Shirley
walked into the library bathroom at 8:00 PM in that evening, only to
be surprised to find Cardiff hastily clearing away something on the
counter. It was perceptibly drug paraphernalia, but Shirley wasn't a
narc. She was just concerned for the best interest of this stranger.
“What was
that?” Shirley asked. Benevolent intentions did not lead Shirley to
pamper the sensibilities of someone who was trying to get away with
something.
Cardiff did
a mental computation, and decided Shirley didn't look like a snitch.
“It's cheese,” she shrugged.
“Heroin
chic diet?” Shirley asked. “I've heard that even though people
lose weight, some people get liver problems, and die of jaundice,
like Hep C. It's excessively bad for your liver.”
“It's not
like that,” Cardiff disagreed.
When no
further clarification was forthcoming, Shirley decided to sacrifice
student solidarity. She based this decision on the premise that she
did not want or need to cover up for so called friends, who dragged
her into the drug scene.
“Well,
what IS it like, then?” Shirley demanded.
“Don't be
an ass, Shirley,” Cardiff blustered. “You know what it's like to
masturbate. They all give you hell, about lying, and being a loser. I
do drugs in order NOT to!”
Shirley was
surprisingly astute on this topic, for her background. Not only did
she relate to the problem, she speculated as to why it might be
different for some people, than for others. Her query was coded. “Was
your dad, a kind of 'Sooner?'” Shirley asked.
Cardiff
wordlessly acquiesced.
“Mine beat
me!” Shirley volunteered.
“Mine was
a copy-cat. He didn't even know!” Cardiff wailed. “can you just
imagine?”
Shirley
contemplated the sorry figure before her with wary pity. It was
usually all she could manage, to balance her own apple cart, but this
didn't keep her from talking to other people. This story was new. As
short as it was, in the telling, it left much to inference.
After it
became clear that this information needed no further discussion,
Cardiff returned to Shirley's affirmation. “Why did your dad beat
you?” she asked. It was Cardiff's idea that bad dads came in both
varieties, but she had never met someone who admitted to being
beaten. Was Shirley bullshitting? It seemed a little sinister.
“I, um...”
Shirley hesitated. “It's not easy to explain.” The young woman
was squirming in the face of a guilty conscience. Shirley didn't
really think that she should have to explain herself to a moral
inferior. She pressed on nonetheless.
“When we
started off, it was a special punishment. Then, I kind of began being
bad, just to get the punishment. That was when he went off on me, and
taught me a lesson I wouldn't forget.” Shirley leveled an accusing
stare at Cardiff, daring her to find fault. “You think anybody
wants to relive one of those?”
“How many
people does this happen to?” Cardiff inquired. The drug was
beginning to hit her, and she was prepared to attribute wisdom to her
newly minted Rabbi.
“All the
statistics I've ever seen, say between ten and twenty percent of the
population,” Shirley responded. “If you can imagine answering
that kind of question truthfully on a survey.”
“Straight
up, my daddy said everybody does it. But not everybody has the
'look,' so I didn't really believe him afterward,” Cardiff
rejoined.
“I've
talked to some people, and I'm not even sure if the 'look' is the
same thing.” Shirley finished tentatively.
The unspoken
qualifier was the same: if you can imagine answering that kind of
question truthfully, on a survey.
Shirley
decided to dispel false intimacy. “Well, my daddy beat me, and I
don't do drugs,” she challenged.
“Bite me,”
Cardiff retaliated.
“Whatever,”
Shirley declared.
Cardiff left
in a huff.
