Call It What It Is

[CW: Frequent profanity & Substance Abuse]

The jazz bar reeks of weed nowadays. I’ve been trying to find the source. I suspect Money, but the last time I saw him smoke was way back in college. I used to buy it from him. That’s how we met. But Money gave up weed when he dropped out junior year. After that, he started selling only the hard stuff and really turned a profit. By the looks of the Wall Street suits and runny noses crowding the bathrooms and darker corners, it seems Money hasn’t abandoned his trade.

           “Yo, Money, what’s up with all these coked-out interns?” I asked, not quietly enough.

           Money poured himself a drink. “Ah, man, you know me. Gotta keep up with the new clientele!”

           “So, you go for Jordan Belfort’s groupies?”

           He pointed a warning finger at me. “Keep your voice down. They’re bringing the dough.”

           “Yeah, well, since when do you sell to these kinds of guys?”

           Money laughed and shook his head. “What’s up your ass tonight, Petey?”

           “Lydia, mainly. We were supposed to meet here like half an hour ago,” I said, scanning the bar once more for her familiar face or her blonde hair. Nowhere.

           Money laughed. “Damn, haven’t seen that bitch in ages. What’s she like these days, still banging?”

           Money talks about everyone’s girl this way. It’s never really bothered me that Money – or every guy – finds Lydia attractive. She is. What do you want me to do about it?

           I stirred my Coca-Cola. I think I’ve forgotten what a Rum and Coke tastes like. I don’t really remember ever enjoying it. Money noted my silence, still laughing at me. He dipped behind the bar, and I knew he wouldn’t come back for a while.

           I eyed the piano on the dimly lit stage.

           I’ve played this Steinway, in this bar, hundreds of times. Lydia has seen me do plenty of these fancier gigs. Back when we first met, though, my instrument was a timeworn, stand-up Yamaha amidst a crowded college party.

I was a junior then, at Juilliard. Lydia was a sophomore at Columbia. I went to that party with Money, actually. He knew someone who knew someone who was dating one of Lydia’s roommates. So, in other words, I really had no business being there.

           “Didn’t expect a piano virtuoso to crash my party tonight,” Lydia said, the first time we met. She leaned against the side of the piano, placing her drink atop the Yamaha.

           “My bad,” I replied, standing up from the bench and instinctively removing her drink from the lid. “Can you blame a guy for trying to get your attention?”

           “Very smooth, hot shot.” She raised an eyebrow skeptically and reclaimed her red-solo cup. “What’s your name?”

           I held out my hand. “Peter – Pete.”

           “A handshake. Quite formal, don’t you think?”

           “You know, classy, talented, formal. All sound like great qualities to me.”

           We were still shaking hands.

           “Well, ‘Peter-Pete’. Do you know anyone here?”

           “I know you.”

           “Really? I have yet to tell you my name,” she said.

           “Well, then. Let me rephrase. I’d like to know you.”

           “And would you like to know anyone else here?”

           “There are other people here?”

           She giggled, still searching my eyes. Finally, we broke the handshake.

“I’ll see you around, Peter-Pete.”

           With that, she disappeared into the crowd. I was busy trying to find her for the remainder of the party. Around 1 a.m., I convinced myself she was a ghost. Eventually, I gave up and found Money. He was planted on a couch, surrounded by smoke and clutching a bong.

           “Money, whose party is this? The blonde chick – you know her?”

           “Petey! My boy! I’ve been looking for you all over,” Money said. A lie.

           “Blonde chick, Money. Focus. Who is she? Do you know her?”

           “Man, the fuck if I know? There are, like, thirty-five blondes up in here.”

           I huffed and sank next to him. “Gimme some of that.”

           He passed the bong. I took a long hit and leaned my head back to exhale up at the ceiling. I studied the water damage by the light in the corner. I thought about playing that shitty piano again just to get her back around.

           “So, who is it you lookin’ for, Petey?” Money asked, suddenly interested in my quest.

           I smiled, feeling the hit in my head and my cheeks. “Ah, forget about it.”

           “Nah, let’s find your girl, man,” said Money. He wiggled his fingers, his freshly tattooed knuckles flashing in my face. “You gotta put those fingers to better use.”

           Laughter bubbled up from my chest. It was the hardest I had laughed in a while. I stumbled after Money. My eyes were barely halfway open.

           “Peter-Pete!”

