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minnesota writing project
center for writing
mwp.umn.edu
center for writing
mwp.umn.edu
Robyn Dettling Madson
©2014
This Time Will Be Even Better
Lora was the closest thing to a best friend I had. I met her through happenstance, I’m not sure how. I was a tenth grader, brand new to the high school, and she was entirely cooler than me: green hair, mismatched socks, an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. She was exactly the opposite of everything I had been taught to be: organized, straight-laced, matching. I didn’t do “what I had been taught to be” very well, so I took up the mantle of not doing what I had been taught to be, as much as I could, with Lora as my muse.
We shared art class—the one world either one of us semi-fit in. The art studios were a connected maze of irreverently painted posts and walls, thin cubbies with huge student-built canvases, pieces of deconstructed still-life, pottery wheels, dremels, jewelry saws, looms, yarn and creativity. We spent about a third of every day down there constructing, weaving, painting, cutting each other’s hair, drawing, critiquing, writing and playing. The teachers were accomplished old artists who seemed to flaunt their eccentricities and lack of respect for traditional educational practices. They pushed us to do different things, choose new mediums, try stuff that we actually wanted to try—as long as we were doing stuff.
Lora and I, along with a cabal of other crazy kids and misfits, emphatically did stuff. When the state sent out the obligatory “drug and dangerous activities” anonymous survey, we sat on the studio floor and laughed audibly as we filled out the bubbles without regard for the instructions to “not share your answers”:
Have you smoked cigarettes or used other tobacco products?
No.
How often have you smoked cigarettes or used other tobacco products in the past two weeks?
9 or more times.
We painted each other’s hands with acrylic paints—this was “living art” —and I spent the boring times in math class flicking flakes of paint from my hands onto the floor. We counseled friends going through break-ups, drew irreverent pictures of the human anatomy, held the canvas taut against frames so that the other could use two hands to steady the heavy-duty staple gun. We helped each other mix colors and survive high school.
Lora was the daring one in this relationship, and I found myself caught up in the absolute absurdity of shared jokes and poor life choices: nothing terribly dangerous, just terribly ridiculous to imagine doing today. We worked in Rosedale Mall off and on throughout high school, and during breaks we’d visit a small games and activity store that had an enormous red ball sitting right on the side of the entrance. This ball was taller than either Lora or I and we relished running up to it at full mall speed and jumping directly into it, then bouncing backward, hopefully back to our feet. More than once Lora “stole” the red ball and rolled it through the mall corridors—the type of thing you’d see in a movie about a quirky manic pixie dream girl whose only purpose in the movie was to teach the main character to embrace life, except in real life, it got us a bunch of annoyed looks and an admonishment that she would be banned from the mall next time.
Lora always had a car, but she was likely the worst driver I’d ever met. I still don’t know how she a) got her license, or b) managed to pay the insurance costs. She wasn’t a dangerous driver—don’t get me wrong. She never drove under the influence, and she didn’t get into accidents or hit things usually. Still, she is the only person I’ve ever known who’s been pulled over by a police helicopter. Perhaps it was carelessness, perhaps it was her car: a boxy import that had been red at one point, but was now painted with psychedelic swirls and flowers and a monster on the hood. A two-foot plastic sunflower stolen from her mom’s garden was wired onto the front grill of the car. Inside, the ceiling cloth hung from the roof, weighed down by hundreds of red “I am Loved” buttons taken from mall jewelry stores. Bob the Genie, a shiny plastic lamp, briefly lived on the dash and cursed the car until he was unsurreptitiously tossed from the passenger window on I-94. A fortune from a cookie had been glued onto the dash, then shellacked into place: “You will soon find two lost socks.”
It could have been the inconspicuous paint job or it could have been distracted driving, either way, she always got caught. None of this stopped me and eight other teenagers from getting into the hatchback one night with a cooler, a bicycle, and a dog and driving across town to the private beach, the Violent Femmes or the Pixies or Soundgarden blasting out the open windows. It didn’t stop us when we took the Dale Street exit at one in the morning on a Saturday and ran out of gas, leaving us at the mercy of a passing motorist who drove his car back two miles to the Lexington Parkway exit to get us a couple gallons of gas before the cop had the car towed as he had threatened. Driving with Lora, screaming to the radio, making fun of the newest “grunge” label or Green Day song—driving with Lora was freedom.
