Cocaine Blues

I have a salt deficency. It’s a medical fact.

I’ve had my share of blood tests, and my sodium count just barely clears the minimum threshold. I love salt in any form: piles poured into the palm of my hand and consumed, crunchy flakes on the rim of a glass, grains nibbled off the tops of fancy caramels. An old partner of mine even gave me a Himalayan pink salt cube on a rope as a joke. Joke’s on him. I licked that cube into an ugly orb by the end of that school year. And I won’t lie, I’ve been tempted more than once by my salt lamp nightlight.

But once... my love for salt nearly took a deadly turn.

When I was a child, I attended a rock climbing camp in the summer. My first climbing partner was a boy, three years my senior. At the time, I was eight and he was eleven. There were older girls in the camp, and he could have played it cool, hung out with them. But he always looked after me, engaged me, cheered my every success.

Mason. He was the best kind of friend. A brother figure. A protector and a teacher. I did my best to annoy him (as all younger siblings must), but I never succeeded. He found my pokes and fake whining hilarious. The harder I tried, the more amused he became. How singular. How kind.

He was the sort of person who made sure everyone was safe and enjoying life. It came naturally to him, easy as breathing. He could spin a bad situation into something humorous, or shield you without ever letting on.

It was a Friday in July, which meant it was a bouldering day. An exploring day. We were at our favorite place, Lizard’s Mouth in Santa Barbara, California, atop the Lizard itself. The rocks there are sandstone boulders, so scaly with lichen I could almost believe the rocks were reptiles themselves. There are countless little divots in the stone, shady places worn by water and wind.

I was a child, and my curiosity was at full tilt. Heedlessly I stuck my hands into holes, scrabbling around for treasures. Atop the Lizard, I claimed a prize: a small plastic baggie with a large lump of white powder.

“What are you holding?”

The question was casual, interested. I proudly displayed my find, holding it out by the tips of my fingers.

He blinked, no alarm in his eyes. “Ooooh,” he said. “Salt! Someone had a cooking party up here and forgot their salt.”

I was skeptical. “Why would anyone cook up here when they have stoves?” I asked, squinting.

“So they can watch the stars while making dinner,” he answered without missing a beat. I nodded. That seemed acceptable. Then I realized what I had in my hand... SALT! I nearly jumped for joy. My packed lunch was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with some carrot sticks on the side. Not enough sodium! But my search had provided. I would soon be replenished!

Mason, of course, knew about my salt addiction. Before I could open the bag he flung out his hands and cried, “wait! Don’t eat it! Salt... goes rotten in the sun. You’re going to get a stomachache and I’ll have to piggyback you to the car!”

I squinted again. I’d never heard of salt going rotten. I had a book about mummies, and salt was used to keep them from going rotten.

“Mason, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Salt is for saving things. It’s in the mummy book.”

He smiled at me, and his expression became conspiratorial. He put a hand to the side of his mouth, as if letting me in on a secret.

“This kind of salt does. It’s all lumpy. See? That means it got water in it. Watery lump salt is gonna make you sick. Trust me.”

I remained skeptical. Salt doesn’t rot. He was crazy. BUT... he was my friend and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I sighed and relinquished the bag. For a moment, he held it gingerly between two fingers, then flung it swiftly off the rock. It disappeared so fast that I never saw it land.

He turned to me and grinned his merry grin. Ruffling my hair, he said, “I’ll let you eat my beef jerky. That’s all the salt I’ve got.” Now that sounded like a deal. We climbed together down the rock, and sat in the shade of its sandstone cave while I devoured the cured meat. I caught him smiling at me and indignantly asked what was so funny.

“Nothing,” was all he said, before turning away to continuing smiling out of sight.

As I got older, I finally realized what had been in that baggie, and the beauty of his half-baked explanation. When I recounted the story to him years later, he laughed at his improvised excuse. All we needed to say to each other was, “cooking party?” And the giggling ensued.

My darling friend is gone now. But his spirit is still with me. And I will always cherish the memory of how he stopped me from swallowing a gram of cocaine on a hot summer day in July.