I whirled around to see the blonde’s vague figure on the other end of the smokey hallway. She started towards me, baring her movie-star grin. I felt like the laughter was bubbling up again, but when I opened my mouth, I certainly wasn’t laughing. I ducked behind Money and ran into the bathroom, beginning to puke in the toilet.

           “Shit, Pete, it’s too early in the night for this, man.”

           Money, effortless and calm, sprinkled a bit of powder on the sink. I peeled my eyes from the toilet bowl to watch him. He rolled a dollar bill between his thick fingers with practiced ease. He sniffed up the line. Tilting his head back, he pinched the tip of his nose and sniffed again, hard. This was the first time I saw anyone do cocaine. It reminded me of Buffalo and the snow and the common cold.

           Money sprinkled more of the powder on the toilet seat, careful not to drop any into the now murky water. “Bon Appetit.”

           I pushed one nostril closed and sniffed up the cocaine. And in that split second, I tasted greatness.

           I don’t remember the rest of the night. Not from my own memory, at least. Money, Lydia, people have told me what happened, but none of it seems real. I was told that Lydia was her name. And that we had had sex. And that I apparently didn’t like her roommates. Well, they didn’t like me, either. I guess because I did cocaine on their toilet, and their sink, and their dressers, the piano. Maybe it was also because I kept trying to teach Lydia how to play “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”.

           Would Lydia still have liked me if we had first met tonight, clad in my button-up and clean?

We dated for about three years after that night. She never saw me play sober once. There was rarely a day that went by that I wasn’t on something. I certainly didn’t stop just to play for a crowd. In fact, I thought there was no better time to be high than during a performance. I could hear the next note before I even grazed a nail along the keys.

“Almost time, Pete. You ready?” Money said.

I finished my soda. “Yeah. I just can’t believe she stiffed me.”

“I always thought she was a bitch, man, nothing new.”

“You liked her, Money.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just trying to cheer you up, so you don’t bomb on me.”

I handed him my glass. “When have I ever?”

           Well, I have once. Carnegie Hall. December of ’97, last winter. This is what the rehab guy said was my “rock bottom”. I was already amidst a four-day bender leading up to this show. I was waking up with Adderall, spending the afternoons with Xanax, picking myself up with cocaine, coming back down with Klonopin. I don’t remember what exactly I was on during the show.

           I do know this was the last time I saw Lydia before we broke up. After my set, she waited for me in one of the green rooms, but I had already walked off the stage and left the concert hall. She ended up finding me in an alley about a block down the road. I was still in my tuxedo, hurled over, covered in my own vomit. She drove me to a rehab on the Upper East Side. I was too out of it to fight her on it. When we got to the detox center, I remember hearing her repeat to the doctors that she thought I was dead. Once she knew I was stable, she left, and we didn’t speak again. I was in rehab for about three months. It’s been two since I’ve gotten out.

           I started performing almost immediately after my release. Money set me up with a weekly gig on Fridays at his bar. I’ve played piano since I was five. I studied it at Juilliard. Piano is all I know. It is all I am good at. It is all I will ever be. So, I was not going to give that up, too.

           I called Lydia last week as I was leaving Money’s bar. She didn’t answer, but I left her a message. I told her that I was clean, and I asked her to come to my next show. Tonight would’ve been our reunion - my redemption. It would have been the first time she has ever seen me play sober. And she decided not to show?

           I played my first few songs. Some were original, some Coltrane. But my mind and eyes were glued to the front door, which, to my dismay, never opened.

           My cheeks began growing hot with irritation. For a second, I thought I was going to cry. I walked off the stage for an intermission, heading towards the bathroom to wash my face. A brunette stopped me in my path.

           “Peter, isn’t it? Sorry, it’s just - I’ve been coming here for your shows for a while now. I just have to say you’re brilliant.”

           “Thanks. I appreciate it,” I said as I pushed past her.

           “Did you go to Juilliard?”

           I stopped. “Yeah, I did. Did you?”

           “Yes! I was studying ballet, though. I don’t think you knew me.”

           “I’m sorry, my memory of college is pretty bad. Trust me, it’s not you.”

           She smiled. “How much time do you have before you go back on? Can I buy you a drink?”

           “I don’t drink.”

           “Oh.” We stood in front of each other awkwardly for a minute.

           I found myself at a crossroads here. I could either ignore this girl and continue with my set, frustrated and alone. Or I could fuel her admiration and hopefully forget about Lydia standing me up.

           I peered down at her, for she was considerably short. I thought about how much she looked like Lydia, if Lydia had darker hair and eyes, was shorter, thinner, less smart, not as pretty. Aren’t ballerinas typically tall?

