I Love You and I'm Leaving You Anyway: A Memoir by Tracy McMillan

Author:Tracy McMillan [McMillan, Tracy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 0061724653
Publisher: It Books
Published: 2010-04-13T00:00:00+00:00

MY DAD AND I DON’T say another word about visiting Linda. There is nothing really to say. It happened; end of story. The key to being in a superdysfunctional family is that everybody acts like everything is normal. Because, in this paradoxical way, everything is normal. Which is to say, nothing is abnormal. Nothing. Even when your dad the former pimp takes you to see your mom the former prostitute whom you haven’t seen since she gave you away to your other mom, the one who is barrels of fun except for when she isn’t. Not even that.

Which is also why it isn’t too strange when, later that night, my dad and I do some cocaine together.

It happens innocently enough. I inform my dad that I have a big party to go to, and I will be partaking in some, um, extracurriculars, and that if he could, well, hook me up, I would greatly appreciate it. No big deal.

He gives me that amused look he gives me sometimes. Like he thinks I’m cute and he thinks I’m outrageous at the same time. “Do you use drugs?” There’s no judgment. He’s asking the same way you’d ask, “Do you like apples?” Like, just curious.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Really? Which ones?”

“Cocaine, ecstasy, and marijuana. A lot of marijuana.” He doesn’t react, so I blather on about the party. “It’s in a big warehouse downtown. And it would be extra-fun if there was something…extra.” I give him my best version of winsome.

I can see from his face that he’s actually considering helping me out. Which emboldens me further. “You must know where to get some coke. Don’t you?”

“I do.”

“So, will you help me?”

There’s no answer, which I immediately construe as a maybe. Time to take my arguments to the next, unassailable, level. I appeal to his logic, and naturally, his fatherly concern.

“Besides, if you don’t help me, I’ll just end up going to a guy on the street, or buy it at the party, and you know it would be all stepped-on with baby laxative or god knows what.”

Bam!

Two hours later, I’m waiting in the car. I’m already dressed for the party, in my favorite black vintage minidress with the rhinestone “diamond” trim. With my post–Purple Rain haircut, my eggplant lipstick, and my arm full of bangles, I’m feeling ready to get my velvet rope on. When my dad comes out the back door of the small suburban house where we’re scoring, I know my night is complete.

“Let’s see it,” I demand excitedly even before he’s started the car.

“Gyurl! You can wait a minute.” He bats my hands away like so many mosquitoes. We decide to drive a couple of blocks away so we don’t make it so screamingly obvious that we just bought some drugs by looking at them right there in the guy’s driveway.

We pull over in a small empty parking lot down by the Mississippi River. I’m trying to contain my glee, and doing a pretty good job of it, too. I

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