The Book of Drugs_ A Memoir - Mike Doughty [71]
“It’s Take Our Daughters to Work Day,” the gay guy said. “Do you mind if she delivers your pizza?”
The girl gingerly carried the pizza box to the desk to the gay guy’s encouragements. “Okay, honey, put the pizza on the desk—okay, now take the bill to the guest—make sure he has the pen, honey—okay, now open up the bill, the guest has to sign it, honey.”
I flew to Minneapolis the next day. I had gotten into the routine of drinking red wine before brushing my teeth, but I forgot to take the bottle from the club the night before. No whiskey either. I got into the airport shuttle, where a chatty guy with golf clubs pestered me incessantly with mild chatter, What’s the guitar for? Do you know how to play it? Wow, have I ever heard of you? No, never heard of you, but I’m not up on the music scene these days, heh-heh.
I thought, Please just let me vibrate to death.
I connected in Chicago, desperate for alcohol. I tried to buy a bottle of Jack Daniel’s at the duty-free shop. The cashier asked for my boarding pass.
“This isn’t an international ticket, sir,” she said.
Oh, of course, no no, I’m flying domestically, but here’s the thing, I will pay duty. I’ll pay it!
She looked at me with withering disdain.
I blundered around the terminal looking for a bar. I finally found one, just opening at 11 AM. I ordered a double whiskey, but found I was shaking too hard to lift it without spilling. I dipped to it, like a cat lapping at a saucer.
The bartender looked at me with withering disdain.
On the plane, I got a few of those tiny liquor bottles. The shakes subsided. Liberty. Peace.
There was a girl in Minneapolis whom I had slept with a couple of times. She worked at a liquor store across the street from the Marriott. She had some crystal on her, did I want to get a little speedy?
I was in no shape to play the gig, and maybe it would’ve helped, but I refused the speed. My weird parameters.
I played the 7th Street Entry, a tiny room affixed to the First Avenue club, where the old band had done multiple-night stands, 1,500 people per gig. The Entry was half full. Har Mar Superstar opened—he was just a local Minnesota guy at the time. I sat in the basement dressing room watching him prepare his boom box, hanging out in the underwear he performed in. I resented him for being new.
During the show a grinning kid up front, loving the show, jubilantly cried out the name of my old bass player. Pumping his fists, “Whoohoo!”
The liquor store girl and I went back to the Marriott and fucked. She produced her tiny bag of speed and tapped it out onto the table. I sniffed a line. It felt amazing. Naturally. Hey! I thought. Perhaps I should spend some time with this particular drug before cashing in my chips.
I tossed back a glass of whiskey, and immediately threw it up onto the liquor store girl.
The next day, I was driven to Wisconsin by a girl somebody at the club knew; I sat in the shotgun seat pouring whiskey into a Coke can, so the cops wouldn’t see me drinking it openly. I passed out, then I came to, and then I passed out again.
Years before, I had dated a woman named Molly Escalator—a performance poet with a hilarious fuck-you aspect to her writing; she didn’t speak in that kind of boring poet’s singsong but sounded like a melodic comedian. She had this love poem that started:
Get away from me!
I mean, come here.
No, wait, that’s too close.
We met at a gig when Soul Coughing was just a local band. She had been sober for years. She told me stories of her salad days as a runaway in the old, weird New York; shooting dope on the Lower East Side as a teenage punk rocker, weaning herself off heroin on her mom’s farm in Delaware, facilitated by shooting up horse tranquilizer with gigantic veterinary needles. By the time we were dating she figured out that I had a major weed appetite. Which she tolerated.
On New Year’s Eve, I heard about this disagreeable guy who had bought a shit-ton of cocaine and was throwing a party. He let people have his cocaine so they’d hang out with him. But, alas, I was just