RECIPE: Crack Angel Food Cake

La dolce vita.

• Sour keys

• Sweet and sour mix

• Gummy blue feet

• Jolly Ranchers

• Red balls

These were just a few of Macey’s favorite things in the candy aisle of the 24-hour shop that junkies like myself frequented at ridiculous hours with shoes on the wrong feet, sometimes barefoot or, occasionally, buck naked.

I knew Macey from the drug den. She used to knock on my window keen to smoke all my dope — she had an uncanny gift for intuiting exactly when I was starting a session.

At some point, she always asked me to fetch her some candy.

But before I could leave her alone in the apartment, I had to pack up my laptop, hide the dope in the bathroom vent, and make extra sure I had my wallet and phone. I also tried to tuck away my clothes — jackets and favorite shirts. Then I took one last look around to ensure there wasn’t anything lying around that could be traded for a rock.

And finally, I could walk to the store, which was almost directly across the street.

You see, running an errand for Macey was an extraordinarily risky undertaking.

On the one hand, she made a very convincing case for those gummy blue feet. How she pleaded for them. As if they were just the thing that would finally make life worth living.

On the other hand, the first rule of social crack smoking is to never leave guests unattended. Even the TV remote could disappear forever.

I had to make hard decisions — decisions that were incredibly inconvenient for someone who would please just like to be high and not think about the things of this world.

It was pretty much inevitable that I’d agree to Macey’s demands. She wouldn’t give up — but rather harass me, sweetly at first, to please-please-please fulfill her very modest wishlist.

Make no mistake, I liked the idea of Macey running out into the night, cursing me and vowing to never return. Having company while smoking crack always seemed like a good idea at the start — only quickly to devolve into resentment, mistrust and occasionally, criminal charges.

It wasn’t so much about trying to keep Macey around. She’d stay until the bitter end no matter what. It was about keeping her happy for the duration. Because, fuck, was an unsatisfied Macey ever a plague.

Besides, I needed more baking soda, grape freezies, lighters, and Febreze.

“Can you also get me a slushee?” she asked. “Use all the flavors in the machine.”

“Okay.”

“Equal amounts, okay? Like, a third raspberry, a third blueberry..”

“What if there are more than three flavors?” I asked. “Is it a fourth of each? Or do I cap the flavors at three?”

“Everything!” she called, annoyed. “Equally!”

Okay, okay. But I had to make sure all that candy wouldn’t cost me half my belongings.

And in order to do that, I needed leverage.

“What me to pick up more dope while I’m out?”

“Yes!”

That should have kept me from getting robbed and abandoned for at least half an hour. She would definitely wait for that.

“Your pants!” she called after me, pointing at my boxers.

Fuck. That would have been bad.

“Are you baking a cake?” the store clerk asked me when I brought the baking soda to the counter at 4 am on a Tuesday.

Funny guy.

“Yeah,” I smiled, flashing my smokey yellows. “A crack angel food cake.”

When I got home, the place was in smithereens. I really thought the prospect of more dope would have restrained Macey. But I hadn’t accounted for my pipe, which had enough dope caked to its sides to keep scraping for hours.

My Sonic Youth t-shirt was gone too.

But it could have been a lot worse. What a relief it was to be alone. And look at all that candy!

Not that I could be bothered to eat it. In a state of Christmas morning, I rushed into the bathroom, pushed open the ceiling vent and — aha!

My crack motherlode.

Sometimes, a little foresight, even in the depths of a drug session can really pay off. I had been squirreling away my dope for hours. Now, I could enjoy it the way it was meant to be enjoyed. Alon —-

Knock, knock.

I hadn’t closed the curtains yet. Macey was pressed against the window. No choice but to let her in, lest torch-bearing neighbors finally storm my apartment.

“Did you take my pipe?” I asked when she stepped inside.

“I am not a thief!” she screamed.

But she was wearing my Sonic Youth t-shirt. And I was grateful for that.