“Jesus Christ. You look like shit.” It was Nathan from Austin, surprisingly fresh despite carrying on long after Jeff had opted out.
“I’ve got to shower, Nathan.” Jeff was abrupt. He didn’t have time to socialize. “I’m on at nine thirty.”
“I know. I brought you a little pick-me-up. Thought you could use it.” He handed Jeff a small vial of clear liquid. Jeff stared at it.
“LSD,” Nathan explained, “diluted in overproof vodka and distilled water.”
Jeff handed it back. “No, thanks.” Jeff had never been into psychedelics, and he wasn’t about to start now, at forty-seven years old, right before an important presentation. What the fuck was wrong with this kid?
Nathan sensed his incredulity. “You’ve never heard of microdosing?”
“No.”
“It’s big in the industry. Take a few drops of this and you’ll be transformed: energetic, focused, insightful . . . and no trace of that hangover.”
Jeff had done drugs before, of course he had, but that was in another lifetime. He’d been in his twenties, studying at NYU, partying for thirty straight hours most weekends. He’d smoked pot, tried coke and mushrooms. But he was a different person now, with kids, a career, a marriage . . . all the responsibilities that made drugs unacceptable. Except he was in Vegas . . . and wasn’t this city just a throbbing, neon neverland where real life melted away and a man could indulge his inner child—or, in this case, his inner twenty-two-year-old? He didn’t have to worry about Kim’s judgments or setting an example for the kids. He just had to worry about getting through his sixteen-minute presentation.
“I won’t trip?” Jeff asked.
“No chance. At a psycholytic dose, it’s like taking Ritalin or Adderall. You’ll still be you. Just super-you.” He smiled and held out the vial. Jeff took it in his clammy palm and headed for the bathroom.
HE’D KILLED IT! The presentation had been a triumph! Maybe the drugs had skewed his perception of audience response somewhat, but there was no denying that it had been well received. Jeff had been confident, insightful, and in command of the room—with no evidence of a hangover. The vial of LSD nestled in his pants pocket. “Keep it,” Nathan said. “You can dose every two or three days . . . Make the most of it. Develop new strategies at work. Learn a language. Write a song . . .”
The vial lasted nearly a month. Jeff rationed it carefully; there would be no more when this was gone. He didn’t have drug-buying connections, didn’t run in those circles. And he could hardly contact Nathan and ask him to send him some more LSD in the mail. Jeff would just enjoy what he had while he had it—increased clarity, deeper insights, exceptional creativity. One afternoon, he and Graham took a few drops before a run. It was phenomenal! The stamina, the speed, the ability to focus on the physical act of running without the distractions of weakness or pain. It would have been a bit of harmless fun with no ill repercussions . . . if Kim hadn’t found the vial.
He looked at the dashboard clock: 4:45. Hannah’s friends would descend in a matter of minutes, turning his home into a seething hive of chattering and giggling, a tree full of articulate squirrels. He wouldn’t get through this without a beer. Flicking on his indicator, he pulled up in front of a dodgy liquor store—its window crammed with posters and neon signs advertising beer and wine. Plugging a quarter into the meter, Jeff strode down the uneven sidewalk, his mind firmly entrenched in that day last year.
He had tried to lie: it was a vitamin cocktail! But when Kim threatened to sample it, he had to tell her the truth. She was stunned. “What if you’d had a psychotic break? What if the kids had found this?” Her voice was quiet, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She was sitting on the bed; he was standing in front of her. His work pants were still in her lap, the tiny vial now on the bedside table beside them.
“I can explain.” But his account did little to sway her. Kim didn’t care that everyone in tech was trying it and that, at such diluted intensity, there was virtually no chance of a bad reaction. She didn’t care that it had been a “gift,” or that once it was gone, he never planned to do it again. She wasn’t content to blame this all on Nathan, who had tried to lure Jeff into partying with hookers—yes, hookers—to which he had promptly said no. Kim hadn’t been impressed or grateful. On the contrary, she’d fixed him with a look of such withering contempt that he wished he hadn’t even mentioned it. All Kim could see was that he’d brought illegal, psychedelic drugs into their home—where their children lived, where she lived. It didn’t matter to her that there were only a few drops left (on second thought, this may have made things worse). In her mind, Jeff had broken the law, broken her trust, broken her heart. . . .
They talked most of the night, both of them breaking down in tears on several occasions. Kim wasn’t sure she could live with the betrayal. She was blindsided, her entire world suddenly tilted on its axis. She wanted him to leave, but he refused. He attacked her for being a hypocrite. She’d done drugs when she worked at the ad agency—probably more drugs than he ever had. But Kim was resolute that she’d changed, grown up. She put her family first now, above all else. She thought he had, too. He shifted gears and tried to comfort her, tried to tell her that, really, it could have been much worse. It could have been a meth lab in the garage! There could have been dealers involved! And guns! It was a psycholytic dose, barely enough to have an effect! But his “minimizing it,” as she called it, just upset her more.