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Why do they call it gack?
Because that's the sound you make when you're high. Your mind is going so fast, all you can say is gack, gack, gack.
That's how I feel all the time. What's the point?
Make you feel like Superman, dude.
As if they're coming out of someone else's mouth, I hear these words: You know what? F--- it. Yeah. Let's get high.
Slim dumps a small pile of powder on the coffee table. He cuts it, snorts it. He cuts it again. I snort some. I ease back on the couch and consider the Rubicon I've just crossed. There is a moment of regret, followed by vast sadness. Then comes a tidal wave of euphoria that sweeps away every negative thought in my head. I've never felt so alive, so hopeful—and I've never felt such energy. I'm seized by a desperate desire to clean. I go tearing around my house, cleaning it from top to bottom. I dust the furniture. I scour the tub. I make the beds. I sweep the floors. When there's nothing left to clean, I do laundry. All the laundry. I fold every sweater and T-shirt, and still I haven't made a dent in my energy. I don't want to sit down. If I had table silver I'd polish it. I tell Slim I could do anything right now, anyf------thing. I could get in the car and drive to Palm Springs and play 18 holes, then drive home and make lunch and go for a swim.
I don't sleep for two days. When I finally do, it's the sleep of the dead and the innocent.
I pull out of the French Open with a tender wrist I'd hurt a few weeks earlier. I go to London for Wimbledon but can't bring myself to practice. I tell my coach, Brad Gilbert, I'm pulling out of the tournament. I'm in vapor lock.
Brad says, What the hell does vapor lock mean?
I've played the game for a lot of reasons, I say, and it just seems like none of them have ever been my own.