The Spanish Party

On Friday night Lethe met his Spanish friends at the end of the cul de sac. All the group was there, Carlos, Ricky, Javier, Damien and the others; but they seemed to be waiting for Lethe to arrive so they could take him off somewhere.

Javier, the fat-cheeked, jovial Spaniard, approached Lethe with open arms and ushered him toward the group . . . "My parents are gone for the weekend," he said. "We're celebrating at their condo. Will you come?"

Anxiously Lethe crawled into the back of Javier's small European car and wedged himself between two new friends. The car peeled around the circular drive, gained a steady momentum on a residential street and then plunged into the night traffic.

With the windows down, the wind kept blowing into Lethe's face and making his eyes water. Loud Spanish music, a mix of Samba, techno and rap trumpeted behind their heads. Soon everyone was talking over everyone else, sharing their favorite music styles and bands. By no means was Javier an experienced driver. He jolted the car nearly a dozen times in a seven mile radius. The five of them flew off every road bump and sunk into every dip, which further provoked their frenzied excitement. Cruising Madrid with a bunch of Spaniards, what could be better than this, what could be more exhilarating? At last Lethe seemed to have found his niche.

Javier's family must be loaded, because the building was New York City-modern, made of concrete and glass. There was no doorman in the lobby--unusual for upper-class residences in Madrid. Polished stainless steel elevators took them up to the 24th floor and Javier opened the door to a spacious apartment with an eat-in kitchen and an open view of the city. No furniture, however; just an empty condo.

The Spaniards funneled into the loft-like apartment with their whiskey bottles and Coca Cola, their cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They kept their jackets on, surveying the stark environment. Then they dispersed into the various corners of the condo and struck up conversations. Lethe expected to see some women trickle in, but Javier informed him later that his parents wouldn't allow co-ed parties in their "espacio vivo".

It seemed strange that women were restricted from this party because the next thing that Lethe noticed was cocaine on the granite kitchen table. The Spaniards gaily incorporated the white powder into their celebration. They did not hide it from the rest of the group or abuse the drug in private. Rather they treated it as a novelty, a mere toy, a party favor.

The fervid animation among the Spaniards increased Lethe's curiosity. They hunched like merry pranksters around the guy in the center who separated the substance into neat, manageable piles for his friends.

Coke was taboo where Lethe came from, but here it seemed somewhat acceptable, moderately cool. So long as everyone was enjoying it, the drug didn't arouse suspicion or incite hostility. Lethe watched Ricky, the master of ceremonies, as he expertly snorted the first bump, then casually swiped his nose clean and stepped away from the table. Carlos picked up the rolled Euro after him.

Later that evening Lethe stopped Ricky in the hallway and asked, "You wouldn't be able to get any more of that would you?"

"Sure," Ricky said. "Take this--" He handed Lethe a piece of folded-up paper.

"Whenever you want some more just ask."

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