by Cleo Odzer
People came and went every hour of the day or night. Around 10 A.M., when the last person had left and I'd think I could finally sleep—BAM, BAM? somebody would be pounding on the door. Someone was always running out of something. Always. If I didn't answer one door, they'd hammer on another. I had four doors, and they'd pound on each one in turn, relentlessly, until I opened up.
I did go to inspector Navelcar.
"Please," told him, "my friend is sick. If he doesn't get medical care, and you have him arrested, and then have him locked in a hospital? He wouldn’t go otherwise, and he's dying, really. Please? You must know people in Bombay."
Inspector Navelcar shook his head Indian style. "Yes, I have associates there. What do we arrest him for? There must be a charge."
I should have gone hack to the hotel and planted something. I knew I should have gone back. "Drugs. There are always drugs in his room," I told him.
"It would be better if we knew for certain."
"There's always something, I promise. Please?"
I said he'd talk to his colleague and see what he could do.
I left the station thinking I'd have to come back in a week to check his progress and maybe beg him more.
But I never made it back. My dope den became a giant enterprise. It wasn't merely a place to buy drugs; it was a place to do drugs. I kept the upstairs as an apartment, while the downstairs served as my dope den, the Saloona. The largo living room held thirty people comfortably. More sat at the table in the dining room. Then there'd be some in the front room and some in the kitchen. There'd even be two or three people congregating in the bathroom. People were everywhere, always. In every room, on every mattress, everywhere I turned, there were people, blared from the stereo; it was a nonstop party.
Some people came just to hang out. Like Tish. She was pregnant. "You're not doing any drugs? At all?" I asked in astonishment. "Nope," Tish answered. "Well, almost never. I'm holding off till the birth."
The baby's father, Junky Robert, who was sitting next to her, didn't have to make this sacrifice; he careened sideways till his head rested on Georgette’s shoulder.
"Eh!" said Georgette, shrugging him off and awake. "Ça ne va pas comme ça, dis donc. Robert, give him a break, man."
Old friends came to socialize. Graham dropped by with his son, who ran around the room with Bach.
Many customers were new faces to me. Since I'd stopped attending beach parties, I knew few of the recent additions to the Goa scene. Now I met them all.
KNOCK, KNOCK came the sound on my door (my latest Bindi Bazaar doorbell had rusted in the monsoon, like its predecessors), and there stood another new person. Are you Cleo? Yes, hello, c'mon in. KNOCK, KNOCK. Hi, a friend of Jerry Schmaltz . . . Come in. KNOCK, KNOCK. Is this the place? Welcome, make yourself at homo. KNOCK, KNOCK. Would somebody open the door, Please?
I wanted to make a dope den unlike any other. I wanted to create something to go down in history. I wanted a place people would remember in old age went to this den once, back in the 1970s, you wouldn't believe it . . . To this end I promised my customers exact weights. Each purchase came guaranteed that if a quantity was less than it should be. I'd give back twice what was missing. If a gram was tenth of a gram short, the buyer would get back a fifth. I also had stacks of games for people to play: Monopoly, backgammon, Parcheesi. . . The red Buddha bhong I'd bought in Toronto was a great attraction. My customers delighted in smoking dope from the Buddha's belly. Often I threw Movie Nights and showed my films. For these occasions I hung fliers at Joe Banana's and Gregory's restaurant.
MOVIE NIGHT THURSDAY
ANJUNA DRUGOONA SALOONA
But if anyone asked. I'd also show the movies on request.
The den became a hangout. Along with the nightly host of new faces, the Saloona had its regulars. People met there before going out for the night, or before a flea market or a beach party or breakfast. People came to meet other people. Plans were made there. Gossip heard. Romances begun. Once there was a theatre group from California that, coked-out during one night, decided to perform for the beach. For a month they came every night, holding creative conferences around my ten-rupee coke packages. I lent them wigs and props, and the final production was hell nearby.
