Boarding School (21 page)

“Oh don’t worry,” the other guy tried to reassure us as he closed our door. “You guys are gonna love it tonight.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Matt was not going to be persuaded so easily.

Up until now, Matt and I had not yet been taken by this bunch to a place where we were beyond the point of no return. To be sure, we had been introduced to behaviors and substances which we had never before experienced, and there was no question that our lives had been altered forever. Indeed, our habit now was to perform sex acts on demand with these guys any time and virtually any place they wanted, and to do so willingly and without delay. But if the upperclassmen were to suddenly become caught and thrown out of school—which we believed was about to happen now almost any day—Matt and I then would have ended our foray into this world of homosexuality and resumed our pursuit of the fairer sex. It was true that we now liked the way it felt to get high and drunk, but with the pressure off of us, we would have continued our abuse of pot and alcohol at a greatly decelerated rate to quickly become like virtually every other kid at the Academy. So neither of us had any idea when we saw Artist pull from his pocket a small clear plastic bag filled with some kind of white powder, just how thoroughly transformed our lives, as well as our relationship as roommates and friends, were about to become. In fact, the things that happened to us later on this night affected me so profoundly, I’ve wound up using some of its events years later as elements in the story lines for some of my other writings.

“What’s that?” Matt asked nervously.

“This?” Artist acted as if he didn’t know that we were watching his every move. “Oh, nothing special.”

“No really?” My curiosity was now piqued as well. “What is that?” “Oh, for heaven sakes, just hang on.“The Artist then began to look around our room for something. “I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.” Artist always seemed to us to be a bit effeminate.

It was tall and gross and about to fall apart, but it was exactly what Artist was needing at the moment. Matt and I watched as he laid the bag down onto the top of our dresser and then he pulled an oversized woman’s makeup compact out from his other pocket and placed it next to the powder. “Do either of you boys know what this is used for?” he asked as he pointed at the compact. “You brought it because you wanna make yourself look pretty?” Matt replied. Suddenly I found myself smiling and chuckling out loud while I listened to the other guy laugh too. Matt was good at zinging these guys whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Artist frowned. His usual carefree attitude was now replaced by one which was far more serious. “No. Just watch for a minute and learn.” He then opened the compact and pulled from it a razor blade which he also placed on our dresser.

Matt and I then looked at each other for a moment. It was a bit unnerving to us to see any of these guys with a sharp object in their possession. Neither one of us had ever been threatened by them in this way, but it seemed to make good sense to keep ourselves aware of such possibilities—just to be safe. I could tell when I looked at him that my roommate was still clueless over what was about to take place in our room, but I was pretty sure by now that I knew what was going on. Thoughtfully, the Artist opened the plastic bag and poured a small amount of its contents onto the mirror that was housed in the lid of the compact. When he was satisfied he had the right amount, he sealed the bag and laid it back down on our dresser. Carefully then, right in front of the picture of Matt with his rents, Artist picked up the razor blade with his right hand and began to chop the powder into finer parts. This was a task he seemed to take seriously because he spent more than a minute at it—chopping and mixing, then chopping some more and mixing some more. And when he had the substance the way he wanted, Artist then spread the powder around into two equally proportioned lines which he made extend all the way across the surface of the mirror.

Once again I turned my head and looked at Matt. He caught my gaze and returned it just for an instant. It was evident to me that he didn’t want to break his concentration on the bigger kid who was standing next to our dresser. “What did ya do that for?” Matt asked. We could both clearly see everything that Artist was doing.

“It needs to be chopped up into smaller pieces so it’ll work better,” the Artist replied.

The answer only caused my roommate to have more questions. “Work how? What’s it do?”

“Just hold on, and I’ll show you.” Artist then began to look around our room again. “Give me that,” he said to the other guy as he pointed to a disposable pen I’d left lying on my desk.

