To anyone who might know me and who might be shocked to know I dabbled in illicit substances at one time in my youth- Stop. Reading. Right. Now !!!!!
OK - you've been warned. On with the show.
Dude, weed! Purple tips! Wooo! Turn on Bob Marley and jam to da reggae, mon! Make some fried potatoes and watch Johnny Carson's lips move but he's NOT SAYING ANYTHING! Woo! Carry Visine with you at all times, man.
Those were the days, right enough.
If one was desperate, almost anything could be used to partake. A potato, if it didn't make it into the aforementioned fried version, could be hollowed out. A soda bottle? Check. A toilet paper roll? Check. You name it, it could be used. And was. Particularly with one boyfriend, who was a master of invention.
He and I worked in "food service" at the time (different places, same idea), and were playing at being grown up. We had our own apartments, we paid our own bills, we got ourselves to classes (or not), we were 20-something and we thought we were on top of our game. We wore cotton clothing and listened to reggae and smelled vaguely spicy most of the time. We laughed like fools at things that weren't really funny, and slept like babies.
Hmmm, where was I GOING with this? Ah yes, a story.
This was the boyfriend I always associate with being a "head." If ever I had met one at that stage of my life, he was it. Lots of fun to be around (go figure), but I never really knew what was going on under the surface because he was always high.
Anyhow, we had been going out for a few months (I was, at the time, queen of the 3-month relationship), and we having some "issues," I guess. The bloom was off the rose, so to speak, for both of us. We were making sort-of last-dash attempts to keep it together, when, one night, we decided to go to a bar where a good band was playing.
So far, so good. Things seemed to be looking up.
The bar was great and the music was fabulous, but after about 3 songs (and one minor tiff between us on where. to. sit.) my "boyfriend" was nowhere to be seen. He'd disappeared somehow into the dark dance floor or back room or alley. Being young and stupid I waited for him, wondering what had happened, and asking my friends if they'd seen him. After about an hour of stupidly wandering around getting more drunk out of frustration, one friend said "yeah, but I didn't want to tell you. He left with Stefanie about 10 minutes after you guys got here."
He what? He left with someone else?
"Yeah, he said he was going to take her home. She wasn't feeling well."
"Yeah - they took her car."
Ohhhh-kay. I'll just be going home now. See ya tomorrow.
In a deep gloomy funk (why didn't he TELL me he was leaving? I was right where we were SITTING, for Pete' sake!) I went back to my apartment and spent the night planning out how I would go to his place the next day and apologize for being such an idiot. Read that again, if you will. I was going to apologize to HIM. I was, at the time, incapable of being angry with men for hurting me, and wanted to "fix it" so I would feel better and so he would LIKE me again.
The next morning I made sure I looked nice and smelled good, and did indeed go over to his house. I had a key, and so walked right in, expecting to find him at home, doing something normal like watching TV and eating cereal. What I found instead, was her. Or, rather, her clothes. In the middle of the living room floor. Her patchwork gauzy skirt, her Indian-cotton embroidered blouse, her bra, and her sandals. Right there. On the floor. Next to his jeans and Indian-cotton shirt.
Pause again, take another look, Tiff. Then feel so sick and angry at HIM for playing you like a fool. I was a fool. He, the jerk, was a jerk. An idiot.
After about a minute I picked the pieces of my heart up off the floor, dusted them off, turned and walked right out. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. By then he already was old, old news......
(And, after I started eating again 2 weeks later, I felt a whole lot better.)
Wanna know why he said he did it? Ya wanna? Here it comes then:
"I was high."
Yow. That smarts.
Epilogue of a sort - about a month after the fateful night I started to work at the same place he did. I pestered the manager until he gave in - asking only "do you think you can work with X? I heard you guys broke up." I told the manager that would be fine, we were past all that, and then proceeded to date everbody else who worked there that asked me while patently ignoring Mr. X. Damn, that felt good.