Blackouts and Breakdowns. Mark Brennan Rosenberg
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up with a guy, and although I contracted an STD, I was no longer afraid. After that, I tried every type of booze imaginable and then moved on to bigger and better things. November of my freshman year of college, I had the pleasure of meeting my new BFF, Alex who would become a staple in my life for the next year or so. Alex and I were very much alike. He lived on the sixteenth floor of my dorm building and the two of us quickly bonded over our mutual love of Ace of Base. We became fast friends and began hanging out almost every evening. We had even found a new hang out, Club Blue.
One night after we had been pre-gaming in Alex’s dorm room we headed down to Club Blue with full intentions of getting blackout drunk. Upon entering we did the usual shooters and began flirting with guys for free drinks. We were eighteen and poor college students, so we had to work with what we had. I ended up befriending a really hot guy, whose name I do not remember, so I will refer to him as “the hot guy.” We were flirting pretty hardcore until he pulled me aside and took me to the bathroom.
As we entered the bathroom, he emptied his pockets and pulled out a small plastic baggie and a rolled up twenty dollar bill.
“What are you doing?” I asked the hot guy.
“Coke,” he replied.
“Oh,” I said as I watched him put the twenty-dollar bill into his left nostril and snort up the cocaine he had laid out on the toilet paper holder. Suddenly, the allure of doing coke was lost on me. It wasn’t nearly as glamorous as when they did it in Boogie Nights and Julianne Moore flipped out on Roller Girl and told her she would be her mother.
“Want some?” the hot guy asked as he whipped his nose.
“Ummm…ok,” I replied. And why not? What is the worst that could happen? “Can you just give me just a second?” I asked. The hot guy left me alone in the bathroom to contemplate whether or not to do the drugs that sat before me. I really wanted to look cool in front of the hot guy, but was nervous about doing coke. I then wondered what life would be like if I started doing drugs. Was I to end up like a junkie or someone fabulous like Liza Minnelli who was pretty much coked up throughout the 70’s? As I pondered what do, an apparition appeared in the bathroom.
“Say no to drugs,” the figure said.
I could not see who was standing before me. I had so much to drink that I was not sure if I was hallucinating or seeing a real person. As the figure came closer, I knew exactly who it was.
“Say no to drugs!” the figure said again.
I wiped my eyes and saw a little old lady in a red pantsuit approaching me.
“Damn you Nancy Reagan!” I yelled. She had come to me again. Nancy first came to me in a vision when I smoked weed for the first time, and now she was back.
“I warned you that pot was the gateway drug, and look at you,” Nancy said as she gestured toward the pile of cocaine that was sitting on the toilet paper holder. “Now you are about to take cocaine. Shame on you Mark.”
“But Nancy, I really want to hook up with that hot guy,” I said. Surely Nancy Reagan understood the ins and outs of gay life in New York. She was kind of like a fag-hag with all of those power suits.
“Oh, you homosexuals and your drugs,” she said with a laugh. “I have come to so many of you and no one ever listens. Look at what happened to Paul Lynde for Christ’s sake!”
“Maybe you are right Nancy,” I said. Then suddenly, I remembered why I had not listened to Nancy Reagan in the first place. “Wait a minute, Nance. I remember why I didn’t listen to you before. You stole Ronald Reagan away from my beloved Jane Wyman, star of Falcon Crest, the best show ever on television. I’m not listening to a word you say. Don’t tell me not to drugs after you went around stealing another woman’s man!” And with that I took the rolled up twenty dollar bill and snorted the cocaine.
“Remember my dear, crack is wack,” Nancy said.
“Whatever,” I replied, “your husband’s administration was a joke!” And with that Nancy disappeared.
While this very special episode of Diff’rent Stokes was taking place in the club bathroom, the hot guy was outside knocking on the door.
“You OK in there?” the hot guy asked.
I opened the door and replied:
“Yeah, I am fine. Just hashing out a few things with Nancy Reagan.”
He looked dumbfounded. “Pretty good shit, huh?” he asked.
Good shit indeed. We partied the night away. Cocaine was fabulous for me because while taking it, I could drink as much alcohol as I wanted without getting drunk or sick. It was like a miracle drug and I wondered why more people didn’t do it. That is until the next morning.
I awoke the next morning wondering what I had done wrong to deserve feeling the way I felt. I felt as if someone had dropped a ton of bricks on my head and left me for dead. My head was spinning and I felt as if I my heart was going to stop at any moment. I told myself that I was never going to drink or do drugs ever again, but that night rolled around and it was time to party again. Alex and I had cleverly decided that from then on we were going to have themed nights of going out. Every night of the week we would dress up in a different theme. It seemed to be the perfect way to try and find a new boyfriend. Heroin chic was a favorite, where we would temporarily dye our hair black, put black eyeliner on and tight jeans and look like crack heads. For whatever reason, we thought this look was attractive; but, after a while, I realized we didn’t even need the makeup anymore. We were pretty much crack heads.
One night before Christmas during freshman year of college, Alex and I decided that it would be fun to try acid. I had done mushrooms in high school and was told that the effects were similar but acid was even more potent. The two of us went to a club and danced and drank and had a gay old time. After a few hours of dancing, Alex put a tab of acid onto my tongue and I immediately cased the club for Nancy Reagan. I couldn’t find her, but I did see a drag queen in a red pillbox hat that bared a striking resemblance to her. I guess Nancy had given up on me – I was a lost cause now. I had reached the point of no return, although I did tell myself I would never smoke crack or shoot up heroin. At least I still had some boundaries.
The night we tripped on acid was like taking a trip on an emotional rollercoaster on which I care to never ride again. A club promoter named Stephan came up to me and tried to kiss me and his face turned into a bat then he tried to swallow me whole. Then, the walls began to melt and I tried to lick them because I thought they had turned into milkshakes. Finally, I was so hungry when I got home that I made myself some macaroni and cheese that turned into worms and I hid under my bed for a solid hour until I thought it was safe to come out.
The next day, I met up with Jason for a few drinks at our piano bar.
“Where the hell have you been?” Jason asked.
“Having visions of Nancy Reagan and trying every drug imaginable,” I replied.
“What?” he asked.
“Never mind,” I said. All of the experimentation had taken its toll on me. “I don’t feel well.”
“Drink this,” Jason said as he waved a martini in my face. “Vodka is good for the heart.”
“I can’t do drugs anymore. It’s only been a month and I feel like a junkie already,” I said. My Jewish guilt wouldn’t even allow me to be a drug addict without feeling horrible about it.
“Just take a break,” Jason said. “Just drink. Drinking is fun and it won’t kill you.”
Why do I always think everything everyone tells me is the truth?
“You’re right!” I proclaimed, “drinking won’t kill me, will it?” Just ruin every relationship I ever had from that point on and force me into making the worst decisions any human could possibly make.
“Cheers to you, Mark,” Jason said. “You’ve overcome your drug addiction.” We clinked glasses and both