I’m on the Black
February 3, 2001
It dawned on me how much this was like an Atari game. In fact, the more difficult it became not to collapse and somersault down the escalator, I was positive it had been an Atari game.
Drunkenly, I decided I could award myself bonus points if I walked down the escalator as it transported me to the train platform. The first step was difficult, but I soon got into the flow of things.
I weaved in and out past other people, marvelling at my own skills and wondering if I’d discovered a cheat code. A high score was inevitable, in any case.
I zoomed further down. This was too easy. As long as I kept moving, I was fine. I walked faster and faster down the steps, accelerating and unstoppable.
As I reached the last three steps of the escalator, I realised that at some point in the past ten seconds, I had transcended from speedy striding to… well, falling.
In my mind, my alighting would surely have impressed those around me. After all, they all seemed off their face on something (who else catches a train at 11pm in the evening?).
I flew headlong from the escalator. My arms began moving at strange angles. Angles that seemed to emulate some sort of meter that guaged popularity of the first series of the TV show Popstars.
Out. Up. Up. Up. As if I was trying to fly. A little to the left. Down a tad. Then up again. Up, up. Up. All while I am galloping like an insane, drooling cast member of Friends towards their next Golden Globe.
Then, down. And also very nearly out. I’m sure to anyone who viewed from afar, it would have appeared to be a very professional triple jump, with the sandpit replaced by a concrete pole.
‘Heh heh heh heh,’ a voice above me snickered.
I looked up to be confronted by a man who seemed to be in the same state as I was. Sensing he understood that the pain I’d just gone through would be worth the high score I was sure to receive, I grinned up at him. This sent him into a fit of laughter. I found this hilarious and giggled as well.
I dragged myself up against the pole, and he cocked his head at me. ‘So what are you on, mate?’
‘Nothing, man,’ I replied.
‘Nah,’ he shook his head. ‘You can’t take a fall like that and laugh yourself silly. You’re on the green, eh?’
‘No, no,’ I said steadfastly.
‘You on the brown, then?’ he continued. Because I was drunk, I took this to mean something pervertedly sexual, and began to ease away from him, before I realised he meant tobacco (I guess).
‘Not that either, no,’ I murmured.
This confused him somewhat. ‘So what the fuck ARE you on?’ he demanded, with a hint of violence in his voice.
At the time, it didn’t occur to me that several litres of bourbon and beer may have induced gravity to have a bit of a disagreement with me. Panicking, I racked my brain for some sort of answer. ‘Um, I’m on… uh…’ I couldn’t say ‘green’ or ‘brown’ – that was all that was running through my head.
So I replied ‘I’m on… the BLACK.’ The man’s eyes widened as if unable to comprehend such a statement. I know I couldn’t, mainly because five seconds ago the drug ‘black’ had never existed before.
‘Whoa,’ he said, and stumbled backwards dangerously towards the train line. I slid around the corner to be confronted with a Coke vending machine, and decided that was just what I was craving. Miracuously, I managed to succesfully operate it and withdraw a beverage.
The train rolled onto the platform, and without checking if it was my train or not, I rumbled into the carriage and collapsed into a seat. The sudden rush into the train made me rather dizzy, and the Coke in my hand didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. I slowly placed it into the crack between the seat and the wall for safekeeping.
As if in slow motion, the can teetered then began a journey, rocking backwards. I turned away, hoping that if I didn’t see the inevitable result I could disown all responsibility for the ensuing carbonated mess.
It was only a few seconds later when I heard a splash, swiftly followed by a cackle from behind me, and a voice exclaiming ‘So THAT’S what black is!’
