“Do you have a joint?” I was startled and mildly amused by his candor. I was wearing my pastel skinny jeans and a designer blouse. My hair and makeup were intact, as I had just arrived at the party, so I couldn’t help but take offense at the possible implication that I appeared strung out.
“Um, no I didn’t bring one, sorry. Maybe you should ask somebody else,” I suggested. He reminded me of the privileged and hot late bloomer I dated who “only snorted cocaine on weekends.” I guess the implication was that cocaine use from Monday to Friday was not acceptable but come Saturday anything goes. As a non-recreational drug user myself, I tried to be open-minded but at some point every girl has to ask herself, “would I be embarrassed to tell my best friend the truth about this guy if he were my boyfriend?” and if the answer is “yes,” move onto the next.
“Let’s leave this place,” he gets credit for boldness but this is not what a woman likes to hear ten minutes into a first conversation with a guy at a friend’s birthday party.
“No, I’d like to stay here with my friends, but by all means, go find your joint and I’ll see you when you get back. So do you smoke a lot?”
“Of course not. It’s been a week,” he reassured me. “I still have two cigarettes so I’ll go later.”
“Um, if you’re really on the hunt for an altered mental state, you could always get drunk,” I suggested, trying to be a charming girl on his wavelength because by their 30’s, many of the sober and appropriate men have been snagged by their high school sweethearts.
“It wouldn’t work, I’m Russian, I would have to drink an entire bottle of whiskey.” His chiseled face, strong body and elegant stature accompanied by such remarks created a bizarre schism in my mind.
Feeling mild discomfort at the suggestion of how his tolerance became so high, I asked something else. “So how old are you?” He looked young but this was my grad school crowd so I couldn’t quite tell.
“26” he says without flinching. So what do you do?”
I tell him what I do in the wine & spirits industry.
“Then you’re in the right place, these people at this party love to drink!” It seemed he was attempting a joke, so I smiled. Polite girls smile even when it’s not funny.
“Haha, I got you! I’m actually 23!” He was quite amused with himself. At least somebody was. So that’s why he didn’t have frown lines. I was this close to asking him the name of his dermatologist for I had realized long ago that you can often obtain useful tips even from the biggest loser.
He spoke some more about his privileged upbringing, the luxury leisure sports he practices and the high profile politicians in his family’s inner circle. I guess he was trying to impress me but all I could see was his trembling hand. Nicotine withdrawal? Worse? I was afraid to ask.
“So tell me, what do you do?” he asked again. I suppose it bothered me only because he had asked me all but two questions the entire night and of the two, only remembered that I did not have a joint.
– Albany Eden