The smell of dried beer and stale lunchtime odors hits one nose upon entering the DewDrop Inn just after five o’clock in the afternoon. The crowd who "drinks lunch" has returned to work hours ago, but the restaurant’s cleaning staff in the afternoon is not as efficient as the late night crew. By the time the seven o’clock patrons open the entrance door, the smell of cigarette smoke—as well as the din of loud, boisterous conversation—tends to erase any olfactory influence.
Joe knew the smell as home, where his heart lay. It was here that so many evening hours waddle away beneath the servings of boasting, exaggerations and poetic license. The scent puts a smile on his face that a day in sales usually manages to erase. He made no sales today, on the golf course, but the place felt like home, nonetheless.
Joe Sullivan nodded at Steve the barkeep to confirm his beer request. The frothy mug was ready and waiting for him as he bellied up to the bar. He stood within a crowd of about 15 regulars, men and women who knew alarmingly little about each other, despite the inordinate number of hours spent together in this room.
Joe arrived by himself, which was not unusual for him, except that last night he had three house guests. The golf game had ended hours ago. Frank was off on his own, claiming to be meeting with the parents of a classmate. Joe speculated that Frank was going back for a double dose of last night’s loving. He suggested to Joe that he’d meet him at the DewDrop by 7pm.
Doug and Brian were both working the B-shift at their plant. They expected to catch up with the Posse’ by midnight. If things went wrong, it could be another long night for these aging partiers.
The crowd was focused on the TV for the 5:30 Lottery drawing. This was one of the state’s daily drawings, with winning numbers fetching somewhere between $40,000 and $150,000. The jackpot for the regional multi-state lottery—known as the PowerDrop Lottery—had been driven up to a healthy sum just below $100 million; given the level of reality that many of these nightly drinkers lived in, one could be certain that plenty of tickets had been purchased in anticipation of that drawing.
An inebriated old man announces to no one in particular that "winning it would never change him". Most ignored him.
Steve the bartender rolls his eyes as his opinion is reinforced of the man’s wasted state o’mind.
Comments begin. If one closed their eyes, one might be able to hear ANY Group, ANY where discussing this topic, whether the group was sharing a beer, an elevator, or a grocery store line.
"Can you imagine winning $117 million?"
"You wouldn’t see all that money, you know?"
"Oh really? you dumb-ass, what do you take me for?"
"That’s a leading question .. . "
"How much would you get after taxes?"
"$3 and a half million per year, after initial taxes. Then you’d still have State and Federal and local tax."
"3 point 5 million per year, divided by 365 days, equals $10,000 per day. Not bad!"
"$10 grand a day! for twenty years! Oh man … what i could do with that!"
"Ten grand a day!? Can you imagine?"
"What would you do with it?"
"What? At first, or long term?"
"Either?"
"Quit my job …"
"Quit my boyfriend, quick as can be!"
"Quit my job AFTER punching out my boss."
"Then you’d lose half of it in a civil suit!"
A newcomer at the end of the bar spoke slowly and drew the attention of most watching the TV. "Have you ever heard some of the nightmares associated with winning that damn thing?".
As drinks were imbibed, heads nodded but comments were few.
"There was a huge lottery somewhere, and one group of workers met in a bar after work. The grunts decide to play a trick on their boss and they get the waitress in on the con.
"The patrons gave her the lottery numbers their boss always played, having heard him share their significance an endless number of times at work. The waitress came into the room, where all were gathered and calmly asked if anyone wanted to know the numbers.
"She reads "fixed" numbers; the boss waits three minutes, jumps up and screams at the top of his lungs. Then, he hollers out that "he doesn’t like any of them, and he’d fire more than half of ‘em ‘if he could, asserts that he Does Not Like Negroes or Jews … AND … he’s been sleeping with his secretary fl for almost three years.
"Then, they let him leave the restaurant.
"He learned later.
"He never returned to that job."
The crowd exploded with frenzy, complimenting the stranger for his wonderful contribution. A female bank examiner chirped in with one.
