The Drug Schedule
Monday morning. My phone buzzes an alarm for the fourth and final time. I roll off my side and I open my eyes and resist the urge to close them. 9:30 AM. It is time to stand up. I can’t put it off for a minute longer. Time is maximised. Sacrifices will be made. Priorities will be satisfied. I brush my teeth. I skip the shave. I release some urine. I wash my face. A Mexican shower.
It’s a Monday and that means Dexedrine. An amphetamine. Monday is a must day for amphetamine. To relentlessly face the new weak with full a bag of enthusiasm, Dexedrine is a Monday must. I swallow 30 milligrams and I am out the door.
Driving it occurs to me that my job is not so shitty. Sunday was a weed day, and I realize that’s all that was to make me think so. That my job is shitty. I was tired Sunday but my job is not so shitty, I decide, and determine to prove that right. In five-minutes I arrive. “See,” under my breath, “Not so shitty.” At least the drive is convenient.
In my shorts’ pocket is a key envelope which conseils two tabs of Dexedrine. One tab for halfway through the shift, and the other to take for when the shift is over. With that the full day at work and the night at home after will be a constant flow of dopamine til my heart’s content. I like the amphetamine days the best, which is why I schedule it three days a week and it’s because the amphetamine is my most productive drug on schedule. In terms of preference, with consideration for them all, my second most used drug on schedule, marijuana, earns silver in terms of that, and that is because Marijuana is a recreational powerhouse. With only one rival to this credit, Marijuana is a drug reserved for easiest days only; marijuana is actually the least productive drug in the mix, and the distinction is a super fact of life. Even the most indulgent potheads will tell you, if they’re honest with themselves, it is not a drug that easily translates to productivity.
Monday’s are abrasive, and so therefore Monday is a day for amphetamine. Cocaine may cover a Monday here and there, from time to time, but that is far less than ideal. Once Monday hits, and the cycle continues, as it always has and will, I find it best to roll with it. Which is not always easy to do. And surely amphetamine is not necessary, for that but it certainly helps you get rolling. On amphetamine I can roll with anything. With one little pill, suddenly doing the dishes is a rewarding experience; suddenly cleaning my room is a meaningful challenge; suddenly I’m at work hungover and yet I’m on the A-team. Above and beyond. Oh, amphetamine. Cocaine, you see, on the other hand, is a dirty drug. Whereas amphetamine is the cleanest effect I’ve ever known, cocaine is downright otherwise. Cocaine is all about give and take, feel and go, snort and spit, this and that; it’s a lot of maintenance, doing cocaine, and to maximise the benefits one must be ever mindful. Wait too long between bumps and it’s a waste, or bump it too frequently and again it’s a waste. You gotta be like Goldilocks with cocaine. Many people fail to understand this.
Perhaps it’s more to do with bumping vs eating—the reason why one drug is dirty and why one drug is clean—but in any case, when you jitter, alone, and with white powder caked up your nostrils, you find that cocaine is indeed dirty. Moreover, the effect of cocaine is that it rushes and stops; amphetamine however is continual and steady. Worth noting as well are sources of each drug. It’s either the streets, or college campuses. Personally I’m indifferent but for prospective users this is relevant to consider.
Cocaine comes in plastic bags, amphetamine comes in labeled bottles. Unless of course it’s homemade smack. But nobody’s making smack anymore. What is this, decades before now? No. No one’s cooking up smack. Not good smack anyway. It’s all PNS, no CNS, and the over-counters that they use for it—the cottons—it’s not real amphetamine, it’s now some derivative and it sucks. People in Texas had tried liquidizing it, they shot it up and all of them died. The golden age of smack is long over and it’s now a lot more dangerous. Meth, though.
Methylphenidate, aka Ritalin, is much like cocaine. More like cocaine than it is dexedrine or adderall, although all three drugs are prescribed for identical conditions. And yet cocaine gets left behind in its own Schedule I dust. What gives, I have to ask, even if the answer is that obvious. Methylphenidate is a reuptake inhibitor, which as far as I know means it recycles dopamine. Rejects your dopamine. So, it’s aptly dirty dopamine, as I claim. It’s dopamine that can’t go home. In theory, Methylphenidate and Amphetamine make for a stellar team, a real winning duo. With one pumping it out and the other locking the door behind. Probably a powerful team if albeit a dangerous one. Says my theory. Physicians might disagree.
Thirty minutes passes and I’m firmly in the flow of work. I contemplate eating the second Dexedrine early. “We’re in for a hell of a night,” comments my manager. I punch my palm. “Nice,” I respond mindlessly. Catching this, “I mean, what do we got?” My manager presents me a three-ringed binder. He drops it flat on the counter. As if I should brace myself for his words to come. “Two weddings and a private party.” I punch my palm. “Nice.” He stretches his eyes. “Be like last Thursday,” he forewarns. Thursday was a cocaine day, as it is every week. Thursday working was rough, but mainly due to lack of opportunities; such a dirty high is cocaine. Behind me stands the smallest women that I perhaps have ever seen. She is holding a dense, massive block of memory foam, she uses as a booster-seat for driving her car. The woman is not a dwarf, medically, but she might be under five foot. Very petite. She is at about nipple’s height with me. She requests for her car, and I fetch it for her.
