Cocaine tails from the chapter: New Wave New Communists and The freak culture fades away
Another person I met who liked disco was a cook I worked with named Rusty. He also liked cocaine. One day while I was washing pots and he was cooking in a big stainless steel pot just behind me, we got to talking about drugs. Somehow I let it slip out that I like to shoot up.
"You have a rig?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered.
"What size?"
"It's a 3cc with a 25-gauge needle."
"Wow! That would be perfect for this coke I've been buying. Do you want to come over to my place and shoot some coke?"
"Sure."
At this point, I hadn't shot any decent drugs in a long time. I got my syringes and went to Rusty's trailer. It was an extra wide, in a very upscale for a trailer park. The walls were yellow and Rusty had it well furnished. He had plenty of black leather furniture. He had a top of the line Zenith stereo system. And he had just bought a gram of some really good coke. A gram cost around $100, a little more if it was good and less if it was not that good. I bought a quarter and I brought some decent syringes so we could both fix a hit. I had only shot coke a few times. Rusty got out some spoons and some cold water. He agreed to give me a little extra coke for bringing the rigs.
We both put about an eighth of a gram in the spoon to see how good it was. We both put in a cc of water. The coke mixed instantly, leaving a clear looking liquid. Coke I had done in the past left quite a bit of residual powder behind. When I drew the liquid through the cotton, there wasn't much of anything left in the spoon. Rusty was able to hit his
own veins, without any help. We had two rigs, so we could both hit up at the same time.
I got an excellent rush as soon as I pulled the needle out. I got an ether taste in my mouth, right before the rush, which is typical for shooting coke. The rush felt like icicles or tinny needles running through my veins. I could see little crystals of light streaming from light bulbs. It was similar to an MDA rush. This was really great coke.
The rush only lasted about half an hour. Coke doesn't have to be heated as heroin or other narcotics. When it's good, it just dissolves in a few drops of cold water. Any powder left over after it is stirred a few times is just cut. I licked the spoon when we were done and my whole mouth went num.
After that night, Rusty and I got together to party at least once a week. That meant shooting some coke, drinking some beer and smoking some fine weed.
Cocaine was the only good thing I can remember that came out of the disco scene
My introduction Herbert Marcuse from the chapter:
The redneck working class
"Society takes care of the need for liberation by satisfying the needs which make servitude palatable and perhaps even unnoticeable." - Herbert Marcuse
It was sometime after 1975 that I bought my first Herbert Marcuse book, Negations. Later I bought One Dimensional Man. I was sitting in my upstairs apartment, in Lawrence, when I started to seriously read some of these books. I had read The Communist Manifesto. Now I was reading Marcuse. He dealt with the realities and contradictions of our modern society. Karl Marx talked of a wretched working class "proletariat," the servants of the ruling "bourgeoisie class." But this division did not seem to affect the class that Marx insisted would eventually rise up. Marcuse realized that the modern bourgeois class had used technology and affluence to buy-off the modern worker. Far from being miserable, the workers enjoyed cars, TVs and other inventions that kept their minds off the hard, unappreciated work they did. They may not even have had the ability to imagine a better society. In addition, the anti-communist hysteria that was taught to us from our first day of school instilled fear of change.
As the summer of 1974 ended, I went back to school. I didn't have to quit my job. I was late a few times and my boss, an expressionless man, in his 40s, with short, slick, black hair and glasses, warned me:
"If you're late one more time, you're fired," he said in a matter of fact emotionless voice. "You need to be here ready to work, at your station, when the whistle blows. I don't want you to be a single minute late."
A week later, I was on my way to work and I got a flat just a block from the entrance of the plant. Just as I ran to clock in, the whistle blew. I was late so I assumed I was fired. I clocked out and left.
A week later I came back for my last check and never saw the place again.
Maybe the rest of the working class didn't notice being ripped off, but I did. Every place I worked seemed to be out to get as much out of me as possible for as little reward as possible. The more jobs I got, the more I noticed it.
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