I wish I could sit down and tell you all of detailed exploits of my crazy nights as a coke dealer’s girlfriend -- but there's no way I'll remember every little thing. Why? Because most of the time I am just too fucked up.
Hi, I'm Judi. Judge away.
During the week -- Monday through Friday, from 9am-5pm -- I am your typical corporate worker at a cool company, where I've been totally successful. I go into an office, read my emails, play with some numbers, go to some meetings, shut off my computer, and go home. This is Identity #1.
The hours after work, of course, are when Identity #2 comes out. and I become the drug dealer’s girlfriend. I mean that not in the sense that my selfhood is bound up in him, the man (we're equals!) -- but because Identity #2 is absolutely defined by our unconventional lifestyle. Sure, I admit it. We party a lot. He is a coke dealer. I mean, come on!
It would be easier, yes, to not go full throttle, but be easy to just go out and have a little fun – enjoy just a few of the best perks of dating a dealer: skipping lines in front of clubs (my boyfriend is connected everywhere), getting invited to crazy-exclusive VIP concerts now and then. And I do have a great time doing those things.
Until, that is, the hanger-ons come around.
From the minute you start dating a drug dealer you instantly have about 500 new friends. Sounds fun, right? Except that within 5 minutes of meeting you, coked-up strangers are pouring -- jabbering -- their hearts out -- along with, of course, their deepest, darkest secrets. It's boring; it's awkward; it's both -- and the ending of the initial conversation is always the same: “So, uhhhhh, do you have a bag? Wanna take a trip to the bathroom?”
Oh, so that's where this friendship was headed. Gotcha.
Yup, being the girlfriend of a coke dealer means constantly being around people on drugs and who want more drugs. That's the forcefield my boyfriend and I, as his partner, live in 365 days a year.
Coke fixation is bad energy. It's needy, greedy, whiny, agitated, uncomfortable, entitled, desperate, sometimes straight-up tacky. People wanting and wanting and wanting more and more and more.
The bargaining, the begging, the bumming of bumps off keys. The bickering about who put in how much money for what. The slurring drunk dudes who refuse to take no for an answer, the spoiled pillhead blonde pleading for you to accept a personal check. The agitation when money's run out or a bag is lost. The strung-out energy surrounding you always -- and not just you, around your coupledom, around your relationship.
It gets to be a bit overwhelming after a while. So eventually, you just give in.
Or at least I did. You avoid the masses with drugs -- do enough so that all you see when someone is blabbering on to you is lips moving and all you hear is a faint buzz. No more hassle, no more life-changing conversations: just a free ride into oblivion for the next six to eight hours.
It’s really too easy.
Well, easy until you have extended amounts of time off work: That's when the binges start. One rooftop party here, a week of CMJ there, a few block parties. Then, after a week or so of sleeping an hour a night, you end up -- once again -- on another rooftop for afterhours, where you do one line too many and your body just tells you, "NO. NO MORE DRUGS."
And then all the liquid forms of partying you’ve done that week come spewing up all over yourself, your boyfriend, and any other partygoers in close vicinity. Hello, new friends that I just puked on! I am officially more uncomfortable around you than ever.
Or what about that day of drinking poolside that just went on too long with no escape? Everything was going swimmingly until you walked into the sidewalk. Hello gaping hole in knee! Hello bruises! Hello weird stares from coworkers the next day!
Of course my anxiety doesn’t always start and stop at newly-made coke friends. Sometimes it just has to come out on the boyfriend himself, who will try in vain to get my completely blitzed self to go home...while he still wants to stay out and party. Hello full bottle of Jack Daniels in my bag that somehow gets thrown at the boyfriend’s head! Hello new cameras in the lobby of my apartment building the next morning -- the fresh shattered glass still scattered on the second floor!
It’s not just me though. I’m pretty sure my boyfriend shares some of the same sentiments. I’ve seen the look in his eyes when a friend stops by with the two minute small talk only to finally get around to asking for credit...again. Or the occasional, “Can I just have a bump? I really don’t need the whole bag…”
Apparently it's become too much for him as well because he's begun mixing his own party favors with a little too much booze.
Pair the two substances with a really late night (or should I say early morning?) and you’ve got the perfect way to get lost on your way to the bathroom in your own apartment. It started innocently enough, with him coming home and talking in his sleep, or freakishly jerking out of a bad dream.
But then his subconscious wanted more. He needed a release from the nightlife drama and just couldn’t seem to wait to make it all the way across the apartment. He’d jolt out of bed and wander off -- completely confident that the overflowing kitchen garbage was really the toilet he was trying to reach.
Then his accidents quickly moved on to the more refined coffee table or one of our bookcases. Yup, the “toilets” in the house were endless. It got pretty out of control for a while and I wondered if I was going to have to outfit my whole apartment with those plastic furniture covers that my grandparents always used on the “fancy” couch. So what makes me keep coming back to this dude? After all, aside from all of our personal substance issues there’s also the whole prison factor -- I could go to jail as an accessory just for the sheer amounts of white powder that can be found throughout our midsized apartment.
The thing is that he’s not your typical sleazy pusher from the 'hood. He’s a shy, artsy guy who just believes in living your dreams and not letting life pass you by. So in order to be able to afford simple luxuries such as drinking too much at brunch or buying that extra lamp at the local flea market, he sells drugs.
Sometimes I think that maybe he’s the one who really has everything figured out. Maybe everyone else is just hanging on, trying to make ends meet. Or maybe everyone is really meant to pack a brown bag lunch and stare at their computer screen as a way to make an earnest living.
Either way, what I DO know is that I’ve been having the time of my life making memories (and blackouts) with my best friend. I guess I’ll never know if dating a drug dealer is “morally correct” so I just smile, wipe up the pee, and enjoy the ride.