Halfway To Zero A long time ago, before I moved out to Santa Cruz, I had a friend who was doing a lot of drugs. They were ruining his life. It was obvious to everyone who knew him. This guy lost his job, his parents quit supporting him, he got a whole bunch of F's in school, and finally his fiancee, who had always defended him when no one else would, broke up with him and left for New York. When that happened, this guy, whose name was Frederick, called me and said to me, "Alex, you've got to help me, I'm at ground zero. I don't have anything left." I think I told him some phony reassuring line of crap, "It's all going to be okay" or something like that. It didn't really end up being okay, though. He died six months later, when he was driving drunk on the freeway. We weren't really close friends or anything; the only reason I'm thinking about him now is that the idea of a person at ground zero, with nothing at all left, had stuck in my head for some reason. Periodically over the years, I would try to step back and take a rational look at my own drug use, figure out just how close to zero I was. I always told myself that, no matter what, I would never let myself get more than halfway. When I got that close, I would just stop. Well, guess what. Today I figured out that I'm standing on the halfway line. It now takes me more than one hand to count the number of things I have lost that I can blame directly on drugs, and I think I may be in trouble, because I can't stop. I know I can't stop, because I've tried. Once, for a whole week last June, I didn't do any drugs at all. I was trying to prove to myself that I didn't really need them. Then one of my friends -- no, not even a friend, just some stupid Santa Cruz hippie I used to hang around with -- came by with some really good acid, and my willpower crumbled. So much for that. I made another attempt to stop just two months ago. I decided that every time I wanted a joint, I'd just smoke a cigarette instead. So I smoked about two packs a day for three days, then I gave up again and was left smoking not only as much pot as I always had, but twice as many cigarettes too. And then there was this girl, Zoey. I met her at my lame job. (I work at the Boardwalk, running rides for tourists.) She was totally smart -- she was kicking academic ass up at the University -- and pretty and ambitious. Unbelievably, she was interested in _me_. We even went on a real date, to watch _Scream_ at the Riverfront Theater. But afterwards, when I lit up a joint in the parking lot, she freaked out. I couldn't believe that someone who lived in Santa Cruz had that much of a reaction to someone smoking pot! We had this conversation and I found out that she was totally against drugs because her mother had died of a cocaine overdose. Just my luck. She had thought I was straight because I looked pretty clean-cut, et cetera, et cetera. Looking back, I guess I should have at least pretended I would stop, but even that seemed like too much of an effort. So now Zoey is friendly to me, nothing more. I never would've thought drugs were more important to me than a pretty girl, especially since I haven't had a girlfriend in two years. Okay, so what was I doing? Oh yeah. How have drugs fucked up my life? Let me count the ways. One, I got kicked out of the University. I was on academic probation for two quarters, and then they finally had enough and said, see ya later, loser. Two, the same thing happened at junior college, embarrassing though this is for someone who got close to straight A's in high school. Three, I smashed up my car, which was really my parents' car, because I thought I could drive fine while I was tripping. So now I have no wheels and have to take the bus everywhere. Four, I got kicked out of my apartment when my Benedict Arnold ex-friend told the landlady about the little botany experiment under the grow-light in my closet. Now I have to live in Beach Flats, where none of my neighbors speak English and Domino's won't send their delivery drivers. Five, I missed out on getting Zoey into the sack (and maybe into my life, too -- she seemed like a really cool girl). And let's not forget six. Six, as of yesterday, is my hamster Ishmael. I took an extended five-day acid trip and forgot to give him water, and when I came back to earth again, he was dead. I actually cried over that one. It's not fun to realize you're such a pathetic stoner you can't even remember to take care of a hamster. You're probably wondering what I have left. Well, the best thing is my parents. They've never given up on me even though I know I've been a major disappointment. Then there's my so-called job -- a great place to meet other losers like myself who like to smoke out on the beach during breaks. Hey, at least it pays the bills. I guess I would have to put my friends in there somewhere, even though I don't have what you would call close friends. At least they're people to hang around with. I know this is stretching it, but T.V. and music can also be something to get up for, sometimes. And finally, the big one, is the feeling that I can still get from that perfect smoke. Even after three years of being a heavy pot smoker, it's still almost like magic to me. It makes me have insights, and feel content sometimes, and it can also make any sunset ten times more beautiful than it really is. So here I am, halfway to zero, trying really hard to come up with one other good thing in my life so I can tell myself I'm not _really_ that bad off, not quite yet. I can't do it now, though; my head is too foggy from partying all last night with this guy from work whose name I forget and fifty of his closest friends. Not only that, I have to go to work in about two minutes. I fix a fat pipe load to prepare myself for the monotony of my work and the vacant stares of the sunburned tourists. God, it feels good, like a balm spread over my aching psyche. I can deal with anything in this state, I really can. I think I've smoked so much that I can function just as well -- or better -- in this state as I do sober. I'm really hoping they've assigned me to work a kiddie ride, but no. I got the hardest damn ride in the whole park -- the Rock-O-Plane, it's called. Sort of like a Ferris wheel, but with cages that flip around and upside down instead of the boring bench seats on the Ferris wheel. It's a sick-maker, to use Boardwalk terminology. I've had to clean up puke on that thing more times than on all the other rides put