The Sour Closure
It was unsustainable, this regiment of speed, and alcohol, and benzos — that much was clear. Freaking benzos, without them nothing seemed to work, no drugs exhibited their familiar traits, except, perhaps, for alcohol, which still worked as it used to, albeit with a substantial change, as unexpected and unexplainable as it was welcome: in stark contrast to me of twenty something years old, I did not look for a fight, I did not end up at a police station, or wake up in a different city, few hours away from a conf call with the deputy chairman of the bank I was working for — strangely enough, I feel a very strong urge to spell it with the capital ‘B’ — the Bank — like I always do in my official correspondence now, working for a much, much larger institution, in fact, one of the largest in the world — one of those ‘too big to fail’ I suppose. When referring to my current employer in correspondence (read: emails) I always resort to ‘the Bank’ or ‘the Firm’.
Anyway, back then it was a small startup bank I was working for, and working there taught me a lot. Hell, fuck it, for that reason alone I might as well capitalise it — the Bank. I was working for the Bank, I was in my twenties, and I was drinking like a fish and doing uppers whenever I could get them. Right now, so they tell me, Kiev is overflowing with speed, there’s a cook in every neighbourhood they say, hell, I’ve even heard of villages having their own cooks, Ukrainian village on speed — that is surely something new. But back then, in mid 2000s it was not so easy — one could get some, but it required effort. Anyway, those were the wild years: waking up on a train arriving at Odessa — it was about a woman of course, the worst of my old antics were almost all about women — half drunk and suddenly acutely aware of the conf call I had on schedule with one of the Bank’s chairman’s deputy… it was a small Bank, by then about 120 employees, but still, the chairman was a chairman, and his deputy was to be reckoned with — besides, he was what is called in our parts, somehow misleading, an intelligent, which usually has nothing to do with intelligence, but mostly with the person’s bearing, politeness, social grace, capacity to be considerate, a certain social standing. I suppose a Western equivalent, with all the reservations of course, would be a gentleman. A gentleman does not necessarily have to be smart, but some gentlemen are, and so are some intelligents — this chap was one of those. So I, being, or at least trying to be, a gentleman myself, could not just ditch the call, and so, I set myself up at a nice place, the one of Odessa’s attractions back in the day in fact (I will bring my wife-to-be there once, years later), had something to eat, had some vodka in grafin, a glass decanter, something like 250 grams, or mls, or 25 CLs for those of you out there — and by the time of our call I was feeling pretty much on the ball. In fact, it turned out to be a productive call, as far as I can remember, I sold my proposal and got the budget approved.
Fuck, I do tend to digress, don’t I? I suppose there were two points I was trying to make: first, that nothing like this, I mean the fights and the police, happened to me this time around, God only knows why, but for that — I thank Him. And second — that I was always waiting for them to fire me… but they never did… because, I guess, even with all my drinking and drugging — I was delivering. This last one, the fear, or at least the idea, is actually constantly with me, for as long as I can remember, sober or not — the constant wonder, why the hell have they not fired me yet. That, surely, but at the same time the other recognition: for I know the answer — nothing brings it home better that interviewing candidates for my team. I’m fucking smart, I’m good at what I do, I have the edge over many of my competitors, for — thanks to post-Soviet school — I was taught more of the fundamentals, and much less so of practicals, an approach, if not outright extinct these days, but quite rare and underrepresented in comparison to a plethora of online courses focusing on developing a skill of this technology or that. Thus, I might know next to nothing about Python, but I can explain to my team how the piece of automation should behave, that it should have proper logging, proper error handling, that it should be broken into functions, and the variables should not be hardcoded, but taken from a config file. And if push comes to shove, I suppose I could learn Python in three days of intense online training, five if I’m to go easy about it.
That being said, I feel like these last couple of months I’ve been only semi-good at my job. Moreover, I feel that others feel that too. I’ve been erratic, I employed — quite consciously however, and with intent, — a rather brash tone in a few emails to the senior management, something I would probably (well, no, not necessarily — I have a reputation for lashing out) not do, and which resulted in complaints, no, feedback, via my boss, God bless his soul and grant him prosperity — for he is a real professional, and a person with whom we can exchange feedback, real feedback, freely, both ways… then again, throughout my career I was blessed with great bosses. Did it reflect badly on you, was what I asked him, and when he said that no, it didn’t, I was at ease — I can take some fire now and then. Anyway, that’s just one episode, — I feel, generally, that going on like this, with stims, and benzos, and alcohol, is not sustainable, as I said in the beginning. On many levels, — tiring is, this lifestyle, I actually wonder how my body is still able to cope with all the chemicals I throw at it — but also as far as work’s concerned. I may not like it, I may not agree with the direction management is setting, but I signed a contract, and if I don’t quit, I should give the job my best. Besides, as I said, I really respect my boss, and do not want to put him on a spot. And then there was quite recently this cryptic talk of the HR reaching out to my boss’s boss… Some talk — not necessarily about me, but which put me on alert… those thoughts… they know, they’re going to let you go now… for sure… Fuck! The timing couldn’t have been worse!