"Then, there was the guy who played the same numbers for over a decade—the exact same numbers every week— and once, when he buried a relative, he didn’t play. The numbers hit. He killed himself."
"Wow’s" and "OhMyGod’s" filled the circle.
She continued, amidst the circle growing with the entry of three new Happy Hour Attendees.
"Dozens upon dozens have declared bankruptcy within years of winning millions."
"How about the North Carolina man, who played his and his three (oth er) friends numbers every week; had to drive into Virginia to do so. One day, he played a fifth number, of a fourth friend, who had died. He had asked the friends and they had declared they had no interest in playing the deceased numbers.
"He bought the four tickets for he and his friends.
"He returned to his truck. Waited ten minutes. He buys one separately, the one that the group had declined to invest in. The time on the ticket validates this.
"As you would have guessed, the fifth ticket hits. Man doesn’t want to share —he’d known these men for over forty years each. They sue him.
"He not only SAW NO MONEY b/c of litigation (he fired several attorneys, who overcharged him) he went in debt about 30% of the winnings and his family disowned him.
"Lottery did him a lot of good."
For the remainder of the early evening—at least until the chicken wings and rabbit food was put out for some semblance of nutritional intake—the group discussed the dreams and the fantasies of being a lottery winner. Although the odds were as poor as over seven million to one, the majority opinion settled in somewhere between "hard-working stiffs deserve it" and "it’s only a matter of time before it’s won by one of them."
Joe remained quiet, joining in only occasionally. He drank one beer more than his usual three, without even trying to rationalize it as thirst. Frank was an hour late, and thus, their plan to catch a new action movie was scrapped.
It actually ended up being a rather uneventful evening, certainly not what one would have imagined as a friends’ last night together. They talked some, laughed a little, bonded little.
Sometime after eight, after they’d eaten and before a decision had to be made about leaving the DDI or staying close to home, Frank and Joe found themselves alone in a booth. They were undisturbed for a few quiet moments.
"Let me ask you another question, Joe"
"Oh Geez".
"Now, now. Today’s question wasn’t that bad. And neither will this be."
"Frankie, Boy … are you trying to get in touch with your feminine side here? What gives, huh?" Joe was half joking and somewhat plussed. He’s okay with sharing personal information when he’s in control of the questions. Anything else raises his anxiety levels.
"Is this okay? I’m just asking. You can say no if you like."
"Well thank you very much for that permission. Hit me".
Frank took a long drink from his freshly-poured mug. He seemed a bit blushed as he asked the question with somewhat of a tightly-wound face.
"Do you ever think about how much we party? How much you party? You know . . . drink and shit?"
Joe had no reaction at first.
"I don’t know," continued Frank, "I never thought too much about it, you know? Drinking and smoking herb and all that was always just something, you know? Always just something we guys did. We laughed, we partied, we drank a pitcher." He waved at the pitcher and the mugs in front of them.
"No harm, no foul. No big deal." His choice of calamitous phrases spoke to, perhaps, a little more of a serious tone than even Frank expected when he started the conversation.
"Do I ever think about how much we party?" Joe repeated the question slowly, as if to concentrate on a proper response.
"Well, I already told you today that Karen made plenty of mention about my spending time down here. But I was always home by ten, never out all night. The only time I seem to turn out long nights and hard partying is when somebody comes to visit. Brian and Doug and I don’t turn it out too, too often."
Frank didn’t seem to have the direction he was searching. He tried again.
"Alright. You did say that. Let me ask you: Do you drink more now, or less than you did when we were all unmarried and doing whatever we want?"
"More? More, yeah … I guess more. It’d have to be. No … wait. We used to hammer back a lot more beer then. It was nothing to knock off three or four cases in a weekend, and I don’t do that anymore.
"But, yeah, I guess what you’re looking for is that I probably drink more on a regular basis. Drinking is probably something I do more now, without thinking about it, than I did then. Then, I used to get excited to drink. I’d plan it. I’d get fired up. It meant more.
