Coke & Card Tricks

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• June 4, 2017

I will retell this story to the best of my drug infused memory.  I will change my boyfriend’s name at the time to Paul, even though that was not his name, and I’ve never dated a Paul.  It should be noted that my memory is flawed and some of this is likely fiction.

Paul was a audience member at a show at a club I frequently play at some (3?) years ago.  That’s how we met.  He came to the bar, we had a drink, and he asked me out, and I obliged because I respected his forwardness, plus he had a great smile, and long eyelashes that complimented his chestnut eyes. Like most of my relationships, this one was brief and half assed, and I knew it would be especially brief and half assed, because he would get mad that I worked almost every night and refused to take off for him, thus putting comedy before him, even though I told him this would be the case.  I’ve never not been upfront that my (selfish) comedy career comes first.

Comedy is good for me.  Very good for me, in fact.  Because nights when I’m not doing comedy, I’m too tempted by mischief.  Adventure has always been my hearts desire, but mischief will serve just as well when adventure is no where to be found.  This was a Friday night, and I happened to not have a gig.  I lived in Queens, but Paul lived on Long Island.  Long Island is an easy enough commute for me, plus, at the time, my folks still had their house out there so there was still a home for me to stay.

I don’t remember exactly how the night started, even though that’s when I was most sober.  I remember going to a bar, and running into friends of Paul’s dad (or family?), or maybe he used to work for this guy.  Honestly, I don’t remember.  Paul and I were in our twenties, and these guys and gals were in their thirties or forties, and they were loaded.  I knew this, not only because of how much top shelf booze was being ordered and how they dressed, but also because they extensively talked about houses, boats, vacations, and other lavish materialistic things.  If you’ve hung out with me, even once, you could probably tell by my matchstick girl attire that I’m not really a materialistic person.  While I don’t hate the rich like my fellow millennial (not at all! I hope to be rich one day!), I value time over money, henceforth, why I don’t have any money.  But I’m hardly impressed by Gucci.  I’m much more impressed if you’ve read Hunter S. Thompson or David Sedaris, or also think, like me, that life is meaninglessly absurd.

Cute and quiet.  That’s the reputation I have earned at most parties, my wholesome looks a tried success for covering up the macabre thoughts that mostly occupy my brain.  It was a complete shock to them I was a comedian, and they all asked me to tell them jokes, which I refused (and hated them for).  I was completely uncomfortable, and out of my element, but I am sorely used to being uncomfortable, so I know how to handle it, and in this particular instance, it was by doing shots of patron. I do not remember anyone else’s name, so changing them for the story is unnecessary.  I will make up their names.  See?  Benefits to alcohol!

From this bar, we were going to go to Donnie’s house.  Donnie, the alpha of the group, a short Italian guy with a gut and raunchy sense of humor had been incessantly hitting on me in front of my boyfriend and his wife.  I can’t say this bothered me as much as I found it rather curious because neither Paul nor Donnie’s wife seemed phased or even annoyed by this at all.  Sure, I didn’t love Paul.  And he didn’t love me.  We were totally mismatched as a couple.  After our second date he referred to me as his “future ex wife.”  Honestly, it was the funniest and most accurate thing he ever said.  I couldn’t believe I was on my way to this guys house with these people as I would actually hate all of them if they were in the audience at one of my shows.  But in that moment, for whatever reason, I just let it go. I would be a wallflower and occasional player in whatever this night would bring.

Donnie had a mansion on the south shore in Nassau County.  The backyard was magazine perfect, with a hot tub, pool, outside bar and grill.  Here we continued to drink and smoke weed, though Paul was not a weed smoker, nor were half the guests at this small gathering, but fear not!  The coke dealer was on the way!

There were maybe a total of ten of us.  Myself, Paul, Donnie, Donnie’s wife, another couple, Donnie’s wife’s friend, and two other guys, and one sober guy I’ll call Max.  Inside the house, the entire basement was a movie theater/bar.  This impressed me, actually.  Remember when I said I wasn’t impressed by money?  I lied.  If I had money, I would definitely build a small movie theater with a bar.  Two of my favorite things combined!  And I wouldn’t have to go in public to enjoy them!  It felt less like a basement and more like an exclusive club.  I still didn’t know anyone’s name and half hated being there, but I was drawn to these people, as they were successful fuck ups and I was used to being around failing fuck ups.

Not surprisingly, Donnie’s favorite comedian was Dice.  I love when people tell me their favorite comic is Dice, because it confirms what I already suspected and I already suspected you’re an idiot.  The woman who was not married to Donnie was a big Bill Burr fan, and we talked for a while about comedy and she praised my “balls” for doing stand-up, and fawned over how pretty I was, her fake tits occasionally pressing against my arm.  I felt more like a lamp at this party than anything else.  Someone was always touching my hair or my arm, telling me I was beautiful and then talking at me though as I could only ever focus on what they were saying for a couple minutes at a time.  I barely spoke at all.  I mostly smirked and laughed uncomfortably.

Max was the oldest guy there and the only sober one.  I found this suspicious.  Sober people are always suspicious to me.  He was probably in his late forties.  An alcoholic who quit some years ago.  Max wore a Yankees cap, and was perhaps the only person quieter than myself, behind the bar serving drinkings and shuffling cards.  I didn’t know what to make of Max, especially since everyone else here was so easy to figure out.

When the coke arrived, lines were cut on the bar.  It was the most cocaine I had ever seen.  I remember looking at the bag and thinking, “that’s my rent, right there. What a waste of money.”  And then I promptly joined in in snorting the narcotic.  I was staunchly aware of this life lesson: If you’re somewhere you don’t want to be, it’s better to be high.  Also, if you’re someplace you want to be, it’s better to be high.

