The Myth of Trash Pandas
So far, my day had only consisted of sitting in my mothers living room considering what would be in store for me besides checking the fridge every 20 minutes. I was rather thrilled then, when during her lunch break, Daisy gave me a call and told me about how last night she had gone on a late-night stroll with her new lover. They had only been on three dates, she said. This was officially their fourth — so the relationship was incredibly fresh. She told me all about how he was older and wiser but didn’t impose this idea onto her, and so, she was quite fond of him for both the insight she gathered he had and his ability to not throw this supposed acquired wisdom in her face.
She said that as they wandered through the streets of Toronto with no destination in mind, they flung themselves in the allure that comes with discovering the inner workings of the mind of an individual that you happen to think is incredibly attractive — that you also happen to want to fuck.
She relayed to me that last night, as they chatted and laughed, as they talked about their hopes and dreams, as they began to build a new foundation between one another, her new lovers’ eyes glanced down upon the sidewalk to find himself looking upon a small dime bag filled with small white chunky bits. Familiar with the world of psychoactive substances, as she looked down to where he pointed, after a quick and discreet yet careful inspection, she became quite sure it was cocaine. He was not familiar, fond, or in away curious about the world of drugs — the D.A.R.E program in sixth grade had worked quite well on him, as to this day it had continued to influence his 21-year-old straight-edge self incredibly.
She told me no words were said about their respective opinions and experiences with or about psychoactives, he simply picked up the dime bag, walked to the nearest garbage, and casually tossed the tiny bag out. She was rather shocked at what she thought was an incredibly bold move. She reckoned that the bag had contained what was at least 200$ worth of the much sought out substance. He could at least sell it and make the money back if he didn’t want to do it, she thought. What a waste, she wanted to say, but she didn’t profess these thoughts to her new lover. She didn’t want him to think less of her, she didn’t want him to think she was some no good degenerate, some sort of druggie. So, she simply stayed quiet and went back to listening to him talk about his well thought out, carefully crafted plans for his future career in consulting.
“He just threw it out?” I inquire, the telephone between my shoulder as I rummage through the fridge for what had to be the seventh time that day.
“Yeah, it didn’t even seem like he thought twice about doing it. I don’t even think he considered just selling it. I don’t even think he knew what it was — just that it was some sort of drug.”
“He didn’t even just, like, leave it there? For someone else?”
“No, girl. He legit threw it out”
“Are you sure it was cocaine?”
“Yeah, it didn’t look like k or meth… it was definitely cocaine”
“How much? A lot?”
“At least two grams”
“Two grams?!” I say in shock. “He just threw out two grams?”
“Yeah, I know – wild. But don’t worry. I remember where he threw it out, wanna go get it?”
Why the hell not, I thought. She tells me of the subway station closest to the garbage that he had disposed the cocaine in, and we agree to meet there in two hours.
Daisy is quite the planner. Very opposite to me as I just go with the flow of things with no regard for what could possibly be in store. She’s very type A: organized, diligent, and quite meticulous. You might not think someone who skips her afternoon chemistry class to go digging through the garbage for cocaine would have such qualities, but I tell you: Daisy is quite the planner, very type-A. So, in typical Daisy fashion, she came prepared. Before meeting me at the subway stop, she had quickly made a trip to the Dollar Store across from the high school and collected all the supplies we could possibly need: yellow rubber gloves, a bottle of Dr. Pepper for her, a bottle of Orange Crush for me (my favourite, bless her heart), an array of candy (in case we got famished, she explained), and some plastic tongs (for handling particularly gross garbage.) She had also quickly gone home to acquire some of her father’s painting clothes. She even brought a little Bluetooth speaker so we could listen to tunes as we dug through the trash. So, there we were: listening to Destiny’s Child digging in the two-ton trash bin for a tiny dime baggie of cocaine.
The first time Daisy and I did cocaine was our sophomore year of high school. It was our friend Lacey’s Sweet Sixteen, and she had known some older guy who, unlike us at the time, didn’t have any trouble acquiring cocaine. By this point, we had already dabbled in weed and mdma – the stuff that was easy to get a hold of. Acquiring cocaine, on the other hand, proved a difficult endeavour. First off, because it was known in our high school as a “harder” drug, which meant much more secrecy of who did it and who provided it. Secondly, it was expensive. A gram of weed, which was good for at least a couple days, was a mere $10. A cap of mdma, which was good for a 6-hour night was $10 as well. Cocaine, on the other hand, was $100 a gram. Yeah, it would last between the three of us for the night, but given that we were sixteen with no jobs, $100 for a night of fun was quite out of our budgets. Though our parents did occasionally toss us a $20 here and there, this still didn’t justify the $100 purchase for one night of pleasure, especially when we could get three caps of m and two grams of weed for half the price the gram of cocaine would cost.