"Now, it’s more about drinking because I’m in the environment every day. I come in here, I see my friends, I drink. I probably wouldn’t drink so much if I spent more time in church, for instance. You know what I mean? In here, the thing to do is drink. This is where I come. I’m friendly with these people. I drink when I’m in here."
Frank drank deep as his eyes met Joe’s. He was sitting on something he couldn’t quite express.
"How much reefer do you smoke now?"
"Pot? Very little sometimes, other times I’ll get into a thing where I’ll see it more often. I don’t buy it much, maybe once every couple of months or something. Hell, it’s so expensive."
Frank tried to touch base here. "Remember when we could get an entire lid for $12?"
"Mexican pot and it was green back in the days when everyone wanted brown. Back before anyone knew what good pot was. Yeah, I remember twelve, but mostly we paid $20 an ounce."
Joe continued. "Now it’s as much as $90 for a quarter ounce, seven grams. It’s not that important to me at that price. Now for Brian, it’s a different story. He gets high every day."
"Still?" Frank still seemed to shift uneasily, as if this wasn’t what he was trying to ask Joe. "He always did love that stuff. And he always could get great shit.
"It’s amazing he’s never been busted."
They were both silent. Joe didn’t think much of the line of questioning. Frank asked again.
"Do you ever wonder if you have a drinking problem? You know, do you ever ask yourself if, maybe, you’re an alcoholic or something?"
"Me? No, I don’t worry about that. I’m just enjoying myself, taking life one day at a time. If it ever got that bad, I’d quit. It’d be no big deal."
"You ever see coke anymore?" Frank’s question was a relief to him.
"Cocaine? The White Momma? Lady Pleasure? N-ah. I haven’t even seen any in a couple of years. Not much of a skiing crowd around in here, Frank, not much of the white powder."
While the Posse’, as well as most of Ashby Heights, drank for their pleasure, there has always been a substantial drug subculture. When it first emerged in the early 70’s, the line was drawn quite emphatically down the middle of the social scene. You had your Heads and your Partiers, but the two terms definitely did not mean the same recreation.
At that time, many of the parents were WWII-er’s and felt very strongly that marijuana was the pillow of Satan himself. They put it in no uncertain terms that they did not want their children associating with "the bad crowd" that "smoked that damn dope".
Drink all night until you can’t talk at all, but don’t you dare get addicted to no dope!"
As the mid-to-late 70’s saw light marijuana use easing in to the mainstream of Ashby Height’s high school and post-high school set, one was more apt to attend a party where the smell of smoke was actively present. The group who used to sneak out to "do a bowl’ now had sub-societal permission to enjoy themselves with their drug of choice more out in the open.
As the eighties moved folks into the "Me Generation", pot use at concerts, amusement parks, and adult level recreation seemed almost expected. Joe and his gang of friends had always had the money and connections to be able to smoke it at will. Some of Joe’s friends used marijuana much more frequently than he cared to. He soon moved into an alcohol-soaked world that didn’t spend too much time around pot heads.
Cocaine was an entirely different matter. Expensive at first (it later became less costly than pot, largely because pot increased in price by well over ten-fold), and very dangerous in terms of legal consequences, cocaine carried an aura that many felt inclined to show off. To announce to one’s friends that you were "holding" some "Kickapoo Joy Powder" was to say you’d arrived, you’d obviously come to an understanding with what makes you look important.
Given that marijuana often times left users burnt out and more spacey, cocaine became popular in some circles as the wonder drug of energy and ecstasy. Rumors of its use as an aphrodisiac and as a sex aid itself grew its popularity. Somehow, just having it to share with the ladies could make a man a sexual fisherman. And the bait almost always worked.
Joe, contrary to his time period, but consistent with his upbringing, preferred the drink first and foremost, marijuana as a recreational drug only to be used with alcohol, and seemed to care very little for cocaine.
"No, I’m afraid everyone accepted the mantra that cocaine is God’s way of telling you you’re making too much fucking money."
He looked at his friend’s eyes to see a little bit of fear of some sort. He sipped and asked innocently enough.