Obediently the other guy picked up my pen and handed it to Artist. “Here.” “Thanks.” Artist took the pen. He then pulled off the point with the ink tube attached from one end, and he removed the stopper from the other end which left him holding a hollowed-out cylinder. With his preparations now completed, he turned his head to look one last time at Matt and me. “Now watch this,” he said with his first smile in minutes. Artist then resumed his focus on the powder. He hunched himself over our dresser again and placed one end of my empty pen barrel into one of his nostrils, plugged his other nostril shut with a finger from his other hand, and then he guided the opposite end of the pen along one of the lines of powder as he sniffed it all up loudly into his nose. As soon as the first line had disappeared from the surface of the mirror, Artist removed the pen from his nose and stood straight up again. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Wo!” Suddenly he began to act as if he had just eaten a jalapeno pepper. “Man, that’s good stuff,” he continued. Then, with his finger still pressed against his other nostril, Artist gave a few more loud sniffs so he could suck the powder up farther into his nasal cavity.

“Gee.” It was clear that Matt had never known of anyone doing something like this. My roommate seemed a bit shook by this spectacle, and not at all certain about what he should make of what we were witnessing.

With renewed purpose, Artist continued by bending over our dresser again and, this time switching nostrils, snorted up the other line of powder into his nose. “Oh, man! Ow!” he exclaimed again as he sniffed several more times. This time I looked at the other guy to see what his reaction was to all of this. I could see that his eyes were aimed at the powder, and he seemed to me to be inpatient to have his turn at the substance.

“Ok, Clint,” Artist was now speaking in complete sentences once again. “I’m gonna cut up a couple of lines for you next.”

I had done a report on cocaine the year before in school, but this was the first time I had ever seen it for real. It was startling to us both to watch someone actually take the stuff into his head. At this time in the 1970s, we were still a few years away from cocaine becoming the fashionable drug of choice in discotheques and private parties all across the country. So far the white powder, or “snow” as it was sometimes called, had only begun to show up in a few major cities which, coincidentally, included Denver and Boston. This was why I had some knowledge of the drug. I knew from the research I had done for school the year before that it seemed as if some people became addicted almost right away while others were able to use cocaine occasionally with no problem—seemingly. But I also knew that eventually, if a person used cocaine long enough, the drug would take over and become addicting, and that this point of addiction was different for everyone.

This was without a doubt, something I wanted nothing to do with, but it was clear that this substance was about to become another in the growing list which Matt and I were expected to abuse. This was not good. I knew this could lead to ruined lives for both of us, but at the same time I took some comfort in the belief that using cocaine one time probably wouldn’t make us addicts. Also I knew that cocaine was expensive, and I didn’t figure these characters for having the kind of money it would take to keep us high all the time in the same way they were doing to us with the pot and the beer. And so I watched with a sort of detached resignation as Artist poured some of the powder onto his mirror for me and resumed his chopping with the razor blade. While nobody spoke, I rationalized to myself that since I was not the one who was initiating my use of this drug, there was no need for me to feel guilty for what I was about to be doing. And yet at the same time, it made me feel sad to realize that I was about to be crossing over yet another line which I had never wanted to come anywhere near during my lifetime. “What’s it cut with?” I asked as I tried to show off my limited knowledge.

“Well! My little man knows something about this stuff, huh?” Artist didn’t stop to engage me in conversation. He kept right on chopping the powder for me as he spoke.

“I know a little,” I declared. I did know that by the time it made its way to the streets, some other substance was always mixed in with cocaine. In my reading the year before, I had learned that sometimes dealers would use speed as the other substance, and I had even read of a case once where strychnine had been used. So since I had no idea where this cocaine had come from, I felt it was important for me to find out at least this much about the stuff before it was too late.

“Ah… milk sugar and I think some lanolin too,” Artist replied. “All of our stuff comes from a guy who’s real reputable. In fact, you’ll both be meeting him tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?” I looked at Matt to see how he was handling this news. Right away I could tell that this whole business was beyond him because his expression at this moment was blank. “How come?” I asked.

