This post isn’t about glamorizing and romanticising drug use. Drugs are bad. Don’t do drugs.
— A message from Le Clown.
Drugs are bad, did I mention that? I jumped straight into a pot of MDMA when I was a university student—a magical leprechaun (because there is another kind…) had left it on my path with an invitation card: “Enjoy motherfucker.” Ecstasy and I became besties; we went to class together and we stayed out all night dancing to Paul Oakenfold. We had our challenges, mainly the hefty price of our relationship. When I couldn’t afford a date with MDMA, I would cheat on my vice with either a pair of St. Ides bottles, or, like this night, with a dime bag of powdered PCP.
My friend met me with the goods, and we stopped by a public toilet to snort our first line. It was already late and we couldn’t waste time: we made the first line count, and the second one a line to remember. We were feeling different emotions; he needed to dance to trance and I needed to sit and head trip on Nine Inch Nails. We split the stash and bid each other farewell. I snorted my way towards the loudest industrial club of Montreal, walking with Jesus by my side, looking like the false prophet Superman on kryptonite.
“Dude, you’re fucked… you’re so fucking high man, holy fuck,” were her exact words. She wasn’t going to come back home with me as she did in the past when we both wanted to get off with no strings attached. The dance floor was packed, and I couldn’t look straight at it without feeling nauseous. I felt like I was sitting in a rotating cube; I was a mess. I was dry, and Jesus bowed out on me, “Sorry dude, some other kid in a trance club with a half empty bag of PCP is requesting a vision. Talk soon. Drugs are bad, man.”
I borrowed back alleys and the university campus to make it back home, until I bumped into James McGill‘s statue and he looked down his nose at me. “What the fuck are you staring at… Don’t you know Jesus and I are drinking buddies? I’ll kick your ass…” I got rough with James McGill’s statue. I cursed his name, and I spit on him, and I saw red… and blue lights on the statue from the police car behind me. “Kid, put your hands up.” And I was laughing, I was laughing hard at James McGill who was begging me to stop. “Young man, turn around and put your hands in the air… Eric? Is that you?” James McGill knew my name, fuck yeah! “Eric, it’s me. It’s Constable John.”
Constable John was a friend of my father. Constable John helped my father when tenants had to be evicted, as even rich people will forget to pay rent. Constable John was called when tenants abused their wives, as even rich people are assholes. Constable John handcuffed tenants, as even rich people do drugs, and drugs are bad.
“Eric, calm down, I think you had a bit too many. Come with us, we’ll drive you home.” I was in and out of lucidity, and James McGill told me I should listen to Constable John. I sat in the back of the police car. I was high. “Hey, Mr. Police Officer, you would have shot me if I was black, am I right? Am I right?” Constable John’s partner didn’t know my father, and wasn’t there when I graduated from high school, “Kid, if I were you, I would shut up just about now. Your dilated pupils tell me that you had more than just a few too many…” Constable John agreed, “You’ll be home soon, Eric. Don’t make this hard on yourself.” Jesus fucking Christ, get me out of this, please!
The car stopped in front of my building. Constable John got out, opened the door, and helped me up as my legs were shaking. “Somebody up there likes you. Next time you might not be this lucky,” Constable John told me, at which point I pushed through him, and vomited all over the car hood.
Drugs are bad.