The perfect person to get high with

Misery murders company.

Someone once suggested they would like to get high with me.

As if it was on their bucket list.

I think it was after a recovery meeting. Probably in the early days when my contributions to group discussion were a mix of regret and longing. On one hand, I was duly humbled by the initial impact of coming clean. There was a lot to be sorry for. And what a crater I had made of my life!

But when a meeting facilitator asked what I liked about getting high, I let my recovery rawness show. I went into far too much detail. I rhapsodized about the lifestyle. By the end of my tirade, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one salivating.

When someone speaks coherently about their adventures in addiction — even a little philosophically — it’s easy to mistake them for the right kind of crack smoker. The kind that doesn’t immediately lose their shit at the first toke.

It’s easy to imagine this person is the addict you’ve waited your whole life to get high with. Until, that is, you do.

Of all the people I’ve ever kept company with during a drug session, I can count the number of people I had a pleasant time with on zero fingers. No one is a good co-crack smoker. That’s because at the very first toke, the person you thought you knew is completely transformed. Believe me. I’ve spent endless hours smoking with family, close friends, even girlfriends. It’s always the same. Crack flips them upside down.

I’m probably the last person you’d want to get high with. I stammer and sweat. The paranoia is almost immediate. Then I’m on hands and knees searching the rug for runaway dope.

The crippling sadness arrives without warning. At some point, I’m inevitably struck with grief. I’m not sure exactly why, but I get these images of people in my life who used to cherish me. Mother, partner, dog. I have flashbacks to halcyon times when I was loved on a molecular level — not for how much dope I had, but for who I happened to be.

I imagine it’s too late to change course. The longer I live, the less lovable I will be. I convince myself that one day, I’ll be one of those people who hang around a downtown intersection as passersby sigh, “Imagine. He used to be somebody’s baby.”

A little pink baby with fat fingers steeped in all the love in the world.

I look at my blackened, calloused fingers. Were they ever fat and pink?

It’s a good thing crack smokers are woefully underhydrated. Or else, there would be an embarrassment of tears.

Still, the invisible ones hurt the most. I weep for the sorrow to come.

“You’re ruining the high,” whoever I’m smoking crack with will say, “Just enjoy it.”

Sure, yeah. Sorry about that.

So, I’ll put on my big-boy crack smoker pants and, with trembling fingers, place a heart-crushing chunk on my pipe.

By this time, I’m wondering if the person I’m with has been stealing my stash. How did it disappear so fast?

I might say something. My crack-mate will act wounded, loudly declaring, “I’m not a thief!”

“Keep it down,” I say, heart racing. “The neighbors.”

“Well, don’t call me a thief!” the person bugles.

From there, of course, it’s open hostility. How the fuck do I get rid of this person? I’ll probably have to pretend I’m all out of dope. And frisk him before he leaves. I’ll bet he stole my electric toothbrush. It’s going to be chaos. Who is he, anyway? I met him at the park across the street. We had such a great conversation. He told such poignant stories from his life and all the tragic turns it took.

I was convinced he would be the perfect person to get high with.