Quitting cocaine was easier than quitting beer. It sounds like a faulty comparison, but it was true for me. Addiction affects individuals in different ways depending on their physiology. Even so, I was on the verge of turning my nostrils into Cream of Wheat, aka “nasal collapse.” Incidentally, Cream of Wheat was my favorite wintertime comfort breakfast as a child, with a pat of butter and a splash of maple syrup. But it was high time, no pun intended, to quit the stuff. I did it cold turkey. Well, sometimes I wore a scarf. By finally quitting the powder I saved myself from septal perforation—not pretty. Truth is, I was drinking copious amounts of beer at the same time I was snorting. But I did achieve some superlative states of being.

One time, we were touring the UK and Wales. I was part of the backup band for a well-known American Folk Rock artist. I can’t mention her name, but she was very hot at the time. And troubled like many of us. On Christmas Day, after the tour, she walked into the ocean at Malibu and didn’t come back out (town name and ocean changed for privacy). We, the backup band, The Virginia Creepers, were constantly in trouble (name changed because of ongoing litigation, hopefully soon to be resolved). Our drummer, Kyle T., was apprehended at Heathrow Airport with his bass drum loaded to the brim with Bolivian Marching Powder. If his uncle hadn’t been an American ambassador, dating some powerful barrister woman, Kyle would have taken up a long-term residence in gaol (English for “jail”—charming and archaic). Generally, we traveled with 54-ounce containers of Tupperware filled with cocaine.

One afternoon, I found myself in the Lake District floating along a country lane lined with Sitka spruce. I had lost track of my body and was just a nose, hovering and floating, further intoxicated by the aroma of clove and pepper, a hint of violet, and a subtle whiff of amber and tobacco. I was, for those magical moments, a universal nose…all things olfactory. I was suddenly snapped out of the experience, shocked to find myself chest-deep in Buttermere Lake.

My supplier, Helmut K., a retired opera singer turned drug dealer, now known as Don Wang, was supportive of me quitting—unusual for someone in that line of work. Not a Scarface knife-and-gun type of guy, just a competent businessman. He never touched the stuff himself. Helmut loved Chateau Margaux, Pavillon Rouge, 2009, at one thousand six hundred and seventy dollars per bottle. He said he only drank half a bottle a day, which lowered the cost to eight hundred and thirty-five dollars, sort of. A bargain, and well within his price range. He gave me a taste of it once and my tongue did a backflip. He was glad to see me clean up and presented me with a tiny 14k gold spoon—a memento of our time together. He had more business than he could deal with anyway, so I was no big loss, though I certainly contributed to his 401(k). I attached the gold spoon to the chain I wear along with my mother-of-pearl crucifix that I got at the Jewelry Shop at Coney Island. I also have a sterling silver Star of David someone left on a seat of the IRT train.  I’m not particularly religious, but I like symbols. I believe that they can bring good luck in dangerous situations.

And having been high for so long I’ve attempted many precarious stunts. There’s a world of trouble out there when you’re stoned and think you’re invincible. One time I sprinted across some railroad tracks about six feet in front of an oncoming freight train, which is slower than a commuter train…but still, I could have tripped. My partner at the time, Liz Q., who’d just been put on mandatory leave from her punk band, Urban Uterus, videoed the stunt, and said “Plaster then a spitten ballot.” She meant to say, “faster than a speeding bullet.” Her choice of drugs, especially sniffing cleaning products, nail polish remover and car wax, and anything else available, had impacted her ability to speak intelligibly. Not long after my train challenge, I had to bring her to Mount Sanai for rehab. The last time I went to visit her, she wasn’t there. They wouldn’t give me any information because of HIPAA laws. Liz and I weren’t married and there was no paperwork that entitled me to particulars. On the way out, an attendant offered to fill me in for the nominal fee of twenty dollars. He told me that Liz had gone to Florida to work for her uncle at his Top Croc Crocodile Farm in Tampa, a popular tourist attraction. I was alarmed to hear this. Given Liz’s forgetfulness when she’s high, and her habit of misplacing her contact lenses, she might wander into a bask of them and become a Top Croc appetizer. But what could I do, she’d gone south. 