And so, I tried to snap out of it, for job’s, for income’s sake, as well as for — well, you know, the general health and well being. Took a week off to get off stims — I knew that for three, perhaps even four days I’ll be good for nothing, sleeping sixteen hours per day, lying flat for the remaining few — watching shows, reading. The benzos — they are tricky, one should taper down, and gently too, least one wants to end up like Dr. Jordan Peterson. I had my schedule worked out and I had supply, so that was covered. What remained, was alcohol — for I did drink. And that, on Friday, my last official day of leave, caught up with me: I had some wine, and then a through appeared, and then it manifested as a message to a supplier… and before I knew it, I was doing coke. Fucking doper, fucking junky… well..
I went to local disco party — small club, not too far away, and welcome change from techno venues, funky tunes… The plan, as always, was to come back home and get to sleep not later than 2 AM. But then, I got an Uber to the bar, or should I say The Bar? It was, after all, sort of in the direction of my home. It’s not, of course, so much The Bar which I wanted to attend, although I’ll admit, by the time I reached it I badly wanted a drink, but to see Her… alas, she wasn’t working on that day, but the bartender, recognising me, let me in — for the hour was late and officially the doors were closed. Me, and him, and burly bouncer fellow had had a few drinks. The coke was done, over, so after having one more drink for the road I headed home. I had to wait a bit for Nightbus, but eventually it came — my favourite means of transportation as of late, carrying my sort of crowd — it brought me home. It was about 3 AM, I was feeling sleepy, and I should have stopped there and then. But — no, the pump was going, and besides, I wanted closure — one more try at Tresor: hit or mis. Rationalising is I think what it’s called. I scored some more uppers and in I went. On duty was the girl who had rejected me twice before. This time however she just waved me in. And in I came, and did my usual thing: drink, snort, dance like there is no tomorrow. But somehow it all felt… not quite the same… like it was over, enough… it felt like closure: sad, but satisfying, definite.
Towards the end, I guess it was 8 AM or so, I felt, like sharing what I had left of coke, which was perhaps 0.3 of a gram, probably less. There was this couple on the dancefloor, whom I really liked, liked how they danced, and I have asked them flat — hey guys, would you like to do some coke with me? They agreed. I guess the lines I made were hefty — they did not object however, I did mine first, as is the proper form, and the way to show that that’s no ketamine or some other spiked shit which I might be trying to feed them in order to… well… rob them? take advantage? these things happen. Well, coke is for sharing — and I did want to share, and get it over with. It seemed to go down well. But then they did — inevitably — ketamine. I don’t know… it’s not the most advisable of combinations, but I saw Berliners do it a lot, on many occasions. The dude was fine, but the girl started vomiting — she didn’t stop for quite a while. We went to sit outside, to catch some air, I brought her water and bananas from the bar. We chatted for a bit, then I moved to the table with a joint — that was joint time. My couple seemed to have recovered, and told me they are heading back inside to dance. Well enough — I stayed for one more joint. Then I too went in: to use the bathroom, for real this time, for the purpose it was originally intended, to ask one last time if they had found my shades (yeah, I lost another pair — that makes it a total of three), and to say goodbye to happy people I was hoping to see on the dancefloor. They were however nowhere to be found. I found them on my way out, outside, in the small chill-out area Tresor has, same place they were sitting before. The guy was reclining, but looking pretty good, the girl, I figured, was vomiting again. There was a staff member next to them, a sort of caretaker — he told me those folks would rather be left alone. So I said my quick goodbyes and left. The caretaker chap seemed to regard me rather ominously — as if I was a drug dealer who sold the poor couple a bad batch.
And I must say, I do feel guilty… if it were not for me, they would have probably be dancing till the end. Well, fuck me! I liked them on the dancefloor, I wanted to share, to up their mood… but in the ended up ruining it. Were the lines too strong? Was that the ketamine? Fuck if I know: the dude seemed fine, and me… well, I did snort quite a bit of same powder, last line, as I said, right there and then, in front of them — and the first to go. I did not have no ill intent, yet somehow managed, to fuck their afterparty. Blast!
I called the club from home to ask about my couple but the guy at the other end yelled at me something along the lines of that he can’t be presumed to know about all the patrons attending the party and hung up on me. I think he blocked my number too, because my numerous attempts to call back were instantly cut. I tried to call from Skype, but received no response. The fate of that couple truly concerns me.
Now, God willing, I will stop this lifestyle, snap out of it, and will never go to Tresor, or any other club for that matter, again. The closure was palpable: in the music, as I walked the corridors, in the vibe… I was feeling it, and it seemed fitting. And to top this all off, in the end, despite my best intentions (ha!) I, perhaps (for in truth, it might as well be ketamine — something I never understood about Berliners partying), contributed to ruining the mood for that lovely couple. That leaves a sour aftertaste — I tell you, I could do without it. But maybe it should linger, should weight on me — maybe it will help me to stop. But I sure hope that lovely couple is all right. I’ll try to come by the club and ask.
