On The Pill

On The Pill

It happened to us yesterday: every parent's nightmare, those with
teenage children anyway, especially in today's drug-fuelled society. My
wife found it: a single pill, lying on the kitchen floor beneath the
work surface where the kids put together their lunch boxes. She rang me
later, after they'd gone to school.

"I don't think they're lying, they didn't seem to care. You know what
they're like when you catch them out."

I do, they react big time; our daughter blushes from throat to
hairline, turning pink to crimson, our son blows a fuse and stomps off
to his bedroom, slamming his door with enough force to loosen
teeth.

"It's nothing to do with you is it?"

"Of course not, why?" But I knew the answer, partially at least. I
maintain a more liberal approach than her to drugs like cannabis and
ecstasy. Don't get me wrong, I'd rather the kids left well alone and
I'd be bloody angry and scared witless if they were experimenting with
them, but I do think they've been lied to by a Government that shits
itself trying to maintain the moral high ground. They adopt a
politically correct approach to certain drugs, knowing full well that
six pints of lager of a packet of fags are far more dangerous than
having a few spliffs or popping an 'E' before the school disco. I'm no
expert, mind, I've never taken anything stronger than an aspirin, but
I've been drunk on more than one occasion, and been in a few nasty
situations with drunken louts. Lets face it, if tobacco or alcohol had
just been discovered, they'd both be banned faster than you can say 'a
Stella and a packet of Marlboro mate'. Hard drugs are a different
subject of course, but no one has proven to my satisfaction that the
usage of one leads irrefutably to the other. This stance, and the fact
that she thinks I've lead a sheltered life, leaves my wife thinking
that I have, do, or would, dabble given half the chance.

"It's nothing to do with me. What does it look like?"

"It's round with a domed top. And it's bright pink."

"I thought ecstasy was white?"

"So did I."

"Don't they have 'E' stamped on them or little logos: faces or skulls
or something?"

"What about Janice's daughter, she'd know?"

Janice is a colleague of my wife's and she and her husband are family
friends, if joining them at a school 'do' and inviting them to dinner a
few times counts as friendship. Her daughter works for the local CID,
so she'd probably know 'E' if she saw it.

"Hold on. Wait until I get home. I'd like to see it first. Have you
checked the medicine cabinet?"

"Yes, there's nothing that looks anything like this."

"Well don't say anything to the kids until I've had a look."

And so our day was spent hoping that there was a sensible explanation
but also wondering where we might have gone wrong. I don't really think
we have, the kids have been brought up to discuss things openly, we
talk about the hazards and dangers, not just of drugs but of alcohol
and tobacco and they seem to understand our viewpoint. They respond
with the right answers, say the right things. Perhaps they have group
sessions in the playground on 'Wool Pulling For Idiots' and 'How To
Handle Awkward Questions'. I sit at my desk and worry. Which of the
kids is it? How long have they been using? Who's the supplier? What the
fuck do we do about it? When I was a teenager, drugs were never an
issue, at least not in the company I kept. Back then it was sex. I can
remember my mother suddenly dropping things like 'so and so's boy's
gone and got a girl in trouble' into what few conversations we had. She
could never look me in the face when she said it, but the statement
hung in the air between us, glowing with accusation. Fat chance I'd
think, the step from a quick fondle to full-blown sex was a leap too
gigantic for me to comprehend.
When I get home, the kids are just finishing their tea. There's some
relaxed chat, I catch up on what they've done at school; 'You'll never
guess what Nicky said' or 'Ian got excluded today', that sort of thing.
The pill isn't mentioned until they've headed for their bedrooms for a
few hours homework before the telly's switched on. We walk into the
lounge and my wife presents the pill like some prize in a parenting
competition. It's larger than I expected it to be; I'd always assumed
that they'd be small tablets. The colour and texture reminds me of the
fizzy lollipops we had as kids but there's no sweet smell when I give
it a tentative sniff.

"I'm sure it's not a sweet."

The bottom edge is chipped and fragments are easily rubbed from its
surface. I rub a few crumbs between my fingers then dip my tongue into
the powder. I haven't a clue what I'm doing. What do I expect to
achieve? I've been watching too many TV crime series, the detective
sampling the contents of a small plastic bag like it's a sherbet dab. I
wait. Will my tongue tingle, my brain fizz, will my thoughts leap
outside my head leaving me looking down at my own body? Do I expect the
view through the lounge window to snap into sharp focus allowing me to
see the garden like I've never seen it before? I'm disappointed, the
pill is completely bland and there's no noticeable effect.

"Doesn't do anything for me."

We check the medicine cabinet again and the contents of the kitchen
cupboards but find nothing that resembles this pill.

"I'll take it to Janice tomorrow, then. Maybe if we tell the kids what
we're doing, they'll come clean."

Clean.

An image springs into my mind, perhaps the 'E' is working after all? I
remember exactly where I've seen this tablet before. I pull open the
cupboard door beneath the kitchen sink and tug out the box of
dishwasher detergent. The blocks are individually wrapped in silver
foil which I tear from one of them to reveal an oblong of hard white
powder with a tablet of bright pink stuck to its surface. The box
promises the detergent will 'deliver the ultimate clean' and says that
the 'unique powerball with rinse agent will give a streak-free shine'.
I don't doubt the promise but I do wonder what the police forensics
labs would have thought.