I did HAVE to dose the place a few hours a day. I was exhausted. I ran all night bong, endlessly fetching ten-rupee packets of coke or half grams of smack or some tobacco. This one wanted an orange soda, and someone over there was hunting for the backgammon set. Will someone please get the door? You wanted the mirror, right? There should be one right around here. I have five of them. Do you have another bhong? No, sorry. But there are a few here. Why don't you use Sasha's over there? Can you play another tape? I'm sick of this one. Choose what you like from tapes on the shelf. Hey, Graham, would you mind getting the door again? we need another line of coke here. No, make that two. No, three. Me too. Two more over there. Hey, Cleo, over here. Cleo, where's the mirror? Cleo, we need more tobacco. Cleo, the door!
In the morning, after the asthmatic rooster next door had wheezed, and when only two or three people remained in the den, I'd announce it was closing time and scoot them out. Oh, and don't forget your friend in the corner. Who, him? He's not with us. He's been sleeping there for hours. Well, do you think you could take him with you anyway? What's that lump on the platform? Another sleeper? Would you give him a shake for me. And I think there's one more on the waterbed.
Finally, alone and in peace, I'd hang notes on the doors saying I HAVE TO SLEEP and DO NOT DISTURB!
But it never failed—a crisis always occurred. Someone was out of something. BAM, BAM, BAM. C'mon, Cleo! It's an emergency! Open up! I'm out of coke! Or there'd be a group that ran out of parties and wanted to start its own. Or there'd be someone who couldn't sleep and just wanted to talk. BAM, BAM, BAM. C'mon, Cleo, we know you're in there.
At first Rachid stationed a man in Mapusa, and I'd go every morning for a supply of coke. By this time I was selling a couple dozen grams a day. I told Rachid I couldn't keep making those trips into town, though, because I lost customers while I was away. There'd be a crowd waiting for me when I returned. So Rachid had a man deliver a daily supply to my door.
Then my dope ran out, and I had to sell Rachid's dope along with his coke. I didn't only deal in coke and dope, though. I sold whatever had a market. When someone needed kilos of hash, I arranged it with Rachid and earned three hundred dollars. One time, someone left me blotter acid to sell. I even had a stock of opium, though I kept the Opium pipe hidden in the blowtorched safe. I had yet to find someone who managed to smoke the Opium rather than spatter it on the carpet and the linoleum. I matched people for scams and deals and ideas. The running around—hustling, mediating, and fetching—seemed never to end.
December came and went. I had someone pick the winning raffle numbers, and since the winners weren't there, I hung signs at Joe Banana's, the Three Sisters' restaurant, Gregory's restaurant, and the Monkey chai Shop:
ANJUNA DRUGOONA SALOONA RAFFLE WINNERS
First Prize, the Genuine American Dildo Vibrator: #008961
Second Prize, the Champion Frisbee: #002187
Third Prize, stash bottle: #003658
I barely noticed the passing of Christmas or New Year's and never had the opportunity to visit anybody.
I did hear news, though. People told me what went on and asked me for gossip in return. Whatever happened to Serge? Don't know. He hasn't shown up this season. Neither have Dayid and Ashley. I heard they're in Australia. Ashley wants to keep Dayid away from the smack. I think he's driving a cab. NO! Really? Did you hear about Michael and Fatima and the motorcycle? In Bali, right? The roads there are atrocious. And where's Mental? Jail. Busted last monsoon in the States. Oh, yeah? Hey, Cleo, we need another quarter over here. And isn't that startling about Bombay Brian. Hey, Cleo, ten-rupees of coke.
On top of stories recounted directly, news inundated me as I moved through the crowd exchanging paper packets for money. . . . Pe
tra in the hospital. What about Petra? She had a car accident. Her legs were crushed. Didn't she inherit a fortune? Where did that mirror go? Hey, Sasha! Where've you been? Bombay. Just got back this minute. Neal died last night. Who has the Buddha bhong? Do you have another razor blade? Here's the mirror—who wanted it? Did you hear Neal died in Bombay? I heard. Here, have a bhong. May I have another orange soda, please?
Tears flooded my eyes as I handed out drugs, found mirrors and bhongs, served sodas and fresh razor blades. No, I can't think about Neal. I might start screaming and run into the ocean. I can't think about Neal now.
