Synopsis: Cokehead - Volume 4: Chariots of Higher. A real-life adventure spanning two continents, 'Cokehead' is a semi-regular pulp series chronicling one man’s journey to and from the depths of cocaine addiction including entanglements with Mexican drug police and a trio of knife-wielding pimps in Amsterdam, and life as a second-rate model in Milan, a bartender in Toronto and philanderer everywhere. (You may also be interested in reading Cokehead - Volume 3: Euro-trashed.)

I first snorted cocaine on a beach in Vancouver in 1993.

I was 22 – long past prime for peer pressure – but up until that moment my experience with drugs had been limited to the occasional toke from my weed-worshiping roommate’s eternal flame and a couple of ill-advised acid trips.

Truthfully, I was as pure as the fat rails laid out on the log in front of me were purported to be. Thing is, I can’t even recall how those first lines measured up – I was certifiably shitfaced, and lacked a legitimate reference point. In fact, the next night at work, the bartender who’d brought the blow to the beach had to tell me (to my genuine horror) I’d done cocaine. No matter. I was in the club. And, as a fledgling coke enthusiast, it wouldn’t take long to learn that “this is totally pure shit” is the best line a coke dealer will ever deliver. It doesn’t matter if the douchebag lays it out in Vancouver, Toronto, Milan or Los Angeles, what he really means to say is, “This was totally pure shit.”

Back when it left Bolivia.

Long before I chased white lines down a beach, I ran between a pair painted along a track. My first competitive race was a rain-slicked 100-metre dash at a large catholic meet in Vancouver in 1977. Still just a small, shy, second grader, I lowered my head and, tilting it at a patented angle, peered out from behind my protective shag of brown hair to sneak a peek at the competition: a sextet of third graders with a year of sprinting experience on me and, to make matters worse, a height advantage of what, from my diminutive vantage point, must have been at least a foot.

“On your marks!” the starter yelled.

My stomach fluttered as I inched my right foot towards the starting line.

“Get set!”

The cacophonous crowd faded and my periphery dimmed, the runway lighting up for takeoff ahead of me. Eyes locked like a laser-sight on the finish line, I crouched down, cocked for the starter’s pistol.

CRACK!

I came last.

Too young to comprehend the psychological complexities swirling amidst the agony of defeat, but adequately equipped physically to express some of them via bent face, shuddering sobs and rolling tears, I dashed to the sidelines and stumbled into the open arms of my father. Never short on wisdom, he dropped down to one knee and, brushing tears aside with the back of his hand, said in his soothing Scottish brogue, “Remember this race, son. Because you’ll never come last again.”

He was right. 

Unfortunately, when it comes to buying coke, the customer never is. After all, receipts aren’t issued, product rarely returned. Perhaps why, when it comes to large purchases, complaints are usually lodged with bullets.

And so it goes. Every dealer cuts coke. Every buyer knows it. At the street level, Caveat Emptor is, typically, the only principle a seller has, which is why it’s always better to “know a guy.” He’s the one on your speed dial, first or fake first name only, and, since his product is cut to shit too, he’s only a marginal improvement, but the drive-through rapport built from doing repeated business with the same dealer brings some kind of fucked-up legitimacy to the transaction. So you shoot the shit for a bit. Maybe talk about the hockey game. He might even throw in a free gram every once in a while. After all, you’re a good customer. And believe him, it’s “totally pure shit.”

This douchebaggery ain’t rocket science. Of course, if you’ve ever snorted enough of the stuff, chances are you’ve tried to convince a cracked-out crew of red-nosed railers that building a rocket wouldn’t be that hard. Hell, you could probably apply to NASA and get a job building navigation systems.

Why?

Because you’re good at finding shit.

Matter of fact, you’ve got a 100 percent recovery rate when it comes to your car keys, though you keep a spare set in the drawer next to the computer, just in case. Maybe you’ll dust off the resume and fire it over to NASA first thing in the morning. When someone points out that morning’s already underway on the fear-and-loathing side of the permanently shuttered blinds, you laugh and ask the girl who’s grinding her furry teeth so hard she’s sprinkling shards of calcium onto the sweat-soiled sofa what it was you were just talking about. 

But she wasn’t listening, because the only reason she came back to the apartment with you in the first place was because you told her you scored an eight ball, which you didn’t, and the paltry gram and a half you actually had is running pretty low. So chop up those final few lines, rocketman. But cut a fatter one for yourself, now that supplies are thin. After all, you paid for it. Hey, it’s shitty coke anyway, you say, bitching about that fucking dealer. Douchebag. He might be your guy but really the only good thing about him is that he’s always got his phone on.

So you call him.

Because he’ll bring more shit.  

I was already the shit by the time I watched Chariots of Fire for the first time with my parents at the theatre in 1981, bringing home gold, silver and bronze medals from the annual provincial track championships and a rainbow of ribbons from every other major meet. But that movie changed everything. By the time Vangelis’ synthesized sounds signalled Scottish missionary Eric Liddell’s climactic 400-metre win at the Paris Games, my destiny seemed clear: I would become an Olympic sprinter.

Or perhaps an 800-metre specialist. 

Quite simply, I wanted to become the best runner in the world. And, for a short time, believed I could be. 

(Short on ball-handling skills, my blazing speed was a cherished asset on the soccer pitch. “Put your afterburners on!” the assistant coach would shout from the sidelines as I streaked down the right wing, pushing the ball past a series of static defenders before crossing it in for a goal. Sometimes he’d even put money on me in a sprint against the opposing team’s fastest player. Once, after I’d played a full 90 minutes on the pitch, he gave me five bucks for beating a player who hadn’t even played a game yet. Probably not the finest example of the collaborative spirit team sports allegedly foster, but then, at least our parents weren’t brawling in the stands.)

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