Let’s talk about beer. I crave it intensely. For all the exhilarating buzz snow provided, beer is a whole different thing, like being wrapped in the warm embrace of a big teddy bear. After one brew, I experience a soft, golden sendoff as it courses through my bloodstream. It’s also a celebration in your mouth: carbonated, hoppy and lively, a surprise party for the taste buds. When I finally decided that beer, as much as I loved it, was not a breakfast item, nor for lunch and dinner, I went seeking help and wound up in the care of a cognitive therapist, or so she purported to be. I didn’t bother trying an AA meeting because I don’t believe in a higher power. I’ve observed, and it’s been played out in much of the world, that a fervent belief in God often leads to fanaticism, which usually leads to bloodshed—in the name of God, of course. And there’s a huge variety of Gods out there, hence, a lot of blood is spilled that should have been saved for blood drives.

Anyway, I needed to change how I thought about beer. That’s why I chose Cognitive Therapy. If I could think of beer as milk, that might work—because I hate milk. I copied her name off a metal rolling security door of a wigs and hairpieces store on 81st Street. Her ad said that she only charged thirty-five dollars for a forty-five-minute therapy session, with a five-session commitment. Five times does the trick, it said. I didn’t think I had anything to lose. Obviously, the decision to see her demonstrated that my brain was still scrambled from drugs and alcohol. Her apartment was on Amsterdam Avenue and 90th Street, within walking distance from my place. But she refused to meet me there. Instead, we met at one o’clock on a Thursday, a few doors down from her place at a Spanish eatery called ¿Tienes Frijoles? (Got Beans?). I learned at our first meeting that she never left the block because she suffered from agoraphobia, a red flag that I conveniently dismissed. Scrambled brains.

Her name was Nina Annika Dittersdorf. She was a small, somewhat emaciated person with a shock of greenish-blue hair. Her face was pinched in a late fiftyish frown, and she had the thinnest lips I’ve ever seen. Her lips barely moved when she spoke. She would have been a good ventriloquist. She wore an all-season tan long coat that covered her shoes. In fact, I couldn’t tell if she was wearing shoes. I wasn’t looking too dapper myself having just given up cocaine, still hooked on beer, and having neglected keeping my wardrobe clean, which consisted of shiny Carhartts and well-worn Dr. Martens boots. I managed to shower, shave, and use deodorant when I remembered, about every six days. We must have looked like quite a pair. If we’d been around when they were casting Midnight Cowboy, we would have been a shoo-in.

Nina thought it was important for me to know that her great-great-grandfather was Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf, the Austrian composer and violinist. “He was a noble man. That’s what von means. It transfers to me,” she said in a bitter tone. “He was friends with Haydn and Mozart,” she said, slamming her tiny fist on the table for emphasis, upsetting her café con leche. She ordered three of them and downed them with grim resolution. What she’d neglected to say in her ad was that the thirty-five dollars didn’t include her lunch. That was extra. She ordered squid with yellow rice, plantains, kidney beans and flan for dessert. She ate it with the ferocity of a timber wolf, albeit a small one. This resulted in my therapy session coming out to about forty-eight dollars and change, not counting my cup of potage soup and some bread and butter. By the time she filled me in on her ancestry and how she approached therapy, I had about ten minutes left to explain why I was seeking help. I told her about my drug and alcohol abuse problem. See seemed surprised, and said, “Really, you should control yourself.” Then the check came.

When we separated in front of the restaurant, she was singing in German as she did a little twirly kind of dance. I don’t know German, but it sounded like a happy tune. It might have been a drinking song. After I crossed the street, I looked back and saw that she was looking around stealthily, then she darted into a tobacconist’s shop. I thought that she was more like a specter or a wraith than an actual human, much less a therapist. I also realized in a rare flash of reality that no sensible person would have answered her ad, much less met with her and bought her lunch. Obviously, I wasn’t going to meet with her four more times—at least that was my intention—despite the contract she made me sign, scribbled on the back of a postcard featuring Japanese snow monkeys at the Central Park Zoo. 