“Such a lovely day,” I tell her upon return. My smile big and open but not as fake as that would seem. It was a nice day, after all, and I’m enthusiastically enhanced. “I love it,” she responds. “Florida vacations, I can’t get enough. I’m from Boston.—” Already, she has said more than enough. I want to tell her–not overpoweringly so but I want to tell her, ”You and literally everyone else I’ve serviced today.” Apparently the patrons of this hotel underestimate the triviality of their being here. I’m grinding my teeth. I catch myself doing that, it’s the dexedrine. I catch myself every time. Which is good, because if I’d not I’d break my teeth. If you’ve ever wondered why the Faces of Meth consists very few teeth, it is simply because they excessively grind their teeth. Poor nutrition, tobacco use, and other factors come into play of course, but with many cases of different drugs—be it amphetamine, methamphetamine, cocaine or freebase, and other—teeth always seem to be grinding. “Yes, it was in fact a Florida vacation that has sent me here for good,” I tell her. And I ad “I myself am from Cleveland, Ohio,” I make this known to the world for the umpteenth time today, “So I know a thing or two about the cold.” She nods at this as if I’m preaching to the choir in some exclusive club—of which we’re both members—because we know what snow is—and she climbs up to sit on her foam block and I close the door. She drives away.
Nice lady, I decide. She had tipped me with a five. Were she richer she’d tip me more than five, I consider. Five is a solid tip. I’ll never be disappointed with a five. Her car is a Civic, so I assume, that if she were richer—.
The richest will tip you best but you have to rub them how they like being rubbed. Everyone’s different. If say that a man pulls up to the drive in a Porsche 911 Carrera, or a in new Corvette Stingray—with a license plate that no less says ‘YOUW ISH’, I make it a point to make him feel recognized. Sometimes that works, and sometimes that makes no difference, but I sometimes get twenties for saying no more than five words. If you valet a car, without providing a claim ticket and you say “We’ll keep it right here for you, Mr Doe,” Mr Doe generally likes that. Or if you admire his new Stingray and you hint to him that you do indeed wish, he generally likes that, too. When a Rolls Royce Phantom pulls up to the drive however—at least in every time in my experience, touching the car is the last thing they will want from you. Apparently there is a tapering-off point in the hierarchy of expensive cars in relation to the hands-on services requested. It’s basically: You can look and please do but don’t fucking touch it. In more polite terms.
Sometimes a patron will drive in with an oversized head, with a wallet that’s more leather than paper. Somehow he will think that his BMW mid-series—a car that is expensive but is of course not the summit—pulling in at the nicest hotel in this entire city, registers him richest-man-in-sight status. It does not. His BMW might as well be a Honda Civic. And on some days, a Honda Civic might as well be a go-cart. But it is amusing to see these individuals, or it can. You might be surprised how often it is amusing. Talking to his friend, referencing the Wolf of Wall Street as if that’s his life. And then, a 90-year-old man in a blood-red suit for God knows what, in a chauffeured Rolls Royce, pulls up right next to him. Were his Ray-bans not polarized I’d bet it’s worth seeing. He won’t even look at me, but the ray-banning man in the beamer does.
Sometimes you’ll get a twenty from a man in a minivan. Those guys are unthinkable. You will not see it coming. There is no way to radar them.
Rolls Royce is too rare a sight to find out what they’re actually worth, and by that I mean what it will be worth to me. I see this old man, and he might as well be dressed for a fox hunt. And that’s wonderful for him but he has nothing to offer me beyond the spectacle which that is. I will probably mock him, later as I drive whatever-any-other car to the parking garage. Never heard the man speak but I’d imagine his voice is outstandingly British despite being an American, says his plates and I’m certain as well that, after his fox hunt, in the private forests we apparently keep in back, he’s going to sit in his smoking jacket next a to a roaring fire in his affairs room, companioned by two magnificent great danes. Thoughts like these encourage me through the day.
Bentley’s, conversely, the owners will want you to drive—. To enjoy a taste of the exclusive luxuries in their portable trophies; Hell even the McLaren—the lone McLaren F1 I ever have seen—requested that I valet for them. And that car I think is a million dollar car or at least half that. Something though, about the Rolls Royce I suppose. Valet means to serve, that is the translation, so I’m told. Rolls Royce is the only private car that I’ll see driven by chauffeurs. One would think—. Why not then valet?—. But who cares. Every Rolls Royce has rejected me, immediately, and I think that’s sensible. One must be very wealthy to afford a Rolls Royce, obviously, and I’m sure at least some of the owners break banks for it. All the same, for all that any patron may know—and thankfully they know nothing—the schedule today reads alcohol.
Saturday’s are less wild than I suggest. As that it’s important that when one drinks one keeps oneself in check. Driving while intoxicated is frowned upon in every situation known to man. To be caught, is to at best lose my job and yet not be arrested. This is of course a real risk, and were my responsibilities more than just parking cars, I promise, I’d be sober—at least of contraband I would. So I do my drinking before I arrive to work. All other drugs I will carry on my person but not alcohol which is because of the uncurbable risk. If a patron accuses me of driving intoxicated—the likelihood of which is so unlikely that it is almost laughable—but were it to happen, God forbid I’d simply deny it. It would be awkward, sure and I’d be worried, but what else would I do. Simply, that is all I would do. I feel confident that I’d get away with it because one, I hold my liquor well. Two, I never get sloppy, while on a job. Three I scope my mouth out every hour. And four, there’d be no reason for any suspicion. I am a good driver. Even when drunk. Not to mention, the patrons of this hotel, so many of them are drinking and driving as if there’s no such thing as the crime. Crown Royal in a rocks glass with lipstick stains on the rim, is nothing to look twice at. Some of these rich people certainly know how to drink.