The White Lady

A personal history of cocaine

by Eli Halberstrand

Cocaine is pretty much everywhere, pretty much all the time. In school, you’re taught that coke is the worst drug ever, barring maybe heroin, but it’s also incredibly easy to come by and widely done.

I’ve snorted it off of the backs of toilets in most bars downtown. A lot of people you know have, too. My erstwhile coke buddies included the lowest of the low—people whose lives and livelihoods were being destroyed because of their habits, who couldn’t pay their rent—as well as people whose names you’d recognize in the daily paper. It’s a democratic sort of drug, as most are.

I’ve been around cocaine since I was in high school. Then, it was the rare find of some kid with a wealthy and important parent (one of my friends, who lived just up the hill, had a record-exec dad, and we would raid his safe for porn, pot and coke). Now, it’s a lot more ubiquitous. There was a Newspeak story a few months ago about a high school where coke was everywhere, and I think that’s becoming more common.

The problem is with coke is that it’s really enjoyable. This isn’t unique to cocaine; it’s the same catch you find with most addictive drugs: alcohol, heroin, meth, nicotine. There’s a reason we keep wanting these things, and that reason is that they make us feel good.

Cocaine has always made me feel preternaturally clever, like my ideal picture of me had been defogged, clarified and sharpened. And sexy! Never mind the fact that I’ve never been able to produce or maintain an erection while high—coke made me want to fuck the world. I’m a sleek, attractive bon mot machine while high.

For a while, I only got the drug through friends of friends, but I’ve also known and dealt with several dealers during my time. Most were nice guys, trying to make a few extra bucks on the side. They, I think, appreciated my discretion, as I appreciated theirs. All were people with other jobs who happened to have access to drugs and didn’t mind selling their spare stock to customers they trusted. Some have kids, and sold around school and homework schedules. None were the stereotypical bathrobe-clad, jobless dirtbag operating out of a crack den. Like I said, nice guys, and we were able to do business because they trusted me and I trusted them.

The vast majority of the drug deals I’ve been involved in—and this isn’t just coke—happened in bars. There are definitely hot spots, places you know you can find someone carrying. When a new bar opened, a few years ago, I was checking it out, just out to drink and not looking for drugs, but during my first night there was offered blow by half a dozen people, most of them just wanting to share. In other cases, I’d buy, usually in the bathroom, then cut lines on the toilet or other surface. Offering one to the person selling is polite.

Restaurants, too. What most people don’t realize is that the life of a bartender or waiter or waitress or line cook somewhat requires the use of stimulants. They might close their doors at 9 p.m. or midnight or 2 a.m., but service industry folks have to stay a lot later than that, doing sidework, mopping floors, counting money. Ask your favorite bartender at a busy place what time he or she leaves on a weekend night. It’s usually around 4 a.m. Thus, industry-wide, people gulp Red Bull, or do speed, or they snort cocaine.

My experiences include staff from some of the best, most vaunted restaurants in town, doing bumps off the bar after closing. A Saturday night often means two days off for the A-list crews, both the front and the back of the house, and I’ve certainly seen the sun rise after busy weekends at popular and well-reviewed restaurants, when the staff can afford to drink heavily and do drugs, knowing they have days to recuperate.

Cocaine use still has glamour, too, and it’s not limited to the working stiffs. Demographically, it’s mainly young people doing it, but I’ve also seen my share of white-collar VIPS with rolled-up $100 bills—people in their forties or fifties with squeaky-clean reputations, titles, businesses. I’m sure it’s rare for those folks, but they always had the best stuff and were very willing to share it for an atypical night of hedonism.

Most of my coke buddies were roughly my age, though, and most were doing it for the same reasons I was: boredom, habit, companionship. I had a lot of fun with these people. There were also nights that wore on and on, long after I knew I should leave, doing rails off of dinner plates while the sun rose.

More than a few of my drug buddies developed habits. Most of them were able to function during their daily life, but there were those who lost jobs, sabotaged relationships, missed countless bill payments and otherwise just fucked up. There were a few spectacular breakdowns, but for the most part the people who lost control did so slowly and eventually, sinking rather than hurtling to their nadir. Some of those people have recovered entirely, finding AA or NA or other groups.

Cocaine is, I’m afraid, intrinsically destructive. Regular use will fuck you up. You spend a night doing blow and the next day recovering, then try to conceal all of it. You become paranoid. You begin to lie. There are no more brilliant liars than coke liars, and no more lies as outrageous and stunning as coke lies.

I’ve seen heroin addicts self-destruct, and I’ve self coke addicts self-destruct, and it’s similar, the difference being that coke addicts at least won’t nod off while you’re talking to them.

Don’t take this as a Just Say No, though. I’m of the opinion that everyone should try everything once and that, regardless of what DARE told you, one line of coke or one drag of a cigarette won’t make you an addict. (I did heroin a few times and didn’t like it, then sold the rest of what I’d bought to a guy who became an addict, a never-ending source of guilt for me.) Like anything, too much cocaine is a rotten idea.

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