COCA

I whored myself.  The ultimate permission.  There was a messy bed that was free in the guest room of G’s sprawling apartment.  So we did it there.

In 1998, or ’97, I can’t remember which, I was in Tucuman, Argentina, staying with a very respectable elderly lady, who was also a wonderful hostess.  A bad stomachache stopped me from moving.  I didn’t think I could go out that day, although I had pressing obligations in the city.  I explained to my hostess that I was in pain, and that nonetheless, under some urgency, I needed to go out.

When she told me that she would make me some tea, I thought it was nothing more than a comforting gesture.  But when she asked me back into her tiny kitchen to bring down a jar of leaves from a high shelf, I began to wonder.

“Este?” I asked, slowly lifting down the jar marked COCA, which was filled with whole leaves.

“Si,” she said…

I sat and drank.  After half a cup, my stomachache was entirely gone.  The coca tea had acted as a powerful local anesthetic.  I went out into the city without a worry in my head.

Years later, in Europe, I found that cocaine is also used as an anesthetic for the uninitiated…

On a messy bed.  High as shit.  In the middle of a party which rendered G’s living room into a beautiful landscape of wreckage and debauchery.

 

 

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