I got back to my apartment feeling low and anxious, thinking about all the stupid shit I’d done when I was drunk or stoned. I was way up there in the stupid shit department. I was the market leader: Stupidshit.com. Like racing in front of a train, duh. I was quickly sinking into an oily bath of self-pity when I noticed an envelope on the floor and things got worse. Simultaneously, it occurred to me that something was missing from the apartment, a lot of something. 

Seraphina, my girlfriend, was gone. My rehab effort was in part for her, not just myself. My hands shook as I opened the envelope, my chest tightening as if a rope was tied around it. 

Lev, I’ll get right to the point. I hate you! You’re not even scum, you’re sub scum, lowest of the low. I wasted eight months of my life trying to help you get your shit together. Well, it never happened. Shit is shit. You don’t have to be a frigging alchemist to know that. It sickens me to the point of vomiting that I slept with you, practically a non-bather! By the time you read this I’ll be on my way to JFK and then back in New Brunswick tonight. Lance is waiting for me, a man who cleans up after himself; a man who treats a woman with respect. And I don’t have to pay his friggin’ rent. I hope they throw your useless ass out on the street. In conclusion, fuck you big time and forever. And here’s the Q & A: Think I’ll miss you? Duh!

I went into a full-throttle anxiety attack, rolling around the floor and drooling. I could hear myself moaning and crying out. I made it to the bathroom just in time to hang my head over the toilet. I watched my vomit swirl around like spin-art and get sucked down. I felt like I was going with it. My consciousness was being extracted, leaving me just a shell, a person devoid of self. This went on for about ten or fifteen minutes, one of the worst experiences I can remember. It occurred to me that maybe this was rock bottom, maybe even lower, sliding into the earth’s core, then fried to a crisp and done with it. When I could move, I slid out the window and stood on the fire escape and gasped for air, struggling to quell the last waves of anxiety. Finally, my breathing calmed down and my chest loosened so I could breathe comfortably. It was a cool spring evening and the lights from other apartments and the slice view I had of the river shimmered, the lights sparkling on the Jersey shore. I felt like my vision was more acute and my head was clearing up. 

I suddenly had the urge to walk, to walk and breathe, to take in the chilled spring air. I grabbed my jean jacket and went downstairs. It was a short block to Riverside Park. I headed south and picked up my pace as I walked. I glanced at the river and the light reflecting off it invigorated me. I started talking to myself. “I can do this. I can do this,” I said over and over until I reached 72nd Street. I exited the park and turned up toward Broadway, deciding to go back that way. “I can fucking do this.” I passed a bar, and then another one, and another. I kept saying it, “I can do this.” When I got to my corner I saw my neighborhood haunt, Scarlet’s Place. I walked in and sat at the bar. Scarlet smiled and lifted a pint glass up to the tap. “No,” I said. I’ll have an iced tea, please.” She gave me a quizzical look and went to the cooler.

“You feeling OK, Lev?”

“Yeah, I think so. Seraphina left me. She went back to her guy in New Brunswick.”

“She’s got one there too?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Last spring, when you were on tour, she was in here with a different guy every other night. And she was dressed for business.”

“Are you kidding me?” 

“No, and they’d go outside for extracurricular activities.”

“You mean…sex? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I didn’t peek, but when they came back in, the guys looked…what…satisfied.”

“Were they doing it in the alleyway?”

“I highly doubt that. But I noticed an increase of limousines orbiting the block and parking on the side street. Definitely the carriage trade.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Sorry, Lev. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. But you’re a decent guy; even when you’ve had too much to drink, you never cause trouble. I just thought you should know.”

 I walked toward my building in a daze. Just before I turned on West End Avenue, I heard someone call my name. “Yo, Lev. What’s happening, man?” It was Diego, a conga player I’d worked with at a Latin club a few times. Diego’s nickname was Snowman because he usually had a Ball jar of high-test sniffing powder, and he was generous with it. I joined him on the stoop. Next to him was a small, galvanized trash can filled with ice and seven-ounce clear bottles of Miller High Life Beer, dozens of them. It looked like miniature yellow submarines navigating the Arctic Ocean. He popped one open and put it in my hand. “You look like shit, man. Drink.”

I did.

 

© Mark Morganstern 2026

This is from Mark Morganstern’s short story collection: Writing on Confetti and Other Stories.