The Anjuna Drugoona Saloona was a great success, continually packed with customers, friends with their own stashes, and people hoping for a free turn-on. Canadian Jacques came now and then, but I never sat long with him before being called on a powder errand. The whole beach popped in to visit, socialize, and check out the scene. Norwegian Monica male an appearance. Did I tell you Greek Robert hung himself in jail? No! 'Too bad, he was so cute. Blind George dropped by. Even Alehandro sallied in with his followers. John, my Applecroc, also stopped by occasionally to say hello. Did you hear about Neal? Yes, but I can't think about it, Applecroc. That bitch Eve, man. We collected money for the funeral, and she shot up every rupee! All the money went up her arm in coke and dope. Finally Bila from Dipti's had to pay for the funeral. And do you believe it, man. Eve never showed up! She borrowed money from Bombay Brian, saying she needed to feed the kid, and then went to Sukalatchi Street to score coke. Never even showed up for the funeral, do you believe that? I can't think about it, Applecroc. Oh, Cleo, can we have another ten-rupee packet here? And I think someone's at the door.
The running around exhausted me. There never seemed to be enough time for everything I had to do. Weighing out quantities and folding them in marked packages took at least three or four hours a day, depending on the number of interruptions. I did the packing first thing in the afternoon, when I woke up. It was rare indeed, however, that I'd be allowed to wake from natural causes. Inevitably I'd awaken to frantic poundings on the door, so I wouldn't be able to start the daily weighing chore until I had taken care of whoever-it-was—granting, of course, that no one else showed up in the meantime. Help! This is too much for one person to handle. On Rachid's next trip to Goa, I rushed to his room at the Fort Aguada Hotel to ask for an assistant.
"Rachid, help! I need an assistant. My Saloona is too much for one person to handle alone."
"Darling, what happened to your friend Neal?"
"I can't think about Neal. Will you send me an assistant?"
He sent me a tall, thin Indian man. At first I thought my problem was solved. Rachid's coke and smack came in grams, and it was Indian Man's primary job each morning to weigh ten half grams and twelve quarters of smack, plus twenty halves and twenty-four quarters and fifty lines of coke. It took him twice as bong as it used to take inc. Someone would come for a quarter and he'd still be weighing halves. Oh, dear this would never do.
Indian Man didn't work out at all. The biggest problem was his inability to measure exact weights.
"Please!" I said to him. "My customers trust me. If you can't make the packets exact, then make them overweight, okay? Underweight is unethical!"
Impossible. I guess in Rachid's employ, he was only capable of producing underweight quantities. For the first time people complained that their packets were short, and I reimbursed them with double the missing amount. Indian Man could not comprehend such scruples. I tried reasoning with Rachid.
"PLEASE tell him to weigh exact quantities. He's ruining my reputation. Pin having to pay back double what he leaves out."
"Double? You are not doing that, are you, darling? Sharp cookie like you?"
It was beyond Rachid's comprehension too.
On top of that, Indian Man made my customers paranoid. They cringed at the presence of the straight-looking Indian, so neatly dressed. He reminded them of the police.
"But he works for Rachid!" I tried to reassure everybody. "He's more gangster than policeman."
"I know. But he still makes me nervous," would be the response. And Bach hated him. So Indian Man had to go.
I'm so tired. Exhausted. Where's my coke? I need another line.
It's remarkable how much coke and dope one can consume when the supply is unlimited. I shrunk to skinniness again. How long had it been since my last period? Two years? I did manage alternate daily injections of vitamin B complex and calcium, though; and because it was so smooth, I drank glasses of the Electrolyte mixture. I did TRY to eat, but coke had so constricted my throat that solid food didn't want to go down. The only substance I could tolerate was Gregory's creamy mousse, with which he competed against The Three Sisters' chocolate pudding. Oo, the mousse felt wonderful as it slid coolly and soothingly down. Since I couldn't leave the Saloona, I sent a motorcycle driver to Gregory's restaurant every day. Unfortunately Gregory had instituted a policy of not serving his much-desired desserts without a main course. So, to acquire the two or three mousses, I had to order two or three main courses. That was okay—Bach loved Gregory's prawns in wine sauce.
