Russian Nesting Drugs

“Does it look like oregano?”
“Yes”
“Oh, that’s pot”

I held this little bag in my hand as my childhood friend explained to me that among the many different sizes, colors, textures and smells that filled up the backpacks wrapped up in black garbage bags stuffed in my sisters trunk, among them, was pot.

We moved to the next one. “Coke”

And the next. “Maybe Crack? What does it smell like?”

Phil. My friend’s name was Phil and I had known him since elementary school. We were now Freshmen and went to different schools in the same district, but stayed in touch. He didn’t come from the best of families and I knew that he was the only person I could call who would have any idea what the shit I had scattered all over my living room floor was.

Edele was at work. At the time, for a very brief time, we had two cars. Shayna was driving the old car while Edele tried out a shiny new one.

My father had just moved from NY to Fl somewhat on a whim. That’s what it felt like it at least. It was spring break my freshman year of high school and Shayna and I were going to go down to visit him. I was beyond amped. I had my discman with the best burned CD one could contrive from Limewire (if you don’t get it, just put the book down, you don’t belong here). I was ready to go.

I remember wheeling my suitcase out from our little apartment to my sister’s car. To reiterate, my sister Shayna was a perfect specimen. I mean it. She really was perfect. Straight A’s, in all the honors classes, did all the things, shook all the hands and kissed all the babies. She was the absolute ‘tits’ and everyone knew it. She played by the rules and honestly, it was the best way she knew how to survive in our little corner of hell. She built up this beautiful little fortress of perfection around her. Everything that could have a place, did. I would imagine this provided some level of comfort to her. I mean, It’s why we all feel so good when our room is clean, house is organized etc. Because life is so out of control that the one tiny little bit of it that we can keep in order, makes us feel somehow that we will be ok.

Now multiply that times a very sick mother and the universe crumbling around you and that is what I would imagine Shayna’s life to have been like as an adolescent. Now that I really break it down, as stated previously, Shayna suffered the majority of the physical abuse. Her way of coping was to keep every bit of the physical world around her that she could control intact. The words she wrote in perfect order, the notes she played neither sharp nor flat. Her smile bright and her clothing clean. She ran for office, she studied, she took part in every extracurricular that one could imagine. Softball, Debate, Band, International Studies, etc. Her room was immaculate. She also had little things that were hers. Like shampoo. No really. She had small little things that were just hers. Nothing extravagant and honestly, nothing notable but the one I do remember most vividly is the Aussie Shampoo. It was this 5 in 1 purple bottle that was called “the hair miracle” or something like that. She would cart it to and from her bedroom to the shower every time she bathed. It was hers. I stole it and used it as much as possible, but it was important to her. I kind of get it now. We had so little as kids. So little that was ours. So little that allowed us to be people. Our identity was decided for us moment by moment but in this case, this little purple bottle carved out a corner for Shayna to be...Shayna.

In hindsight, I wish I never touched the thing.

Back to the car, Shayna drove us to and from school every once in a while. The most notable point here is that Shayna used it exclusively on several occasions.

I’m staring at this fucking line blinking on the screen wondering how to segway to the moment that I found them. It’s hard to do because there is so much to note and so little to say. Shayna never did drugs, neither did I. We were good kids. We never snuck out, never went to parties, never stepped out of line. I mean, honestly, we lived a life out of a fucking horror film, there was no room for recreation, legal or not.

I wheeled my suitcase to the car. The one filled with clothes for Florida all ready to go. I opened the trunk and was immediately annoyed. There was no space for me to put my suitcase! The trunk was filled with these huge plastic garbage bags. The Hefty ones. What the fuck?

I opened one of the bags and was even more confused when I saw backpacks. Jansport Backpacks. Like 4 or 5 of them. I opened the next garbage bag… same thing. Then I started to open up the backpacks. There were more bags. Smaller ones. Filled with even smaller ones which were filled with smaller ones. I had no idea what the hell was going on, but I knew it wasn’t good and I sure as hell knew none of it was Shayna’s. Shayna was too neat to have anything be in such disorganized chaos.

I dragged one of the bags into the living room and started unzipping. Dumping all of the russian nesting bags out around me as I sat on the floor and laid it all out with a flat hand. Just pushing everything into a big circle to take a high-level look at just what I was dealing with here. I remember sitting there for a minute with a sinking feeling.

I found the yellow pages, crawled on the couch and called Phill. I found a pillow to hold close to me with one of the bags burning through my palm as he answered.

I told him what I was looking at.
And then he told me what I was looking at.

We did this until each bag was accounted for.
Like a human Google for drugs.

I hung up the phone cleaned it all up. Neatly. I put everything back in its rightful place. Categorized just as it was.

I carried the bags back outside, opened the trunk, and took everything that was left inside it.
I threw it all into the dumpster.
Every single fucking gram.

With the trunk empty, I put my suitcase where it belonged, closed it, and went back inside.