Artist began to separate the powder into two long lines again. When he had finished his job, the bigger kid turned and looked at me once more so he could dismiss my curiosity. “We’ll talk about that later. Now, come on over here, Clint. It’s all ready for ya,” Artist stated this command in a businesslike tone. And for the first time since this whole craziness had begun, I found myself with the impression that there was a bigger agenda at work here for Matt and me than either of us knew.

I hesitated for an instant. This was a big step for me and my earlier attempt to take it all in stride was now giving way to a more realistic sense of pure terror.

“Come on, Adams, let’s move it,” my master was now offering me some encouragement. At this moment, I knew with certainty that I really didn’t want to do this, but at the same time I knew that if I refused, the bigger kids would just slap me around—or worse, they’d slap Matt around—until I’d agree anyway. So I planted my feet on the floor and stood up.

“Well, come on, Clint. There are others waiting ya know.”

I then took a step or two to bring me alongside the Artist, and then I waited for what was to come next.

“Well?” Artist was now becoming exasperated with me. “Pick up the pen and do like ya saw me do.”

Slowly then, I took my eyes off of Artist and aimed them over at what he had laid out for me on the dresser top. What I saw were two neatly prepared lines of white powder which he had spread across the surface of the mirror for me to suck up into my head. I remember thinking at this moment that I ought to be clever enough to figure out some way to keep this from happening to me.

“Clint! Pick up the damn pen and do it now!” Artist wasn’t going to put up with any more delay.

And so the two weeks of training which had been beaten into our bodies and stuffed into our orifices took over and I saw my handpick up my hollowed-out pen as I leaned the upper half of my body over the top of our dresser. I wiped off the pen with my shirt and then I placed one end of the implement into a nostril while I positioned the opposite end at the beginning of the first line of powder—and then I hesitated again.

“Any more delays, Clint, and we’re gonna start hittin’. Is that understood? Now get on with it!” Artist’s patience had reached its limit.

“Yes, sir,” I replied quickly. I understood that I had run out of time. And so I plugged my other nostril with a free finger, and I sucked hard through the pen. “At a boy, Clint!” Artist seemed pleased with my first attempt. “Now keep goin’ and finish that line.”

I didn’t like it. The powder irritated the membranes on the inside of my nose. Not enough to make me sneeze, but enough to cause me to think again about my desire to find some quick way out of this mess. Also, because it felt so strange to me to have what seemed like a huge wad of something up my nose, I stopped and pulled my head up after snorting in only about half of the first line. But with Artist hovering over me, I knew I had no choice but to continue, so I repositioned the pen and resumed my efforts to suck the cocaine up into my system.

“Go, Clint, go! Yeah, ya got all the first line, man! Good boy! Keep sniffin’ ‘til ya work it all the way up in there. How do ya feel?” Artist was suddenly a one-man cheering section for me.

“Fine,” I answered as I stood up and continued to sniff the powder up higher into my head. I figured that Artist didn’t want to hear how I really felt at this moment.

“Good! All right then, bend back over the dresser and do the other line.” Artist didn’t want me to have any time to reconsider my views, apparently.

And so I leaned over our dresser again, switched the pen to my other nostril, and then I sucked in harder than I had before. This time I made it about three quarters of the way through the second line before I had to stop. It still irritated the inside of my nose, but I paused only long enough to take a breath, and then I continued until I had vacuumed up every last grain of powder from the surface of that mirror.

“Ok, wow, man! I guess you really like that stuff. Huh?” Artist was exuberant.

At this moment, I was just relieved to be done with the deed. “I guess,” was all I could think of to say in response as I continued to sniff this new hunk of cocaine up into my sinuses.

“Yeah, well all right! You go back and sit down now on your bed and wait for it to take effect. You should start feelin’ it in a few minutes.” Artist then turned his head and looked at my roommate. “Matt, I ‘m cuttin’ a couple of lines up for you next.”

I then sat down on my bed again and looked at Matt. He met my gaze and seemed to be asking me with his expression if I was all right. I tried to give him a reassuring nod, and then I looked back at Artist again as he began to pour some cocaine out for my friend.