The Dirty Kids – Part One (of Seven)

Spencer sat at the wheel of the Honda Civic his father had given him as a high school graduation present, holding an open eight-ounce bottle of Maximum Strength Robitussin in his lap.  It was mid-October—homecoming Saturday at the State University—and he had the engine running in the parking lot of a drugstore about a half mile off campus. 

Spencer—tall, fair-haired, and well-built—was mustering the fortitude to chug the open bottle of cough syrup. Although Spencer had been through this ritual dozens of times, he still dreaded drinking the Robitussin. The label claimed that the syrup was “cherry” flavored, but Spencer knew from experience that it bore no relation to that fruit. Rather, it was the foul cherry taste of childhood ailments—of nausea, fever dreams, night sweats and chills. But, he thought to himself, the high is the high, so you do what you have to do. 

His best friend Sal was riding shotgun, running his hand absently through his shock of curly black hair. Sal had chugged his own four-ounce bottle of Robitussin about an hour earlier and was beginning to show outward signs of the drug taking effect. His large brown eyes looked glassy and vacant, and his olive-toned skin looked waxy in the orangish sodium lighting of the parking lot. His wiry body slumped into the shotgun seat as if he were melting into the upholstery. Sal had taken off his grimy Carhartt jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his well-worn flannel shirt earlier in the evening, when he had complained that the Robitussin made his face feel hot and prickly. Sal had been working at a fifteen-minute oil change place ever since a monthlong stint in the army had ended under murky circumstances. Now after a year of twisting a wrench for eight hours a day, his forearms bulged with muscle, and were laced with prominent veins that Spencer likened to engine hoses. 

Spencer, trying to ignore the cloying smell that was starting to waft up from the bottle, scrolled through his phone and then began playing a playlist he had made especially for tripping on cough syrup—or robotripping, as he and Sal called it. As an ominous bassline from Three Six Mafia filled the car, Sal stirred from his torpor. “Awwwww shit.” His voice had taken on the flat, guttural texture of Robitussin intoxication.  “Here we go.”  Then the lyrics started and the two of them began to chant along: 

Sippin on some Sizzurp

Sip Sippin on some sip

Sippin on some sizzurp

Sip sippin on some sizzurp

Then Sal grabbed Spencer by the shoulder and started shaking him in rhythm with the song. “C’mon man, you heard them—start sipping, motherfucker!”  

Spencer laughed and prepared to drink the Robitussin. He shook an American Spirit out of its pack and lit it; then, cigarette clenched between his lips and Robitussin between his thighs, he twisted the cap off a bottle of Coca-Cola and placed it in his cupholder. It was an old ritual by now and his actions were well-practiced.

Spencer closed his eyes and nodded along with the car stereo until the chorus resumed. Then he put the bottle to his lips and threw his head back, letting as much of the viscous liquid ooze into the back of his throat as would fit.  He swallowed and felt a rush of saliva from the sides of his tongue.  Before he could start gagging, Spencer took a long drag from his American Spirit, exhaled, then took a big swig from his Coke. Together, the smoke and the soda washed away most of the awful synthetic cherry taste. Spencer bowed his head down to the steering wheel and felt the cough syrup begin to pool in his stomach.  

He heard Sal laugh. “You gonna finish it?”

Spencer didn’t answer. He kept his head down, feeling tears dripping from the side of his eyes.  After about a minute, he felt confident that he wouldn’t throw it all up, and brought the bottle of cough syrup back to his lips. He drained the remaining Robitussin, then took another deep drag of his cigarette and another long pull from the bottle of Coke. After finishing the bottle, he felt a quick flicker of panic; he’d never drank an eight-ounce bottle of Maximum Strength before. But lately, the four-ounce bottles of Maximum Strength weren’t giving him the euphoric rush he sought, so he’d picked up the larger bottle in the store. He worried about how fucked up he’d get, but then recalled an old Hunter S. Thompson quote: buy the ticket, take the ride.

Spencer tossed the empty bottle out of his window into the parking lot. He caught a glance of a middle-aged Townie woman a few aisles down, looking at him disapprovingly as she loaded bags into her passenger seat.

 Spencer looked away, ashamed. Then he put the car in drive. “Away we go.” Sal cackled next to him and turned up the radio.