By David Madawo
I rubbed my feet over the lump under my living room apartment, I knew that bottle cap was still under there but rubbing it grounded me before I took my next step. Ten dollars for this boring looking dirt stuffed into a capsule, promising me euphoria for the next 3 to 6 hours. I stopped eyeballing the damn thing. I sensed a common air of doubt amongst my comrades on whether I’d partake or not. So I downed it with a shot of vodka, doubt evaporated from the air. The shots continued for what felt like a few minutes, but the clock jumped ahead an hour when we decided to leave.
We were halfway to Black Dog when the drugs began to take hold.
The lights seemed to dance along with us as we bobbed up and down the rambunctious avenue.
My chest ascending above my head with each breath I took. When we arrived at the bar the warm air hugged us as soon as we entered; it was time for a pint. The whole time the drug played games with my bewildered mind, I became so excited that breathing became a difficult task. I was melting, overheating, out of breath, getting lighter and lighter. I could not speak, the effects were so overwhelming, every once in a while I would start munching on the gum that had suddenly entered my mouth, without me putting it there. I knew I didn’t have gum, I felt grinding my jaw should suffice. My comrade noticed and shoved a frosty spearmint flavoured piece of the rubber that is 5 Gum.
“You’ll thank me later,” he said.
I’m starting to regain consciousness every few minutes, I was either in the bathroom, sucking in the sweet and satisfying air of a cigarette outside, or clinking another pint with random strangers. The music kept changing, and so did the bars as we made our way down the sinful strip.
The friends we already met up with disappeared and came back again, their rogue adventure hitting a dead end. Conversations were a hit and miss, the pious ones harshened the air with their sharp looks of judgment, deeply envious of our peculiar intoxication. The others melted into one, coke heads and drunkards alike, forming a colossal harem of pandemonium that constantly take over Whyte Avenue.
I stumbled, “wide awake” with my heart pounding, forced myself to seem like the other drunk youth around us.
I figured they wouldn’t be enthused if they knew the level of intoxication I had reached, plus I wanted another pint. Yet before I could get to the bartender, my comrade intercepted me.
“It’s almost two o’clock!”
That’s right, that time is important: the local liquor store a few blocks from our apartment closes at two. Without even a word, the original horde evacuated the premises, avoiding tag along stragglers that wanted a good time elsewhere when the bars had closed. Although it was below forty I walked to the liquor store with my jacket tied around my waist, my body overheating from the packed clubs. When we settled at the apartment we sucked back the cool beers, the liquor flowed down with an ease that I hadn’t felt in years.
We yelled over each other about stories from adolescence, convoluted plans for the next drug escapade. I felt euphoric, reborn. Until my world turned black. The next morning was a hell I’ll never forget.
The Nugget does not condone the use of
MDMA or any illicit drugs.