But Lacey had been talking to Ethan, a 21-year-old she had met in Kensington market at a drum circle, for a month now. Lacey thought Ethan was incredibly cool, as he knew of all the raves, all the bars that didn’t ID, all the places that had cheap pitchers, and of course, where to get cocaine. Apparently, he thought she was quite cool as well, because as a gift, he gave Lacey a gram for her and her friends to celebrate her special sixteenth.
So, on Lacey’s Sweet Sixteen, we huddled in Daisy’s basement with the dime bag of the illicit substance. We started with small bumps at 9, by 9:30, we were onto another bump. By 10, we had done two more. By 11, we were having intense, fast paced conversations, and feeling unstoppable.
Even though we were now older and so now knew where to acquire cocaine, even though
we now technically had better financial means then we were 16, we still weren’t in that good shape financially. I was living off my scholarship money, in which I only had about a five hundred left for the summer. While Daisy was barely getting by with her minimum wage, ten hour a week job. So, a free 200$ of a substance seemed like something we just couldn’t pass up.
We didn’t necessarily plan to do the cocaine; we were aware of the dangers of taking random substances you found on the street. Furthermore, truthfully, we weren’t even that into cocaine. But we thought we could at least maybe sell the glorious, misplaced baggie for half price to somebody. It seemed like easy money. Not only easy money, but enough money to buy a couple caps of m, a two-six of rum, and a couple grams of weed to fuel the upcoming weekend. So, there we were: singing along to Bills, Bills, Bills as we dug through the trash with our yellow Dollar Store rubber gloves on.
We, well Daisy, had developed quite the system. There was another large green garbage bin next the one Daisy was “positive” the cocaine had been thrown in. Daisy decided we could throw the garbage from our target bin into the other bin. Daisy had also explained to me that because of the small nature of our treasure, I couldn’t just toss things away carelessly; I had to carefully inspect each item. “The bag could easily latch on or get hidden within a larger piece of trash,” she said.
So, we dig in the trash for cocaine. We pick, examine, toss and repeat. We go through the same motions over and over and over again, as if they were some glorious art form we were destined to perfect. I pick up a Styrofoam container and do a quick yet careful inspection before dropping it into the other bin. I pick up uneaten meals and empty bottles, examine them and then discarding. I dig through the trash as I consider what my mother would think of me right now. We continue our search for the drug that we don’t even care that much for. We go through the motions: pick, examine, toss. Pick, examine, toss.
Daisy finds a used condom and tries not to gag as she sticks to her system and tries to inspect it. After her careful, determined inspection she immediately throws it onto the floor. She makes a face of pure disgust at me and shakes her head before going back to the excavation for cocaine. Soon after, I almost spill a cup of rotten pink milkshake on myself, which prompts me to consider whether submitting ourselves to this level of gross is actually worth the supposed $200. Nevertheless, I continue digging through the trash. We discuss how the only thing keeping us sane through what seems to become an increasingly apparent futile task is Destiny’s Child.
“Shout out to the girls.” Daisy says.
“Beyonce doing God’s work, again.” I retort.
“Kelly giving me the will to live.” Daisy announces.
“Michelle vanquishing our sorrows.” I declare.
We continue to dig in the oversized green bin. We pick, examine and toss. Pick, examine, and toss. As Bootylicious begins to play, we both can’t control the urge to crank up the speaker to full volume. Soon enough, Daisy can’t control the need to sing and dance. As she struts down the back of the alleyway, rubber gloves on, with a brown paper bag that she had just dug out of the trash in her hand, a guy holding a skateboard walks by the alley and does a double take. As Daisy sings loudly along to the song, as she sings out of tune about how others could not possibly be ready for her ‘jelly’, the guy who looks to be around our age stops and stares. He smiles and approaches me to ask what we’re doing.
