Read Online Ali in Wonderland: And Other Tall Tales by Ali Wentworth - Free Book Online
Authors: Ali Wentworth
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red snapper on the table, and for the rest of the night I was convinced the fish was staring at me. And sending me telepathic messages, like “Help.” When the fish head was severed with a silver poisson cutter and its body filleted in half, I fainted. Lay Lady Lay, Lay across that big lace table.
That was the extent of my drug repertoire up to that point. So Abigail and Blanca, dressed like Miami hookers in Spandex jumpsuits, went off to a Euro-trash disco club to dance off the speed the coke was cut with. I passed on the prospect of being molested by a group of Polish car salesmen. Instead, I chose cable TV.
I lay on the leather—ah, pleather—sofa and watched the film Mannequin twice, imagining how amazing it would be to have a body made out of plastic. Much like Hollywood today. Blanca had said as she pulled on her red cowboy boots, “Mira, if ju want some Coca, ees okay.” I held the baggie up to the light, bounced it on my knee, and shifted the mountain of white snow from one side to the other. It was two in the morning, and I was bored. I tapped a spoonful onto the glass table. I’d spent my life blowing things out of my nose and it seemed against nature to snort in a foreign substance. I tried a little, but felt nothing but a medicinal drip in the back of my throat. So I snorted more and more. I snorted nose candy throughout the entire movie Valley Girl (for which Nicolas Cage should have been nominated for an Academy Award, in my opinion).
When I got up to pee, the room started to whirl. I made my way to the bathroom like I was on a speedboat driven by Daniel Craig. I threw up white liquid that resembled a paste used for découpaging tables. My hands were shaking, and clearly someone had thrown a grenade into my brain. I made what I considered a wise choice at the time: to immediately fly home to D.C. Something was wrong, my sensors were out of whack, and I needed balance, I needed my mom. I grabbed my clothes, books, and the bag of cocaine. My thinking was that I needed to come down slowly, so I’d taper off little by little. (What did I know? I wasn’t raised in Coconut Grove!) I left the South American drug cartel and Abigail a note—“Freaked out, going home, thanks for the hospitality, you’re out of Coke—Ali.”
By the time the taxi pulled up at Logan airport, I was sweating profusely; a heart attack was imminent. And then, in slow motion, I saw guards and United Airline representatives eyeing me suspiciously. Everyone knew, and it was just a matter of time before I was surrounded by machine guns, blinding floodlights, and salivating German shepherds. I ran to the ladies’ room and flushed the white horse down the toilet. I was not going to spend my life in a Turkish prison!
The plane ride was endless. The stewardess looked concerned, kept asking me if I was okay and if I needed water. I was licking my lips like a puppy who’d been fed peanut butter.
My older brother, John, answered the front door. He was home from Brown for a few days. “What happened to you?”
I fell to the ground in the fetal position. “I snorted fourteen grams of cocaine!” This was not something he expected from me. He reacted with a combination of horror and pride. He called the cocaine hotline and had a long discussion with an ex-addict named Nancy who begged my brother not to give me any other substances. “She’s tweaking from the crap it’s cut with, not the actual cocaine itself. She should only drink water and eat steamed vegetables for the next few days.” Are you telling me John DeLorean got through detox on bok choy?
I tossed and turned in my bed, moaning as my brother placed cold washcloths on my head. And then we heard the front door slam and our miniature dachshund, Chester, yelping. We knew. Muffie was home.
“She has the flu, so the school sent her home.” My brother intercepted Mom as she cautiously entered my bedroom.
“They never called me? If she’s sick, why did they make her
That was the extent of my drug repertoire up to that point. So Abigail and Blanca, dressed like Miami hookers in Spandex jumpsuits, went off to a Euro-trash disco club to dance off the speed the coke was cut with. I passed on the prospect of being molested by a group of Polish car salesmen. Instead, I chose cable TV.
I lay on the leather—ah, pleather—sofa and watched the film Mannequin twice, imagining how amazing it would be to have a body made out of plastic. Much like Hollywood today. Blanca had said as she pulled on her red cowboy boots, “Mira, if ju want some Coca, ees okay.” I held the baggie up to the light, bounced it on my knee, and shifted the mountain of white snow from one side to the other. It was two in the morning, and I was bored. I tapped a spoonful onto the glass table. I’d spent my life blowing things out of my nose and it seemed against nature to snort in a foreign substance. I tried a little, but felt nothing but a medicinal drip in the back of my throat. So I snorted more and more. I snorted nose candy throughout the entire movie Valley Girl (for which Nicolas Cage should have been nominated for an Academy Award, in my opinion).
When I got up to pee, the room started to whirl. I made my way to the bathroom like I was on a speedboat driven by Daniel Craig. I threw up white liquid that resembled a paste used for découpaging tables. My hands were shaking, and clearly someone had thrown a grenade into my brain. I made what I considered a wise choice at the time: to immediately fly home to D.C. Something was wrong, my sensors were out of whack, and I needed balance, I needed my mom. I grabbed my clothes, books, and the bag of cocaine. My thinking was that I needed to come down slowly, so I’d taper off little by little. (What did I know? I wasn’t raised in Coconut Grove!) I left the South American drug cartel and Abigail a note—“Freaked out, going home, thanks for the hospitality, you’re out of Coke—Ali.”
By the time the taxi pulled up at Logan airport, I was sweating profusely; a heart attack was imminent. And then, in slow motion, I saw guards and United Airline representatives eyeing me suspiciously. Everyone knew, and it was just a matter of time before I was surrounded by machine guns, blinding floodlights, and salivating German shepherds. I ran to the ladies’ room and flushed the white horse down the toilet. I was not going to spend my life in a Turkish prison!
The plane ride was endless. The stewardess looked concerned, kept asking me if I was okay and if I needed water. I was licking my lips like a puppy who’d been fed peanut butter.
My older brother, John, answered the front door. He was home from Brown for a few days. “What happened to you?”
I fell to the ground in the fetal position. “I snorted fourteen grams of cocaine!” This was not something he expected from me. He reacted with a combination of horror and pride. He called the cocaine hotline and had a long discussion with an ex-addict named Nancy who begged my brother not to give me any other substances. “She’s tweaking from the crap it’s cut with, not the actual cocaine itself. She should only drink water and eat steamed vegetables for the next few days.” Are you telling me John DeLorean got through detox on bok choy?
I tossed and turned in my bed, moaning as my brother placed cold washcloths on my head. And then we heard the front door slam and our miniature dachshund, Chester, yelping. We knew. Muffie was home.
“She has the flu, so the school sent her home.” My brother intercepted Mom as she cautiously entered my bedroom.
“They never called me? If she’s sick, why did they make her
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