Catfish & Potato Salad

It was hands down the best cocaine I’d ever done.

The dope man lived in a High Rise off lower Broadway.

He wasn’t really the dope man.

He was the middle man.

But it doesn’t matter.

We gave him money, he gave us dope. Case closed.

We walked into his overpriced, undersized apartment.

Music played in the background and for some reason Creflo Dollar was on the TV.

Nothing is more obnoxious than when people have the stereo and the TV going at the same time.

The dope arrived and the kindly gentleman who secured our bag gave us a line of his own.

This was one of the most selfless acts I’d ever witnessed.

Or the most insane depending of your point of view.

We left this apartment and headed toward Sylvan Park.

At some point I realized I was numb from the bridge of my nose down.

The mix of cigarette smoke and dope drip became a thickening agent that made swallowing impossible.

We arrived at our destination and joined our compadres waiting patiently.

The drinks flowed and the cocaine stretched further than I anticipated.

The bag appeared to be dwindling, but thankfully two of our four participants threw in the towel.

They wisely transitions to beer and weed to try and taper off.

Not thinking much of it, I dumped the remainder of the bag onto the kitchen counter.

Only then did I realize there was an obscene amount of cocaine left.

I wondered how I had been so wrong about what remained.

But at no point did I think scooping any of it back into the bag was an option.

The one and only option was to do the remainder of the cocaine.

Period.

And so we did.

The person who helped me achieve this feat shall remain nameless, but you know who you are!!!

With the task at hand complete, and the rollercoaster ride of spiking up & down having begun, we raced home in a desperate attempt to beat the sun.

There is no worse feeling than seeing the sun come up when you’re coming down.

It can only be described as “Icky!”

As I painfully crawled into bed, I remembered I had to be on the complete other side of town in about 4 hours.

My alarm went off 3 hours later and I came to feeling something like death mixed with concrete.

Sweating booze, tobacco and cocaine, I drove through two counties blood shot and frayed.

I made it to my destination, shook a few hands, and feigned human.

I sat down in a haze, which surely had to have been noticed, but no one said a word.

The restaurant, all the people in it, and their conversations swirled around me like a tornado.

Then a lovely lady came up from behind and whispered in my ear “I heard you love catfish and potato salad.”

She slid a plate in front of me with an entire fried catfish on it, head and tail still attached, and two double D scoops of potato salad.

In some other universe it may have been acceptable to pass or simply nibble on this meal.

But not in Williamson County Tennessee.

So I very painfully, and very slowly, ate every bite on my plate.

And to this day, I’ve never had catfish & potato salad again.