together. Last time, some older guy blew hot dog chunks. If that happens to me today, I'll probably throw up too, considering the delicate state of my stomach after last night. Another reason I hate running this ride is that it actually takes intelligence. You have to balance it, make sure that if there's a fat person in one cage, there's someone else fat in the cage across from him. Otherwise the machinery of the ride has to work too hard, and the whole thing will get messed up, and wouldn't that be a shame? Damn, damn, damn. I really feel like quitting on the spot, but I manage to restrain myself. Thank God I'm stoned, so even this terrible assignment is manageable. This girl Amy that I'm taking over for looks relieved when I show up five minutes late. "Have fun, Alex!" she says, practically running away as soon as I've signed in. "I will." I want to slap her face for reminding me that I have to be here, doing something that is decidedly _not_ fun, for the next six hours. This is quickly shaping up to be one of the most terrible days of my life. Within twenty minutes, someone has thrown up. It's this little kid. I see him gesturing and yelling, "I gotta' get off!" So the next time his cage comes around, I stop the thing, and he gets out, but it's too late. The bottom of his cage and the front of his shirt are covered with soupy brown puke, the most I have ever seen. Oh my God. I'm so disgusted, I can't keep the grimace off my face. The kid is crying and apologizing, but I just can't act sympathetic. All I feel is this great sense of unfairness that this had to happen to me. If this had happened twenty minutes earlier, it would have been Amy's problem, not mine. I should have just called in sick. I have to unload the whole ride and then clean up the disgusting mess -- hose it out onto the concrete below, where it runs out onto the beach, then run the ride to let the cars dry. This takes a long time. Most of the tourists see the Ride Down sign and walk right on by. Some of them stop to ask when the ride will be running again, and I tell them, "Someone threw up; it'll be a while." I like the looks they get on their faces. People are so paranoid about riding in a cage that _might_ have puke in it. I understand, though; I hate puke more than anything. We're not supposed to tell the tourists when someone pukes, but I always do, because it discourages them from coming back. Eventually I do have to open up the ride again, and I'm in an even worse and more distracted mood. It's a good thing I'm stoned, _really_ stoned. I can sort of tune out the people, and try to stop thinking about that puke, and try to stop checking out the people in line to see which one of them looks like he might have a weak stomach. Instead I can just look at how beautiful the setting sun looks on the ocean, and think about my break, coming up in two hours, when I can go smoke a quick bowl by myself. My functioning has become almost totally automatic. Okay, ride's over, unload this batch, load up the next batch, three minutes, then do it all over again. This job isn't so bad, I guess. I remember how when I was tripping the other day I walked down to the beach and lay down in the sand and let the water wash over and over me, and thought about how nice it would be to just float in the sea water forever. I wanted to let my body go out with the tide. Not that I want to die or anything, it just felt so _nice_, so much nicer than anything I ever feel when I'm sober. Operating this ride gives me a lot of time to stare at the water and look forward to the next time I can trip, so I can recapture that feeling. Okay, ride's over. I unload the first two cages and load up the next people -- two little kids in one cage (really too little for the ride, but I let them on anyway) and this guy about my age who looks like a local, with dirty clothes, dredlocks, and a pierced nose, in the other. I send them up to the top and bring down the next two cages, and that's when I realize I'm holding something in my hand that doesn't belong there. I look down at it, and for about five seconds all I can do is stare in disbelief. It's one of the pins that hold the doors shut. But I haven't opened either of these cages yet, only... I don't want to look up, but I do anyway, and I see something so terrible that at first I think it's a drug hallucination or a flashback, something that sobers me up instantly. The door to one of the cages that I've just sent up is hanging open, and I can hear yelling, faintly -- "Hey! Stop the ride!" The crowd in line looks where I'm looking, and I hear a collective gasp, along with "Oh my God...the door's open...did someone fall out?" "Stay there for a second, okay?" I tell the people in the cages at ground level, who don't know what's going on. I send them up again, bringing the first cage back down. The cage with the open door is, thank God, the one with the local in it. He must do about as many drugs as I do, because he doesn't appear at all shaken by the experience. "Dude!" he says enthusiastically. "I started going up, man, and I was, like, rocking, and my door fell open! I was just, like, no way! What happened, you forget to lock me in or something?" "No," I lie. "I think your door is malfunctioning." "Dude, can I get a new car, then?" "Sure." I'm shaking so hard, I think there is no way I can run this ride any longer. I feel like my whole terrible life has caught up with me at this moment. "Are you sure you're okay?" "Dude, I'm cool. I'm just glad it was me in there and not some little kids like them, ya' know what I mean?" He points at the cage next to him. He gets in a new cage, and apparently the crisis is past for him. He seems to get full enjoyment out of the ride, flipping his cage the whole time like he didn't just come really close to death five minutes earlier. When he gets off, he says, "Great ride, dude! Thanks a lot!" Thank God, it's time for my break. I need it so badly. I just want to go somewhere and cry, or something. I go down onto the beach to the spot where I always sit and smoke, wedged in a corner of the boardwalk where I'm pretty much hidden from everyone. I take out my bag of pot and just look at it for a while. I don't know exactly why, but I find myself playing with the stuff, rubbing it into dust between my fingers and letting the sea breeze take it away. I've never willingly let drugs get away from me before. It's a weird feeling. I'm not sure, but I think I like it.
Copyright © 1997 Christie Bane |