After high school, I went to school at the University. Lora worked odd jobs and occasionally took classes at the community college. We tried to stay close, hitchhiking across town for the Phish concert and crashing karaoke parties on frat row, but life pulled us in different directions. I fell in love—what I thought was love—but Lora could see through him and the entire dangerous facade. I couldn’t, and it broke us apart. I don’t remember the details of how we stopped talking, but there were tearful phone calls and angry words exchanged. Afterwards, I would lay in my empty apartment, alone after the break-up and break-down, remembering how I had been cruel in the heat of these moments, pitying myself and angry, but mostly feeling guilty.
A college graduation, a wedding, a major move, and one kid later, we reconnected. I was driving through my old neighborhood and she was walking down the sidewalk. My heart jumped into my stomach. I impulsively swerved to the side of the road and rolled down the window: “Lora? Wow. Hi. Want a ride?” She got in and we talked with the stilted, slow language of disbelief and uncertainty. We exchanged numbers and hopeful glances, then short coffee breaks and movie dates. Reconciliation has come slow through shared laughs and artistic collaboration, her taking the creative lead, as usual. I admire her ability to forgive and to wildly create, to recreate and experiment. We’ve wisened and hardened in some ways, relaxed and gentled in others. I think this time will be even better.
Drug Narrative
Nicotine
My earliest memories are drenched in cigarette smoke -
nestled in the crook between the burnt orange rocking chair and my father’s arm
his ever-present flannel shirts warm and reeking of tar and nicotine
and Dodge Diplomat cabs filled with wispy, sweet smoke
Later, that warm, slightly-sweet smell was replaced by stinging anger
biting into my throat and chest whenever he was around
he blew the smoke directly in my face after a complaint
a “fuck you” to his oldest daughter
Then it became a choice
after chronic coughing and inhalers and nebulizers
I never tried it. I never even put one to my lips.
Psilocybin
Mike had half a head of hair striped blue and green
Classic 90s raver big pants and painted nails
We hung out in the mornings
“Here I made this for you”
a cup of tea?
Leary eyeballing what’s in it?
“Nothing it’ll make the day better
it’ll just make the day better”
I drank it because high school sucks
Anything would make it better.
LSD
Your final assignment in this class is to choose an invention - anything that has changed the world - and write a paper about how it’s changed the world. You will then give a presentation with visual aids and a handout to the class about your invention.
I was totally set on nuclear warfare
until the boy I had a crush on said “you should do LSD…
I mean, for your project”
I read books - entire books - and poems and articles from Time Magazine
and watched Pink Floyd’s The Wall three times FOR RESEARCH
and I drew the most trippy handout any black-and-white copy could handle and still make sense
and I interviewed my friends who had dropped acid in school:
“my teacher, all of a sudden, had TWO HEADS like, it split IN HALF and became a new head!”
“There were all these Smurfs all over and I told Tom
and he started stomping on them and yelling LITTLE BLUE FUCKERS
because he thought they were evil”
“Oh, and that one time when Jake was laying in the middle of the road on his stomach and he kept trying to dig his fingers into the concrete because he was afraid he was going to fall off of the planet if he let go? Yeah, good times, good times…”
I only got a B+.
Maybe if I had actually tried it - you know, for research - I could have gotten an A.
Alcohol
“Eloise lives by the river - they’re having a bonfire down there”
We piled into L’s mom’s Bonneville
drove down to Lake Street
then climbed down the steep cliff
with heavy Doc Martens and 6-packs of Zima in the dusk
pretty sure it was unsafe but also awesome
At the bottom was a surreal mix of fire and water
and lost inhibition
and cheap, cheap liquor
box wine and smooth sand beaches
On the way up the embankment, Eloise vomited
sharp stringent smelling
I turned away to keep myself from the same fate
two boys held her arms and lifted her slowly, carefully
they kept saying that: “slow! careful!”
all the way up the cliff in the deep darkness
Joe promised to get her home
the garage gang promised to stay with her
I drove
because I was the only one sober.