Bach lived the good life in Anjuna Beach. The animal hospital in Bombay had cured him of his ills, and he thrived on the two or three servings a day of prawns in wine sauce or sirloin buffalo steak. The maid and her family called him Fatso. Bach had a routine. He'd wake up while it was still dark and nudge me until I let him out. Then he'd be gone for hours, running with his gang of strays. Around 11 A.M. he'd bark at the door. Since this was when I'd be desperately trying to sleep. I'd ignore him as long as I could, but eventually I'd drag myself to the door and let him in for his drink of water. After that he'd rest peacefully beside me until the first wake-me-up customer came pounding at the door, at which time he'd go out again. For the rest of the day he'd be within calling distance, and whenever he wanted to come in, he'd bark once and I'd obediently open the door.
During February my dope den changed—people switched from snorting lines and smoking bhongs to shooting up. Apparently many Goa Freaks were now into fixing. Some fixed only coke, but others, doe to a shortage of funds, fixed dope in order to do less and make it last longer.
The end of the season was the time when personal stashes and monetary funds ran low. The people fixing smack simply bought it and left. Those fixing coke bought it and stayed. They stayed for hours and hours and HOURS.
Moving with the trend, I added a new line of products to my inventory. I sold needles for five rupees and syringes for forty. I also rented syringes, carefully boiling them between rentals. An ampoule of distilled water cost five rupees. I stockpiled vitamin B ampoules, which I tried to push instead of the water.
"Why don't you dilute your drugs with this vitamin B complex instead of water?" I'd say. "It costs a few rupees more, but it's GOOD for you. Look how skinny you are. I bet your body is craving a little B. It'll give you a nice rush too."
"Won't it mess up the coke rush?"
"Not at all. It adds to it, I promise. You won't believe the head this gives you! And it'll make you healthy at the same time."
"Nah, just give me the water."
I was surprised by how many people turned down the vitamin B. When I promoted it seriously, some agreed to try it but acted as if they were doing me a big favour. They rarely asked for it again.
"Well, then, how about a nice shot of calcium?" I'd offer next. "This is intramuscular and doesn't give you a head, but it will restore the calcium that coke depletes from your body. I give you the shot myself. How 'bout it?"
Needless to say, the health supplies were not my most popular items.
One day I noticed that people who fixed their drugs created a different atmosphere than those who smoked or sniffed. While smokers and sniffers were more social and interactive, fixers were more introverted. They were preoccupied with their sets of paraphernalia, their arms, their rushes. If a smoker or sniffer was wandering about when one of the fixers peaked, it caused a startled jump. So—eager
to please my clientele—I separated them and provided a special area for fixers. For this I had to use the second floor. I set up blue and green velvet mattresses around a blue and green rug to create a haven in the bedroom. The three windows encircling the northern extension of the room let in the breeze from the sea; that first rush of coke could sure bring on a heavy sweat.
I provided everything. I distributed cut-up strips of satin for tying arms. I bent every kitchen spoon I owned into the shape convenient for mixing coke with water, and I laid out metal bottle openers for breaking the glass tops of distilled-water ampoules. Scattered among the Kashmiri tables were champagne glasses filled with water for cleaning syringes. In the centre of the space I placed a pot with a sign saying SQUIRT HERE. This was to prevent people from squirting bloody water into ashtrays. There's nothing uglier than cigarette mucus swimming in ashes and blond.
Paradise Pharmacy in Mapusa became my best customer. The pharmacy was notorious for selling morphine, Mandrax, Valium, and whatever. When I went there soliciting cocaine, the owner jumped at the opportunity. Apparently he was deluged with requests for it. On my weekly trips to Mapusa to deliver him a dozen grams, I would stock up on distilled water and new needles.
As the season progressed and the Goa Freaks' cash dwindled, the smokers and sniffers trickled away, leaving me with two rooms of fixers upstairs. At Joe Banana's one day someone asked me, "What's this I hear—you have a shooting gallery in your house?"
"A shooting gallery!" I'd never heard the expression before and thought it wondrously clever. "Hey, that's cute."
Among the new fixing clientele was a gorgeous blonde German with a marvellous body. He would arrive early in the afternoon and, buying half grams at a time, would fix one shot after another until late at night. We liked each other. However, with all the drugs I ingested, sex was the last thing in the world I wanted. Sex ranked alongside jail and chewy foods—unthinkable! He, meanwhile, was totally preoccupied with his rushes. Our moments together consisted of snatches of my spare time intersecting with his calmer interludes—perhaps as he cleaned his syringe.