"Do you see a lot of it, Frank?"
"Coke?" he asked with feigned innocence.
"I still see it, yeah. It’s around. I don’t like to do too much of it, but some of the guys I run around with like it and so I get a little bit here and there."
"How much?" Joe sat up.
"Not much. A couple of eight balls a month, tops. Just running-around stuff.
"An eight ball is three and a half grams, as I recall. A couple of them a month seems to be a lot, Sport."
"Nah, it’s not a lot. I’ve got … I know some guys who do a couple of them a weekend."
Now there seemed to be a reason why Frank seemed somewhat uneasy asking Joe questions about his drinking. In addition, he seemed to be hedging a wee bit. Joe took an interest in the new topic.
"How much does an eight ball go for these days? How much is a gram?"
"You can get an eight ball for … I don’t know … anywhere from $200 to $350. Depends on who you know." The BusinessMan emerges.
"And how much are you selling of it, these days?"
Joe skipped the intermediary questions and jumped right to the tough one. It all made sense now. Frank has been trying to ask him these personal questions all weekend because he’s worried about himself. He returns to his mates because they may (or may not) be an accurate mirror for him to judge his use.
"Selling? Do you know what kind of problems that can bring you?"
"Yes I do, and I’m hoping you do too. But you’ve always enjoyed the thrill of the score. I don’t know why wearing nice suits would change that about you."
Joe continued. "If I wanted to presume your answer on that front, I guess I should ask you the more serious one: how much of your profit are you putting up your nose, Ole Paint?" Joe laid it out there with a very direct tone to it.
"Well, let’s just say I don’t have to pay too much for it, but I ain’t making too much money either. It’s a wash."
The conversation could have taken a dramatic turn at this point, because indeed, Frank was fishing for some answers. He had brought with him a two grams this weekend, but despite how long he’d known his friends, he did not feel comfortable inviting them into his stash last night. He knew Brian would jump in with both boots on, but Frank didn’t enjoy spending his money on that leech, so he had kept his Pandora’s Box to himself.
Instead, he found subtle moments to sneak out to the car or into a single unit bathroom to render his nose candy and return to the crowd undetected.
He had tried to find a subtle and accepting way to invite Joe to snort a little, but after the argument this morning, nothing seemed like a good time. So he would keep his coke and his questions and his possible concerns to himself and there’d be time to discuss this with Joe another time.
In the meantime, he’d just keep his wife in the dark and hopefully there’d be no more re-occurrences of the argument that went so bad the previous month.
Before the topic could be explored any deeper, or the questions become any more personal, a big burly construction foreman from their post-high school days invited himself into their booth and began to pump Frank for updates and old times. Joe never let the topic of questioning become a huge concern for him, knowing that Frank knew he could talk to him at any point he felt strongly about something. The evening was meant to be low key and very Guy-like, and it was.
Basketball games on the tube, a dance marathon masquerading as a boxing match and a surfer movie took most of the men’s attention. Bringing up memories of the "good ole days" did little to generate enthusiasm; the crowd was mostly about trudging along through the present.
They stayed in the Drop until almost two a.m. Brian and Doug cut out early from work and arrived before 11.
Six pool games after the Posse’ was re-united, the boys returned to the respective homes uneventfully, with Frank and Joe saying good-bye and promising to call each other. And while they hadn’t planned anything specifically, the boys all thought that there would still be some time left this weekend to get together again and somehow re-generate some enthusiasm.
However, because of an important Saturday afternoon reception, Frank announced that he had to leave by noon the next day. Joe had his children the next day, starting at ten o’clock, and that pretty much put him out of commission until Sunday morning.
Without having discussed their plans too dutifully, and with Frank "inventing" the Saturday prior engagement, the boys realized as they said goodbye that this would be "it" for awhile. Whatever fun they’d hoped for on the weekend had come and gone, like it or not. They’d touch base again soon.
Sure they would.
Frank left by himself to spend the night at his retired parent’s home. Joe retired to his apartment, his head, his thoughts, and his plans for his children the next day.