           I made my decision: “But I can buy you one,”

           I placed my hand on the small of her back, guiding her to the bar. Her long, dark hair brushed against my knuckles as we walked.

           I glanced down at her again. She looked like a puppy at my feet, waiting for a treat. “Money, her tabs on me tonight. What do you want, sweetheart?”

           “Rum and coke?” she asked, her eyes still begging. 

           I shuddered, “Rum and coke, for the lady.”

           Money nodded and moved further down the bar weaving between the rows of glistening liquor bottles. Once he was safely out of the girl’s sight, he shot me a grin and wiggled his fingers the same way he did back at Lydia’s college house. He soon returned, placing the cocktail in front of me. I pushed it towards the girl with such speed, you’d have thought it was cyanide.

           “I have to admit, Peter. I’ve been a big fan of yours for some time,” the brunette said, fiddling with her straw.

           “Oh, is that so?”

           She was breathy. “Yes, I just did a show, actually, and my director used one of your recordings for my dance.”

           “Really? Small world! Do you know which one?”

           “I couldn’t tell you which song it was, but it was from your Carnegie Hall set. Just brilliant. Music is such an important part of dance.”

           I stared at her blankly.

           She pushed herself to her toes, mistaking my stare for a romantic gaze, and kissed me.

           My lips were frozen, causing her to pull back quickly.

           “Oh god. I’m sorry. Did I misread things?”

           She had.

           “No.” I lied.

           I don’t know why, but I kissed her back, deeply, so that my tongue slipped onto hers. My eyes shot open, and I jerked away from the girl. My hand shot up to my mouth. It felt like it was on fire.

           Instinctively, I licked my lips, desperate for more of that familiar taste.

           The cocaine that was tucked inside the fold of her lip now lingered on my lips like honeysuckle in July.

           “Are you okay?” The girl scrunched her nose and sniffled.

           I felt like I had been shot.

           “Are you high right now?” I asked, nearly shouting.

           “Um, yeah,” said the girl, looking around awkwardly. “You aren’t?”

           “No.”

           “Is that, like, a problem?”

           “Sort of,” I mumbled, still running my tongue across my lips.

           “Sorry, Dad.”

           I hated this girl, but I couldn’t help myself. I pulled her by the wrist to one of the darker corners of the bar and kissed her again, longing for more of her acrid spit.

           “Where is it? Where is the coke?” I demanded between kisses, like a man starved.

           “I don’t know, I got it from the guys over there.”

           “Fuck.” I grabbed her wrist again and dragged her back out to the main bar.

           A young guy with slicked-back hair shouted at us as we approached. “Hannah-Banana getting down with the music man? Love to see it!”

The kid didn’t even have the powder wiped off his nostrils yet. Is this what I was like in college? Right after college? I was mortified.

           Still, I tapped the side of my nose with my pointer finger and winked. “Spare some for the needy?”

           “Anything for the man of the hour,” the guy said.

           He cut a line on the table. I didn’t hesitate; I was sincerely afraid the powder would evaporate like water in my hands. I couldn’t tell you how much I did in one go. I just know I wasn’t going to stop.

           I might have met God in that minute. I put my hands over my nose, hoping to catch any of the fallout so none would go to waste. I looked up at the ceiling and silently prayed that tonight wouldn’t kill me.

           I never finished my set. Not a single person in the bar cared, not even Money. He was just happy to have his old friend and best customer back. At some point, Money told me to get out, though, so he could close the bar and get home.

           I stumbled along the sidewalk, avoiding alleyways like the plague.

           I don’t know why I live like this, never mentioning my grief, refusing to acknowledge my mistakes, how I can’t let the girl I met my junior year of college go. I would’ve liked for her to see me sober tonight. I would’ve really liked that. Maybe she’d have asked me how I was doing and if there was anything new. And I would have told her it has been the same, worse without her. I would lie through my teeth. And I wouldn’t tell her about rehab; we’d pretend like it never happened. And she’d never know how I cried for her every night of June. She’d never know that I’d kiss a stranger right in front of her. Or choke down liquor like acid. And she’d never know that I’ll cry for her on the bathroom floor tonight.

           At the end of the street, I spotted a payphone and tripped towards it, nearly colliding with the door. Delving into my pocket, I pulled every coin I could muster. Amidst the heap of pennies and quarters, I fingered my sobriety chip.

           I dialed Lydia and hoped I’d be able to tell her that I love her.