Marijuana Part 1
Como park bonfire
I walked with Cian down the little hill into tall grass
he offered a metal oney painted like a cigarette
It burnt my fingers
Methamphetamine
Tom was having an overnight birthday party
a campout in the backyard
L and I pulled the classic parent switch
“I’m sleeping over at her house”
We roasted hot dogs
we played games
we flirted and joked
Tom cut some powder on the family picnic table
what is that?
“yellow sunshine” snort “wanna try?”
um… no, I’m good.
Later we walked up to the park on the hill
we watched the sunrise
I wanted to fall asleep but
he was still wide awake.
Marijuana Part 2
I hated college kids who smoked
then spent the rest of the night saying
“dude, I am SOOOOO high. Like, totally high.”
C’mon. Act like you’ve been here before.
Birth Control Pill
My mom freaked out.
My dad only said “just don’t get in trouble.”
I was beyond in love I was insane
codependent and sick
lost 40 pounds and most of my friends
without even trying
then when he cheated
I screamed longer than I ever thought possible
ruined my vocal chords that night
and I thought the car was soundproof at least enough to contain my anger
but the entire block heard the rage and pain
and they were scared to ask but the one gentle old man
finally came up to me and asked if I was ok
and I smiled and croaked yeah it won’t happen again
knowing he was asking half out of concern
half to make sure the peace wasn’t interrupted again
my peace was interrupted pretty much permanently
but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the “trouble” I was supposed to avoid
so I guess I’m good.
Marijuana Part 3
You can stay here but no weed
I’m a teacher
This is my livelihood
This is my career
This is who I am
No weed at the apartment.
Lexapro
I told the doctor I hadn’t feel it kick all day
I told the doctor it was happening more and more
I told the doctor I was at school and I was worried
I told the doctor over and over
I went in for an ultrasound the next week
“for safety’s sake, just to reassure you everything’s fine”
the tech rubbed familiar cold gel over my protruding gut
passed the wand over my navel and over again
she tried to hide her emotions - she really tried
but she was young and maybe she hadn’t had enough practice
and she left hurriedly mumbling
“I’ll be right back I’m just going to go find the doctor”
The doctor came in with a smile
“how are you doing?”
she was a little better at this game
um, good?
“you are going to have a baby today!”
An hour later, I was at the hospital.
A couple hours later I was in pain
A couple hours later I gored my husband’s hand
as a needle was hammered into my spine
A couple hours later I watched the heart monitor
embedded in my body, in his cranium
drop with each unfelt contraction
A couple hours later I signed a form allowing people
to cut open my body and extract his
A half hour later it wasn’t needed
I gave birth; pushed his body
and felt the emptiness rush into my collapsed abdomen
“it’s really small, it’s gonna be really small...
congratulations, you have a son!”
and I didn’t even listen to them because all I wanted to hear was the cry.
It finally came, a bleating, faint but urgent. Relief.
Two weeks later we took his less than four pound frame home
A month later he was big enough for a regular car seat
A month later he started crying like a normal baby rather than a bleating lamb
and 8 months later I tried to stop that incessant crying.
With a pillow.
For just a second.
I called for help the next day.
Straterra
“Hey Madson, I was gone a few days. What did I miss?”
“.... ok, first, who are you?”
That lapse brought countless tests
electrodes discs magnet images waiting
iq dementia alzheimers brain scan waiting
psychologist psychiatrist neurologist waiting
computer keyboards paper screens
“ADHD” wait, what?
“predominantly inattentive type - severe”
but I have a MASTERS degree!
“coping mechanisms...high iq…self-medicating...caffeine intake?”
but I can focus for hours on some things!
“that’s typical...hyperfocus”
That first weekend, I ate one half a donut
that’s it - one half of a sugar donut
while the world slowed down
around me
for the
first
time
ever.
