Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [35]
“DMV records?!” she shrieks. “Is that even legal?”
Smiling at her, I think how much I hope that this ridiculous age issue isn’t going to cause a permanent fissure in what I’d imagined would be our lifelong friendship. “Look, I’m on your side about it,” I say. “I think it’s ridiculous. But Absolutely Fabulous has all these policies that people just end up adhering to.” I smile again. “You look amazing,” I say, but not in a way that might make her think I’m coming on to her. “And really, age is just a number.”
Glancing down at the ground, I think about how much this situation calls for a cigarette. When I look up again, I see that Linda has tears in her eyes again. This time, I’m a lot less thrilled.
“You can’t let this happen, Amelia,” she says, suddenly reaching over and grabbing my hand. “I can’t have people knowing my age. I’d rather have the piece not run than have it say my age.”
While I’m interviewing Linda, Brian leaves me a message informing me that my Kane piece has been moved up in the rotation schedule, and that I need to be able to turn it in in the next twenty-four hours. His voice is distant, which definitely doesn’t help cushion the news that I’m going to have to stay up all night if I’m going to be able to make this happen.
Luckily, Alex is as available and ready as usual. And, also as usual, he’s a stickler about his two-gram policy. If I’m alone, I usually only want to do one gram—and yet, if I have two, I will do two. Surely Alex has all this figured out. But since, for a drug dealer, he’s extremely reliable, I always buy the two grams and then try to hide the second one from myself so that I don’t do them both in the same night. But I can never think of a hiding place that’s good enough for me to be able to forget about it, which is probably because my apartment is about the size of a postage stamp.
Alex makes his delivery, and I give him the crisp bills still warm from the ATM, slide the folded-up Lotto tickets into my pocket, go upstairs, and lay the coke out on a Jay Z CD. I don’t have the butter-flies and sense of anticipation I usually have before doing coke because the night doesn’t hold the intrigue and promise of a typical night out. It’s just, I decide, a necessary work enhancer. Sure, I could just drink coffee, but the problem with coffee is that it doesn’t keep me interested in what I’m doing. Somewhere into transcribing the second hour of the Kane tape, I’d probably find myself too bored to keep going. But coke has a way of making whatever I’m doing seem infinitely more interesting than it actually is. I’m doing this to save my career, I say to myself as I roll up a dollar bill—I’d tossed out all my straws in a moment of remorseful horror at the state of my life during the depression that hit after the Steve Rosenberg party night—and do my first few lines.
I type so much that my neck starts to ache from sitting at my computer for so long and I know that I should take a break and at least stretch a little bit, but I get into this compulsive cycle where I’m playing the tape and typing, taking breaks only to snort more lines and light the occasional cigarette. And then, just when I’m nearing the end of the second side of the tape, I realize I’m a little too wired. My heart is racing like I’ve just finished a one-mile sprint and my mind feels jumbled and a bit unsafe.
Knowing that the coke could capture and hold onto this mood, the way it did when I had to ditch out of the NBC event before dinner, I take a deep breath. I’m not willing to surrender to the too-wired-feel-a-little-nervous-wonder-if-I’m-going-to-have-a-heart-attack state, which can basically only be handled with a handful of Ambien and several shots of vodka to move the unwinding process along before the Ambien starts to take effect, and sleep. I can’t let this happen, I pep talk myself . I have a story to write, and it’s going to be the best fucking story Absolutely Fabulous will ever see.
I get up to chug