We were all coked out of our faces, and it was loud, like there were thirty people there, and people talked over one another, but I was just trying to focus on one thing at a time and commit some of it to memory, save it for later.  Donnie was chastising Paul for not taking me the spare room and fucking me right then.  “God, if she were my girlfriend… Do you want to be my girlfriend?”  Donnie then went on about his girlfriend, with his wife standing within an earshot, which wouldn’t be hard for her to hear at all because it always seemed like Donnie was yelling.  I’m still not sure how Donnie became so wealthy.  He was truly a moron, but there was something charming about him.  I felt like I was in a scene in Wolf of Wallstreet.

I’m pretty fucked up myself at this point, and I can’t decide if I want to go home or if I want to do more lines of blow.  I’ll let you guess which one I did, but I still felt I needed to get away from Donnie and my boyfriend.  Max was the only one who didn’t touch the coke, and he was rather pensive behind the bar, and I  thought, “how the fuck can this guy stand being around us sober?” So that’s exactly what I asked him.  He laughed.  He said he’s done his fair share, and drove his wife away because of it.  He also apologized for Donnie.

“I know how he comes off, but he’s a good guy, trust me.  He’s been a real loyal friend when almost no one else has.”
“That’s what Paul says too.  He’s seems a bit of a misogynist though.”
He laughed, “sometimes women mistake men who love women too much for hating them.”

I was suddenly very interested in Max, a fellow misfit.  I wanted to know all about why he was sober.  God, I loved a good drug and drinking story.  I wanted to know about how he came to be at this place, which seemed just as odd as me being here.  Why his wife left.  And if he ever thought he’d stop loving her.  He hid his sad eyes in the shadow of his ball cap when he mentioned her.  Regret hung in the bags under his eyes when he avoided my gaze.  Perhaps he deserved to be woeful, or perhaps he suffers because there is relief in feeling you deserve burden.  I didn’t ask any of these questions, however.  They were caught in my dry mouth and I sipped a Heineken which I didn’t want to drink at all.  I was already so fucked up I could feel myself on the verge of blacking out.  To be clear, I never felt unsafe amongst these people.  I wouldn’t have been there if I did. If I told Paul I wanted to leave immediately, he would have listened to me.  He was gentleman in some ways.

I guess Max could tell I was zoning out, though that wasn’t necessarily from the drugs.
“Want to see a card trick?” He said.
“Yes!” Fun fact, I love card tricks.  I am easily impressed with a good card trick, mostly because I usually can’t figure out how they’re done, and I like being outsmarted sometimes.

Max continued to do what were some of the best card tricks I’d ever seen. And I’m not just saying that because I was completely lit. Apparently, in his sobriety, Max devoted his time into mastering card tricks.  One by one, the other bacchanalias patrons gathered around the bar.  We laughed, and toasted our drinks, I thought my boyfriends arm was around me, but it turned out to be Donnie’s.  What fun we were having!  A scene from a Baz Luhrmann movie, the music was playing, the card tricks entertaining, drinks pouring!  We were roaring with laughter, even though I can’t remember anything funny happening at all, save for feeling like you’re dropping from the top of a roller coaster.  More lines were disappearing up people’s noses.  Donnie’s wife went on some rant about Donnie’s infidelity.  Much to my puzzlement, she wasn’t yelling at him, she was joking with him about it.  “She’s too pretty and smart for you.  You’re rich but ugly.”  It took me a moment to realize they were talking about me.

Unlike the rest of the crew who had all thought they were fodder for my next “skit” (and Donnie who himself thought he could be a comedian), Max praised the intelligence of comics, insisting it was one of the hardest art forms.  I think I rambled on about comedy after that, having been completely smashed and under the impression that “this guy gets it.”  I’m always thrilled to meet someone who is a Colin Quinn fan and tells me “Tough Crowd” was one of their favorite shows.  I saw this as a sure sign of intelligence.  I don’t think my boyfriend had ever even heard of “Tough Crowd.”  I more than once tried to pry into Max’s life, because he was clearly withholding good stories, and I am but a humble writer, thirsty for a good tale.  But he kept the focus off of him.  From there we talked about movies and how life is meaningless but okay, because it was funny, and I wished Max’s personality was in my soon to no longer be my boyfriends body.  I’m not even sure where my boyfriend was during this.  He could have been right next to me.  He could have been doing more blow with Donnie.  Why the fuck was I dating this guy or at this party, I had no idea.  I felt unlike myself, and while I was enjoying this little vacation from my normal self, talking to Max made me miss the person I was vacationing from.

The one and only thing I actually regret from that night is getting in the car with  someone completely coked out and probably also drunk.   Despite killing a shit ton of brain cells, I knew that was a horrible idea even at that moment, but I so badly wanted to go home, I would have gotten in the car with Lindsay Lohan behind the wheel.  Despite this night, cocaine is not my drug (and thank goodness for that!) and the comedown makes me rather agitated.  The sun was rising when I got back to my childhood home and it was a beautiful morning, the sky all yellow and pink, but I just wanted to sleep more than anything and yet could not because I was too dehydrated.  My body was numb, but my head was reeling. I felt awful, and depressed.  I hated myself.  Not for the events of the night. Hating myself led to that night, that became obvious later.  These reasons, however, are never so obvious when they need to be.

I never saw any of those people again, besides Paul.  Neither one dumped the other.  We just kind of let the relationship fizzle out, which was perfect.  That really says it all about our so called toxic relationship.  I’m not casting blame on Paul, by the way. I mean, he was an idiot, but not a bad guy.  I was drinking my own venom.  I always thought it was better to poison myself than to inject it in others.  I think that’s what I had in common with the man who knew the great card tricks.