Drunk Mom

O
ne evening I find a baggie of cocaine.

The cocaine is in the washroom in the big museum in the city. Not the place you’d expect, but that’s where I find it. The powder sits perfectly, almost neon white, in its plastic baggie stamped with pictures of tiny marijuana leaves. It just sits there, on top of the toilet-paper container. Unbelievable.

So what do I do?

I pour the powder down the toilet.

No, no I don’t. I fish the flat makeup-mirror compact out of my clutch and set it on top of the toilet-paper container. I pour the powder onto the shiny surface. I use the business card of the annoying man who hit on me in the elevator to cut a big fat line. A slug of a line. This is the first part.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.

Above the mirror, I look deep into my nostrils, at the sudden double chin, my own upside-down eyes—you stupid, stupid shit—and I think about the baby, how horrible this is, what I’m about to do—you stupid, stupid shit. I also think how no one ever just finds a baggie of cocaine like this, how this is an opportunity of a sort, how I’m totally lying to myself right now, this is no opportunity, this is horrible and illegal and evil, and then I remember the second part.

I take out a $20 bill from my wallet. I roll it. I put it against my nostril. And off I go. I’m no longer woozy from booze.

I charge back into the museum’s restaurant to the party I’m officially attending. I wonder if people will be able to tell, but I don’t care right now, I’m beautiful. I got my nails done specifically for this stupid party and they are red and shiny like blood. God, yes: my hands are narrow and gorgeous with their ruby tips.

A woman named something like Gigi stops me and says that I look fantastic.

Thanks.

How are things?

Great. Great.

How’s the baby? Where is he tonight?

He’s with my sister.

How sweet.

I take out my wallet. The cocaine is behind the bank card.

I turn the picture flap around. I turn the wallet so that Gigi can see it. The picture of the baby.

She says that he’s adorable and then says something about her own baby but I interrupt her because I can’t listen to this.

Listen, I say, I’m so sorry to do this.

She tilts her head. She says, Do what? What is it?

I just have to go right now, I explain, because I’m late. I have to hit another party.

She smiles, her waxy hand touching me on the shoulder. Oh, no worries, no worries.

No worries. What a nice thing to say. No worries.

I feel like she could be a friend. We could become great friends. We could have adventures together. Talk about our babies.

We should go out for a coffee sometime, she says. Catch up.

We should, I say.

And in this exact instant the desire to become friends with her leaves me. I imagine us sometime in this future, standing in line, our trays stacked with tiny plastic cups filled with weirdly shaped leaves, some kind of a baby lettuce mix, at a place that is shiny and white, some kind of a place where she goes, and where I don’t go, and we are talking about some richer girlfriend she hates, and about bad sex with her husband, and about cracked nipples and sleep training, and I’m completely dead inside. I’m such an asshole.

She air-kisses me on both sides of my face. Excellent, she says. I’ll call you.

For sure. Call me. I air-kiss her quickly back, say, Thank you. We have to get together. To talk about babies.

She’s already turned halfway to talk to a woman who looks just like her but is even more stretched-out around the eyes. She says, Lovely to see you—to her, or to me walking away.

There is no other party. But I can’t stay here. I have to go somewhere.

I want something.

I want a cigarette. I really want a cigarette. I want two cigarettes. Four.

I’d like another drink too, but with the coke in me I can hold off. But I really need to smoke.

Maybe another line.

I want something.

This is no ordinary wanting.

This is the wanting that has no end.

It’s an obscene appetite; it’s uncontrollable with mouth wide open, insisting. It’s a baby—a wet, hungry baby that no one is picking up to soothe.

But I’m not a baby, am I? No. And you’d think an intelligent person would stay away, walk away from this kind of wanting.

Yes, an intelligent person would walk away, knowing well that the next warm hit of a drink—or a puff of a cigarette, or the drip in the back of your throat from cocaine—is only pleasurable for a short time.

An intelligent person would remember that the soothing inner hug of the wanting being satisfied is brief. It is receding even as I acknowledge it. And it has to be repeated to reactivate the feeling of comfort. Until it reaches oblivion, blackout.

You’d think an intelligent person would remember all that when she is in the throes of wanting. But this intelligence is no match for the kinds of instincts that demand to be satisfied instantly. And there’s fear behind the wanting—the fear that if the wanting gets denied there will be only pain and the fear itself left.

I mean, come on, who doesn’t want to press the button to relax instantly? Achieve instant pleasure? Instant relief? Is there anything better than that?

Perhaps. I’ve heard of meditating. Sitting still. Biding your time. Hard work paying off. Yes.

There are meditators and sittingstillers and timebiders and hard workers. I know. I know. But right now I am very uncomfortable because I want more. I want more relief.

Perhaps I am always uncomfortable. But what is
always
? There’s only right now. Have I not achieved what the wise always talk about: living in the moment? I have. And the moment is uncomfortable. Just this moment.

I could wait.

But what if I die five minutes from now?

See, my discomfort is here, right now, and this is the only reality that matters: here and right now. And here and right now I am wanting. Something. To fix it.

Give it to me.

I want this to stop. I want ease.

I’m exactly like a baby. Pounding his heels against the mattress when distressed. Give it to me. Give it to me right now. His face twitching, he cries; he hiccups from crying, he can’t stop. He won’t stop until there’s comfort. Whether it’s a breast or a dry diaper or being turned over onto his belly—it has to happen right now. Now. Now. There is no waiting, no biding time. The wanting is enormous; it swallows him whole in lung-emptying breaths.

I get it. I get the screaming baby.

Because my wanting is just as powerful.

I could run. Maybe if I run I’ll get there faster. Of course I’ll get there faster. Where? Everywhere.

I want everything. All of it.

But I know it won’t be enough. I decide to walk it off. Whatever is left of my reason insists on walking.

Walk. Don’t think. Don’t think about the cocaine.

Actually, I hate cocaine. I hated it before and I hate it now. Even though it makes me happy. But also so unhappy. Yes, I’m completely unhappy and I want to do more to fix it. That doesn’t make sense. But if I do a little more, I’ll be better, I know.