Drugs

Anyone who knows me well will understand my aversion to illicit substances. The very mention of any type of drug makes me slightly nervous and uncomfortable. I’ve never partaken in the ‘doing’ of any party drugs, and it doesn’t interest me. I haven’t had a cigarette, a joint, a pill, a line – whatever there is, I’ve not done it. I have taken medication, of course, but medicinal is different from recreational.

I know plenty of friends who do participate in the act of inhaling and ingesting hallucinogenic substances, but it’s just not for me. No judgment. I mean, a majority of them wouldn’t enjoy some of my favourite pastimes. To each their own.

It wasn’t until July of 2017 when I visited Amsterdam that I knew what marijuana smelled like. I finally realised why certain people had a certain odour in my high school’s library, why some university acquaintances were so relaxed after lunch, and why some students came up with quite imaginative solutions to problems in class. I didn’t understand how forcefully and unwillingly the Amsterdam air would smack my senses with that pungent bouquet hour after hour.

At a school event a fair few years ago, I was speaking to a parent about behaviours of students and teachers and how we can best relate to and communicate with each other to create effective relationships. The parent mentioned that being into drama would make me a bit of a free spirit and boldly stated that I would have been privy to and involved in a drug-fuelled culture during my university years. I think she was implying that I could talk to students about drug-use and this would make me ‘cool’. I was a little taken aback by her sentiments and informed her that I was pretty strait-laced and had never participated in any type of illicit drug use.

When the topic comes up with my parents and we’re discussing people whose lives have been negatively affected by it, they always resort to something I must have said years ago – “What does William always say? ‘Just don’t do drugs’”.

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I'm invited to a friend’s party. I obviously know people here and I'm quite relaxed. I arrive late after attending another gathering not too far away. I know, me attending two parties in one night – can you imagine? I'm driving, so my alcohol consumption is slim to none.

A friend calls me over and we start chatting about the night, the crowd, the stars, living in this community. They invite me upstairs, and I think “cool, a D and M!” Little do I know what I was getting myself in for.

Somebody mentions, “we need a flat surface and some scissors”. Craft at a party? How fun! I’m quite well-versed at origami, so all I need is some paper and a flat surface. I won’t need scissors. I’m going to wow them with my jumping frog and four-pointed star.

I'm ushered into a bedroom with three other people. We are each in a corner of the room, two leaning over the bed, one sitting on a chair, and me standing near the door. I see two rubber tubes, a plate, a credit card, scissors, and a lump of something about the size of a small bar of soap. I am quite warm.

Now, at this stage, naïve Will finally clicks. Shit, this isn’t craft, nor something I’m well acquainted with and I don’t know how to respond. Be cool, Will. Chill, dude. Go with the flow. These are all things that rush through my incredibly self-conscious, almost fully formed brain. I am sweating.

The person who seems to be the leader begins to cut up the bar of soap (obviously I now know that it isn't soap), and it spills from the blades of the scissors into a fine powder onto the plate. The credit card is used to rack up the powder into lines. I’ve heard the term “rack up a line” before, so I feel like I’m using this correctly? Four lines are created, and each seems to be of equal length and volume.

I am now so hot that I can feel sweat covering the entirety of my arms, soaking through my long-sleeved t-shirt, flannelette and thick woollen jacket.

The rubber tubes sitting next to the plate is what gets me. I know that people inject things, but how do you inject powder? I also don't see any needles. I don’t understand. Two of the room’s members take the tubes and wrap them tightly above their elbows. I’m guessing this restricts blood flow and intensifies whatever feeling this substance provides. Don’t ask me anymore, because sometimes the simplest things don’t make sense to me… I’m still trying to figure out the plot of ‘The Time Traveller’s Wife'.

The leader then asks “we need a note. Does anybody have one?” Fuck. The other two don’t have anything on them. Now, being the polite and obliging guy that I am, I open up my wallet and hand over a crisp twenty-dollar note. I've just bought my house and I am poor. So, having $20 in my wallet was quite big for me. I think about all of the things I could have purchased with that twenty… coffees for the week, a bathroom tile, half a tank of petrol.

Drug money. MY FINGERPRINTS ARE ALL OVER THIS NOTE. This is what my life has become. I’m now wrapped up with drugs. I’m going to prison and I won’t survive. Perhaps I’ll get a reduced sentence for good behaviour?

The leader takes the note, rolls it tightly whilst still maintaining effortless conversation with the other two in the room. Those with the bands around their arms seem to be quite relaxed in the delivery of their next few sentences. The restriction of blood is perhaps doing something to their brains. Little do they know that there’s also a restriction of blood to my brain and that I’m currently creating a small river underneath my jacket. They are swift and deft in their movement, and I know they have done this many times before. I’m so uncomfortable and aware of how much perspiration is leaking from my body that I physically cannot converse. Words fail me.

They take the note to their nose, move towards the plate and in no time at all, one of the lines is gone. They inhale deeply and smile. The tube is released from their arm and my twenty dollar note is passed onto the next person. The action is repeated and repeated again.

In a matter of seconds, all three have inhaled this powder and my dream of folding paper cranes has died a slow, painful, sweaty death.

I'm breathing quite heavily and I know what's about to happen. My friend outstretches their hand with my rolled twenty and asks “Will?” And just before I can refuse, my legs give way and I fall to the ground.

I come to and the three of them are fanning me, talking to me, and peeling off my moist jacket dampened with my tepid sweat.

“What has he taken?” I hear one ask.

There is silence.

“I’ve had one beer.” I’m sheepish in my reply.

Yes, even the thought of ingesting something has caused me to faint.

My friend takes me outside, sits me down on a chair and puts my jacket on the table. Another brings me a glass of water and pats my back. I’m left alone with my friend and my core temperature slowly lowers to an adequate level.

“I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have put you in that situation if I knew you were that uncomfortable,” they profess.

“It’s fine. I just got really hot.” I know full well that I was never going to attempt to take anything and this reply seems to move the conversation on.

“Can I get you anything? Something to eat? Another drink?” my friend asks.

I think about what I really want… to be able to buy coffees for the week, a bathroom tile, half a tank of petrol. It seems simple.

“Can I get my twenty dollars back?"

“Of course,” they respond.

I spend maybe another 20 minutes at the party, dancing and trying to have a good time. I ghost and drive straight home.

Now some friends take great pleasure in asking me “can I borrow a twenty?” to get a rise out of this innocent, naïve, and incredibly awkward 32-year-old.