to come to my house. She didn't want to remain seated. She didn't want to stay with me, either. She stood up and moved off. She appeared headed for more trouble.
I decided I had to get Neal. Shit! He lived on the other side of the beach, across the paddy field, near the road. It wasn't impossibly far, but with me tripping-and spacey tripping at that—it was seriously far.
I ran all the way and thought I'd the of exertion in the paddy.
"NEAL! WE HAVE TO SAVE EVE. SHE’S GETTING INTO FIGHTS. WAKE UP."
He opened one eye as I came tearing into the house. "Shhh. You'll wake the baby." He didn't move.
I lowered my voice. "Neal, Eve's freaking out the beach."
Slowly, he raised his naked form and sat cross-legged on the mattress. He peered at the baby lying nearby. "Party still going?" He smiled at me and shook the bangs out of his eyes. "Sit down a minute?"
I sat. "Of dope, yes. I'm too wired for more coke."
"Well, I need a little to wake me up." He reached for his glass Hock, and I watched him chop and meticulously construct two perfect lines. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
"What patience you have," I commented. "I don't make lines anymore. I snort lumps. I just pile it out and snort it up." He giggled. I changed my mind. "Yeah, okay, I will have that line after all," I said. "I can never resist." CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. "Oh, but come on, hurry. We've got to save Eve."
We left the b
aby in the Charge of an Indian teenager from Bombay who'd hung around with the Freaks at Dipti's, and whom Neal had brought to Goa for no reason in particular.
It was late morning and the sun was high when we arrived at the party. We found Eve sitting by herself, Flashing hateful glances around her.
"The chick stole my lighter, man," said Olivier to Neal in a French accent. "Is not right. There is something wrong with that chick."
"Well straighten this out," Neal answered before kneeling beside Eve. "Are you okay? Had a bad night?" He moved a strand of hair off her face. "Let's get out of here." She rose and followed him easily. So did Olivier.
"What about my lighter, man? It is from Kenya. Has a gazelle on it."
"I want to get her off the beach," Neal told him. "We'll go to the Monkey chai shop."
The four of us climbed the rocks and gathered around the wooden tables of the chai shop. Nobody sat. I was too wired; Eve was on planet Mars; Neal was refereeing; and the Frenchman was angry.
"Five him back the lighter, Eve."
"I don't have it."
"Eve, just give it to him and we can go home."
"He's lying. I didn't take it."
In the acid-party aftermath, everything looked weird. Textures went wrong. The wood of the table I leaned against felt like fabric. It folded over my fingers. Eve's face took on strange colours, her features blending together. I watched her nose squash under her cheekbones. Neal lifted Eve's purse off her shoulder and dumped the contents on the table.
"There it is! That is it. See the gazelle?"