Part 1: Where’s The P@rty?

Danny had a funding conference in the OC he described as “a lot of rich white men talking about money,” but that in the end the event had been a success and Danny had secured investors for his latest venture. He texted me the day he arrived.

Him: You wanna do a road trip, dear?

I was texting another friend at the time and had to consult him on the meaning of the message. Was he actually proposing a road trip? Would would an excursion with Danny look like? The last time we’d gotten together he’d been an infuriating handful, too wasted to keep track of his money, let alone maintain our traditional fantasy swap. The experience had left me bitter, even though prior to that moment, our relationship had been positive— enjoyable even. I confided in my friend.

Me: I can’t do it. Even if he paid me a lot. The man has no sense of discretion.

But I didn’t say that to Danny. I didn’t want to rush to any conclusion if I didn’t understand what he meant with his late night text. So I responded:

Me: What do you mean “road trip”?

Him: I’m in Anaheim. Come down here?

I was relieved he wasn’t trying to coordinate some kind of substantial excursion. He just wanted me to do something inconvenient, i.e. drive two hours south to visit him. It was approaching 11 p.m. and I was already in pajamas. I was not about to put on a full face of makeup and my ponytail, then drive to Anaheim at a moment’s notice.

Me: You gotta give a girl a timeline, Danny. I can’t just pick up and go this late at night.

Him: I know. You’re right. You know how I roll.

Me: Lol, I do. You’re a wild one.

Him: You are too.

We played phone tag over the next two days. He was working late, and I was getting to bed early. Finally we decided on Thursday.

Him: Meet 10:30?

Me: Sure.

I went into work early hoping my manager wouldn’t make a big hullabaloo over me clocking out early. The night was steadily lucrative, even though I wasn’t hustling very hard. At 9:30, Danny texted me.

Him: Can you pick up the p@rty for me? I’ll get you back for it.

I hate drug shopping for my customers. They’re sheepish about locating blow, so they ask me to do the dirty work. Meanwhile, my face is tied to the transaction, and I don’t even enjoy partying.

Me: How about this: I’ll get you what you want if you don’t try to finagle me on my price again?

Him: How much?

Me: 1g

Him: Okay dear. Heart you.

Everybody knows I’m the sober girl at the club. I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs unless called upon to by some big spender who really doesn’t want to get inebriated alone. I wasn’t sure where to start. Firstly, because I didn’t have a visible client I could point to and say “this baggy is for him,” and secondly I wanted to keep the transaction as discreet as possible. I knew one coworker who was definitely selling, but I didn’t want to go to him because I didn’t want him to know the reason I was planning to leave early. I had to maintain that I was leaving because “I wasn’t feeling well,” not because I had an outcall. That left the bathroom attendant. I’d never purchased from him before, but I knew he supplied and I’d sent multiple clients to him before. I went to the men’s bathroom to find him. Unfortunately, another attendant was there, the daytime guy. I figured I might as well try him. I leaned in awkwardly.

Me: Heyyyy. Um. Would you happen to have “party supplies”

Him: What do you mean?

Me: You know “party”

I gestured air quotations.

Him: I don’t understand.

He looked so puzzled. I was frustrated I was having to spell it out, in the men’s room with this guy who I had never meet before. What a precedent to set.

Me: You know, nose drugs? Blow?

I made a snorting gesture, covering one nostril.

Him: I still don’t understand ma’am. What is it you are looking for?

Me: Coke! Do you have cocaine?!

Him: Oh! I do not. But I know you can get it from one of the managers. I don’t sell it, but the guy coming in after me has some. He should be here soon.

Okay, not a total loss. He had provided the necessary intel. I took a deep breath.

Me: Thank you.

I left the restroom and went to sit somewhere I could have a clear eye shot to the restroom in case the nighttime attendant showed up. Fifteen minutes later he rolled up with his roller bag full of candy, condoms, viagra, bongos, and other odds and ends he brings in regularly to decorate the men’s room. I made a beeline over to him. The other guy was still there, putting away his bathroom setup. He pointed at me.

Him: Her.

The nighttime bathroom attendant held out his hand in a downward facing fist.

Me: How much is it?

NBA: $80

I handed him $80.

NBA: Thank you. Good luck working hard.

He didn’t mean it sarcastically. It seemed he meant it like, the coke was enabling me to work harder, as if it was a tool to wield like any other. I wasn’t about to debate him or try to say something like “oh, it’s not for me,” because how many times have people used that excuse? And I suppose in a way, it was for me. I just thanked him and left, because mission accomplished.

My manager didn’t give me any trouble over leaving early. I didn’t have to prove anything. I tipped everyone more than normal, just to keep them quiet, not that they noticed because it wasn’t as though I was handing out hundreds. We’re all accustomed to a certain pay grade, and if we aren’t getting tipped in twenties, we don’t take note. Danny texted me.

Him: Kandinsky 10:30

Me: Is that a hotel?

Him: Yes love. On Sunset.

Me: 30 min ETA.

Him: 🎉🎉🎉. I’m at the bar downstairs.