It started with a half-hearted promise, one year ago. When Tyler Plath’s parents dropped him off on Move-In Day, they made him promise them that he would not ever use intoxicating substances. “Remember what you’re here for,” said his father, Richard Plath, 54. “It’s okay to have some fun, but if someone asks you to blow into a bong” – boomers don’t know how drugs work – “remember to leave as fast as you can.”

That was a year ago, but look at Tyler now! He’s on the phone, trying not to slur his words, telling his mom, “Yeah, I mean…Yeah, yeah, I’ll be home for fall break,” waving away the dick-shaped bowl that his roommate just passed him. This is the longest 15-minute-long phone call of Ty’s life. Tyler knew this phone call was happening tonight, but who could ever say no to that good-good sticky-icky? The answer: Not Tyler.

Tyler reaches over to turn down the television Seth Bury, his roommate, is using to blare an old Tim and Eric sketch. His mom definitely heard all of that Dr. Steve Bruhl sketch; he can tell from the disappointment in her voice. She’s saying something.

Is Seth really pulling out a vape pen right now? Tyler thinks, hearing his roommate’s pneumatic coughs. Does he really want my mom to find out?…

…I wonder if he’ll let me have a hit…

“Hey, did you hear about your cousin, Rodney? Remember how he got a job at that accounting firm?” asks Tyler’s mom.

“Yeah,” says Tyler.

“Well, they found weed in his urine and fired him,” says his Mom.

“Oh,” says Tyler, eating handfuls of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos like he has no self-respect. “That sucks.”

“Yeah…You know not to do that, right?” she asks.

“Oh, of course,” says Tyler. “You and Dad raised me right. I would never do that.”

He readjusts the towel covering the crack under his door and sprays more lavender-scented Febreeze. Kevin, his RA, is pretty chill, but Tyler knows not to be an idiot.

His father says something inaudible in the background. “Your father told me to tell you not to be stupid and that he loves you.”

“Okay, cool. Love you.” says Tyler, between coughs.

“Love you, too,” says his Mom. “Take care of yourself. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Okay,” says Tyler. He pauses, not knowing what else to say. “Okay, goodnight!”

“Goodnight, honey.”

They both end the phone call. Tyler walks to his desk, feeling guilty. His mom goes to her house’s bathroom, sad that Tyler seems disconnected from her, that he won’t let her into his life.

Then, simultaneously, they both take their cocaine mirrors from their hiding-place drawers and blow a rail, not knowing that the other is doing the same thing, many miles away.

Si ce n’est pas la beauté, je ne sais pas ce que c’est.

Fin.

Written by Dan Druff, Staff Writer