Marijuana Part 4
Summer was hot when he got sick
Autumn was chemo and updates
When we heard he’d decided to stay home
to not take the long drive back to a city hospital
to not take the long shot at an unlikely treatment
we started weekends of long drives for short visits.
Winter was icy highways
and long nights sat around the table near the bed
and small bites of Thanksgiving dinner
and brownies.
Adderall
THIS. IS. THE. GREATEST. NIGHT. EVER. I GOT SEVEN RESEARCH ESSAYS GRADED HAD THREE E-CONFERENCES AND SPENT THE ENTIRE NIGHT DANCING. WHAT DO YOU MEAN TOMORROW IS ANOTHER SCHOOL DAY? OF COURSE IT IS - SO WHAT? AND TOMORROW I’M GONNA BE OUT HERE AGAIN - DEAD MAN WINTER IS PLAYING THE TURF EVERY TUESDAY THIS MONTH AND I’M GOING TO BE AT EVERY SINGLE SHOW. OBVIOUSLY. TOMORROW WILL BE FINE TOMORROW IS ALWAYS FINE TOMORROW WILL BE THE GREATEST DAY EVER, ACTUALLY. AGAIN. THEY ONLY PLAY TIL LIKE ONE IN THE MORNING. YOU SHOULD TOTALLY COME. WE CAN SLEEP THE NEXT NIGHT. COME OUT WITH ME. SLEEP IS OVERRATED. YES I HAVE A BABYSITTER THAT’S ONE OF THE PERKS OF BEING A HIGH SCHOOL TEACHER! I HAVE THE GREATEST KIDS EVER AND I AM ALL CAUGHT UP WITH GRADING I CAN’T BELIEVE I USED TO PUT THIS STUFF OFF AND NOW I HAVE TIME FOR EVERYTHING ELSE TOO WHY DIDN’T I FIGURE THIS OUT BEFORE SERIOUSLY. I HAVE NEVER HAD MY SHIT SO TOGETHER - ALSO CHARLIE PARR IS PLAYING TOMORROW SO IT WILL BE FINE!! WE HAVE TO GO DANCING THIS WEEKEND TOO I AM GETTING A BABYSITTER BECAUSE THE PISTOL WHIPPIN PARTY PENGUINS ARE PLAYING DOWN AT THE CABOOZE AND I HEARD PERT NEAR IS PLAYING AFTER THEM BUT THEY ARE USING A DIFFERENT NAME BECAUSE IT’S A SECRET SHOW AND WE TOTALLY HAVE TO GO!!!!
Marijuana Part 5
My son and I went to a concert at the Fitz
Classy place, front row seats, pretty expensive;
it didn’t feel quite right for this band -
they sound like hard work, heavy denim, and whiskey.
After a few songs, the crowd could not be contained
the bolted seats in fancy rows gave way
to a packed group of drunk dancers
We stood, my son leaning his head against the stage
Suddenly, on the other end of the stage, smoke
crisp against the spotlights - slowly making its way
through the crowd, closer and closer
“Are they smoking?”
crouch around him as a human shield
“That isn’t allowed, right mom? Why would they do that!?”
shift slightly
“Mom! We need to tell someone!”
Ritilin
Each day now is measured out in questions:
“did I take it this morning?”
I’ve been a test subject for so long,
I’m not sure what normal is
“what time can I take it again?”
but this feels pretty close
to what I imagine other people’s minds might do
“did I remember the bottle today?”
I know now that my thoughts will always be boiling
rolling around underneath and bubbling up to the surface
“is it too late to take it?”
sometimes it’s an inescapable trap
but sometimes it’s a divine asset
a catalyst for adventure
either way - resentment or comfort - it’s still there
“crap did I forget it again?”
Like a left arm or a rib
or maybe better, a ligament
connecting mind and body, seeing and feeling
“If I take it now, will it disturb my sleep?”
a chemical-induced focus
welcomed and embraced for a few hours
greeted like a new visit by an old friend
then let go like every-day routine.
