Remember when Pasta Roni was called Noodle Roni? Yes, it was before the Pasta Revolution of 1996, which changed everything. "Noodle", while fun to say, is considered low class. But back when I was a freshman at The University of Dirty Hippies, "noodle" was perfectly acceptable.
As a freshman, I stuck to a steady vegetarian diet of crap. No meat because meat is murder. But piles and piles of ramen, grilled cheese sandwiches, kettle chips, white rice with butter and cheese and other nutritionally vapid food. I got so sick of ramen that one day, while preparing yet another bowl, I started crying and screaming about how I didn't think I could handle anymore ramen. To this day, when I smell it, I get nauseous.
Noodle Roni, however, was a goddamn treat. If we had the money to buy milk, we could enjoy a creamy bowl of saucy noodles with our buttery grilled cheese. Because that's a healthy combination. What did we know? We were 18 and the "Carbs will kill you" thing was still years off. Plus, when you're high, you're not thinking that you should probably eat a low-carb, low-fat, sugar-free yogurt.
After arriving at UDH (and after being issued my rape whistle), I attended the first meeting of the Black Learners Association for Quality Unifying Education, or, BLAQUE. This is where I learned that dirty hippies and black folks don't mix. There were 4 people there. Including me. I never went to another meeting and I saw so few black people on campus, it was just like being in Minnesota. But I'm mixed, which means I can hang with the whites too. So it was all good. (Don't worry, this is all going somewhere.)
I had this friend--we'll call her Donna. I don't feel right using her real name because I am no longer in contact with her. So Donna it is. Donna was the most peculiar person I have ever met. She was tall--like 6 feet tall--and painfully skinny with paper-thin, pale, sensitive skin. Her hair was jet black and her eyes were a brilliant green. She moved like a cat--very quiet and graceful. Donna introduced me to Sebadoh and undiagnosed mental illness. Here's a good way to sum up Donna: if you were tripping on acid, you'd totally want to be at Donna's house.
The dangerous part about the UDH was that people who did drugs thought everyone wanted to do drugs with them. I was definitely a pot smoker but I stayed far away from anything else at the time, especially hallucinogenics. The idea of seeing shit that wasn't there or my friend's face suddenly melting off her skull while I was talking to her did not appeal to me at all. Friends would always say, "It's like opening another dimension in your mind. You should totally try it." No thanks, I'd say. And I stuck to my guns. Until one faithful night.
A friend of mine--we'll call him Ted--made a batch of pot brownies. Brownies? Delicious. Pot? Absolutely. Thus, I cut myself a big old piece and scarfed it down. A short while later, I started to feel...weird. One entire wall in my bedroom was covered with rave flyers from all the raves I did and didn't go to from 1992-1994. They sort of started...coming at me...especially the Halloween themed flyer, which was making me...uneasy. So I went to Ted's room.
"Hey Ted?"
"Yeah?"
"What did you put in those pot brownies?"
"Pot."
"Ok. Anything else?"
"No. Well...I mean, there are mushrooms in there too."
Great, thanks Ted. I would have freaked out but Stephanie, my faithful sidekick was there and when I looked at her, she grinned and said, "Let's go to Donna's house."
Donna lived in a house in the woods. It wasn't a random house in the woods, although that would make the story much better, wouldn't it? The University of Dirty Hippies offered several different types of housing. Steph and I lived in an apartment. Donna lived in a Mod, which was short for Modular Housing. The legend was, there was a failed attempt to make modular housing a thing in San Fransisco. When it didn't work, UDH bought up all the short, sound structures and used them as student housing. That's where Donna lived.
Stephanie and I arrived at Donna's house and immediately told her we'd accidentally eaten mushrooms. Donna grinned, her heavy eyelids half covering her green eyes. "Cool", she said softly. "Come on in."
I sat in a chair at Donna's kitchen table, wringing my hands. I was not good at drugs. When I was 12, I read a Sweet Valley High book about a girl who did one line of coke and immediately died. It scared the shit out of me. I was convinced that I would also die, suddenly and without warning, if I did anything harder than marijuana. Kudos, Francine Pascal.
Donna turned on the television. I stared at it but I couldn't tell you what was on it. Steph asked if I was ok. I said yes but it felt like a bunch of little tiny hands were pushing on me.
"Go to the bathroom", Donna said lightly. "It's, like, a whole other world in there."
Steph and I took her advice and went into the bathroom. I don't know what fascinated us but we were in there for a good 20 minutes. When we came out, I had a renewed sense of calm about the mushrooms. It was fun. My whole body was tingly and I could hear everything. There was a hum of electricity that ran through me and it wasn't scary; it was exhilarating.
"You guys want some Noodle Roni?"
It was a quietly asked question; just an afterthought, like, "Gee, maybe they're hungry."
Steph and I both reared up and said, "YES" with such ferocity that we might have been responsible for a tsunami that occurred some 3,000 miles away several days later.
Donna started making the Noodle Roni. I don't remember what flavor it was but it smelled like all Noodle Roni smells: creamy, buttery and carb-y.
"Hey", Donna said, lazily. "I dare you guys to go outside and scream 'whoever wants Noodle Roni, come to Mod 12.'"
Stephanie raced for the door, threw it open and screamed at the top of her lungs:
"WHOEVER WANTS NOODLE RONI, COME TO MOD 12!!!!!!!"
Then she came back inside and we laughed like it was the funniest goddamn thing that had ever happened anywhere in the world.
30 seconds after she did that, there was a furious pounding on the door. We all froze, our eyes wide with surprise. Our Noodle Roni friends had arrived.
Donna opened the door. Standing outside was a group of black men. I don't remember how many; could have been 3 or 27. As soon as she opened the door, one of them said, "Noodle Roni?!"
Now, had I not been on mushrooms, this would have been strange. Like I said, there were FOUR black people TOTAL at UDH. Where this group of black men came from is a total mystery. But because I was in an altered state, this was some spooky, spooky shit. I collapsed on the floor laughing, gasping for air. Donna politely explained that we only had one box of Noodle Roni. That displeased them; they grumbled about "people yelling they have Noodle Roni when they don't have Noodle Roni." After they left, I went and stood on the front porch, looking for any sign of them. Nothing. I never saw them again, ever. They were like unicorns. Hungry, black unicorns.
We ate our Noodle Roni and some other stuff happened but nothing as intense as the Noodle Roni incident. It's a story I try to tell people but I can never fully convey the absolute bizarreness of that moment. Maybe it didn't really happen.
Later, Donna became very addicted to meth and then heroin, which effectively ended our friendship. The last time I went to Donna's house, it was like an episode of Hoarders. I cleaned her kitchen and left and we never spoke again. I often wondered what happened to Donna. Stephanie apparently ran into her in New York City around 2000, where she was working as a bartender. She was off drugs and dealing with some mental health issues. Steph said she was really happy and that's all I can ask for.
Occasionally, I purchase a box of Pasta Roni, with its shiny new name, and I always think of Donna and Steph and that strange night. It still tastes good, only now I have it with a side of steak.
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