“Ugh, not much…” I look over to Daisy for back up, who has just finished singing and shaking her ‘jelly’ along to the chorus and is now just realizing we have a visitor. As Daisy and I catch each other’s eyes, we can’t help but burst into giggles. Daisy walks over, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Amidst our giggles, the guy says,
“You girls seem like fun”
“We’re not. Trust me.” Daisy retorts. His remark is enough to make Daisy secede from laughing and regain her poise.
“I could beg to differ” he says.
“Maybe.” Daisy responds.
“You guys sesh?” he asks.
We turn towards each other and simultaneously give a slight shrug of the shoulders before looking back to him. In this motion, I know we both our on the same page: what could be the harm in a bit of weed?
“Yeah, why?” I ask.
He puts down his skateboard and rummages through his backpack. He pulls out a black tin filled with joints. He grabs one and gestures it out to us, “You girls down? I also have beers.” We both look at each other again and partake in another simultaneous shrug. “Why the hell not?” I say.
We sit beside the large garbage cans sipping on warm beer with who we now know is Jayden, a 22-year-old who works as a tattoo artist at a shop down the street. Jayden had asked what brought us here and because he doesn’t seem all that bad — rather chill in fact ―we tell him about our cocaine endeavours. “Shit, that’s wild, you girls are fun.” he responds.
We continue to pass the joint, of what Jayden says is a pure sativa, between the three of us. He eventually asks what our “deal” is and Destiny tells him about her victory lap, while I tell him about the last year I spent out of town for university. When we ask about what his “deal” is, he tells us he dropped out of high school when he was 16. How it “stifled his creativity.” He tells us that his parents were upset at first, but how he doesn’t care what they — or anyone for that matter —thinks.
“I mean, what’s the point of climbing the corporate ladder anyway? You’ll always just work harder and harder for nothing but some meaningless status or some sort of meaningless material position. And for what? You eventually just die. All of that obsessing over a career nonsense is futile...," he takes another drag of the joint before continuing, "That’s why I chose art. To create." He ends his tangent with confidence, with what seems to be a sense of higher level of understanding on how should live, as he passes the joint to me.
“Couldn’t the same be said about creating?” I ask
“What do you mean?” he says.
“Idunno. I mean, you’re creating, but so what? It’s not like creating allows you to dodge death’s grasp. Creating or not creating, you can’t outrun time — you’re still going to end up dead.” I reply.
“At least my art will allow me to transcend my death, in a way.” He responds, matter of fact, as he looks to his gaunt, etch-a-sketch tattooed hands.
“Maybe… Or it will just be another piece of art with all the other pieces of art.” I say. “Huh?” he responds
“Your art will just be other minuscule phenomenon,” Daisy interjects. “Just another tattoo on the skin of a nobody who will eventually end up 6 feet under — or even cremated. Just another tattoo that decays with that nobody’s flesh until it is nonexistent.” She says. He looks up towards the street of insouciant people scurrying by.
“I never thought about it like that.” He mumbles.
We resort to silence as he begins to stare out into the alleyway. As he stares out, he takes a huge gulp of his beer. He stares into the air like it holds some grand answer, some secret to life. As if he was able to stare deep enough, for long enough, a door would reveal itself and he would be granted a big, golden, key that could give him access to every answer he had ever craved. For a moment he stops starting to glance down at the can in his hand. He shakes the can to hear the swish of the little bit of the cheap brew left and then stares back into the nothing as he proceeds to down the rest of the warm liquid. He crushes the can upon the ground. Daisy passes him the last of the joint. He takes it, nods his head in respects, takes a large inhale, and begins to put the roach out. He proceeds to stand up and tells us he must get back to work. But before he goes, he asks for our numbers with the possibility of “seshing again.” We agree to give them to him because he seems quite harmless. After he makes his departure, Daisy looks to the big garbage bin and then back to me. “So, what’s the move?” she asks.
“Idunno. Do you really think we’ll find it?”
“Idunno. I only have, like, 23$ in my bank account right now, though. Let’s try again?” “Sure.” I agree.
So, we continue to dig amongst the filth like the trash pandas we are. We sing along to Survivor. We pick up, examine, toss, and repeat. We harmonize to the best of our abilities. We pick up, examine, toss, and repeat. We belt out the chorus on the top of our lungs as we look for a one-inch dime baggie in a two-ton trash bin. We pick up, examine, toss, and repeat. We move and groove our bodies to the rhythm. We pick up, examine, toss, and repeat.
Clarisse Smith resides in Toronto, where she writes, reads, edits, and perpetually attempts to vibe. Find her on Insta: @apsychicbaby