Review and First Chapter Reveal: Closet Full of Coke by Indra Sena
Title: Closet Full of CokeAuthor: Indra SenaPublisher: Indra SenaPages: 294Language: EnglishGenre: MemoirFormat: Paperback & eBook
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Narrated by the teenage girl who lived it, Closet Full of Coke tells the true story of how a New York suburban fifteen-year-old girl's savvy, grit and wit helps turn the small-time drug business of Armando, a Colombian drug dealer, into a multi-million-dollar cocaine operation that puts them on the DEA's Wanted List.
This intimate diary gives readers a fast-paced glimpse of the couple's speedy rise to riches, and their inevitable descent.
The wanna be Bonnie and Clyde of the New York-to-Florida drug scene of the 1980s, these lovers end their story only three years later with an untimely death, betrayal, and revenge.
Here is a true account of drug dealers whose obsession with money, power, sex and glamour drives them to a lifestyle of deceit and recklessness, ending in tragedies that destroy lives forever.
From the Author:
I wanted the foolish girl I once was to tell her story without interruption. The result is a diary written like a novel. There is no reflection, analysis, or pontificating. There is a salacious story full of colorful characters and dialogue, told by the teenager who lived it. Drug dealers have an interesting ethos unknown to outsiders. They live by elaborate rules and codes, and use intricate methodology to conduct business. They are far more organized than people imagine, and they see themselves as business people and entrepreneurs. Serious dealers who want success don't use drugs and they deal to other dealers, not to users. I compare my book to Film Noir. According to filmsite.org, "the primary moods of classic film noir" include "melancholy, alienation, disillusionment, disenchantment, moral corruption, evil, guilt, desperation and paranoia." These moods are prominent in my book.
Readers have called it"haunting," "a car wreck you can't look away from," and "a roller coaster ride." So, you like the edge of your seat, hold on tight and listen to my story.
FREE* Read the first eight chapters for free on the Closet Full of Coke Website.
I received this book as part of a blog tour to give an honest review.
There is plenty of bad language within this story. Possible spoilers.
I have truly never really read a memoir the ones I have they always miss something and you can never fully get into reading them. With a Closet Full of Coke I just had a feeling that this was a book that would draw me in and I would devour the story and like it. I was totally right. Now I know you are wondering why the 4.5 rating. There was a few things within the story that I just was like that is really hard to believe. And second it was the ending the Afterward with the author.
So you are following the life of a young teenager who comes from a broken home, and sells drugs. Honestly I could see this possibly being a show or movie. You could see the story happening right before your eyes. And while reading it, if you didn't know it was based on a true story you learn later on that it is. What got me was how the mother of the teenager and her sister was treated. It broke my heart like what parent doesn't truly care about their kids? But I guess it happens more than anything.
There were parts that were heart-wrenching that it was like how much can this girl deal with. I loved her "working" relationship with Jamal and his outcome broke my heart because he seemed like such a fun guy.
I enjoyed how she was strong and didn't take no crap from anyone. That is hard to do in a drug world, you have to become tough or you get taken over and working for someone else. There were times that I wanted to tell Indra to not make that decision put it all behind you. Don't take his crap and take him back. Oh and how she did her friend with the kids and the stash house, just straight up broke my heart I was like really? You gonna let her take the fall? You are not gonna get her out of jail? I know you are trying to set your life right but this chick has kids.
Overall a very brutal and honest story of a young drug queen-pin in the 80s. You see the hardship she went through not only with herself but with those around her and her family. You see heartache, hardly any love and more than anything it seems a lesson learned.
What truly got me was the part where Carlos is in the bathtub and he ask her to join him. And at first she brushes it off then she gets in. And of course he tries to have his way with her.
It bothered me because you put yourself in that situation, instead of walking away.
The second part is the Afterword. I want to truly know about the other characters that played a part in this story not just Indra or her drug dealer/lover. I felt a bit let down on that part. On this part the author sent me an email saying that the afterword was 3 pages and not 1 page like the copy I received. So other characters were mentioned within this "afterword".
One
January
1984
Age
15
Mesc:
A misnomer for tiny, hallucinogenic, purple pills. Mesc is short for
the word mescaline, a reference to peyote cactus. The pills do not
contain peyote. They are made from low-potency LSD and fillers.
Buy:
A wholesale purchase of drugs by a drug dealer.
“You
looking for someone?”
I
was standing on the porch of my dealer’s house, anxiously ringing
the doorbell. I turned around to see a thirtysomething Latino man
standing behind me. I hadn’t heard him come up the porch steps. He
was sleek, and his dark eyes were captivating. His remarkably
handsome face was framed by glossy black hair brushed neatly back. He
appeared regal in a full-length gray wool coat topped with a flowing
black scarf, and shiny black leather shoes.
“I’m
here to see Jamal.” I pushed my hands deep into the pockets of my
black leather jacket.
“No
one is home.” He spoke slowly in heavily accented English. “You
are looking for something, sí? I can help you.” The cadence
of his voice had a slight hypnotic effect on me.
He
kept his dark eyes locked on me. I turned and walked across the
decaying porch planks of the sprawling Victorian house to peer into
the kitchen window. It did seem unusually quiet.
I
was there to make a buy. I’d been hitchhiking to this house for two
years, since I was thirteen, buying mesc to sell to my suburban
classmates. The Lincoln brothers—all six of them—lived, turned
tricks, and dealt drugs here. I often sat in the shadows of the
living room silently watching the freak show; businessmen in smart
suits arriving to pay for sex with black men wearing full drag,
teenage girl streetwalkers in miniskirts buying pills, and
hollow-eyed junkies sweating and panting for heroin.
When
I came to make a buy, I would sit on the red velvet couch smoking
Marlboros while the oldest, Jamal, counted out dozens of tiny purple
pills on the coffee table.
“Here
you go, girlfriend,” he’d say while tossing me a miniature
plastic bag containing the pills, “now you gots to pay your daddy.”
Then he’d flash a wide, disarming grin while flipping the blue
feather boa he often wore over his shoulder.
I’d
take wads of bills out of my purse that were mostly singles (the
lunch money my classmates paid me with) and hand them to him.
When
I’d stand and announce that I was leaving, he’d jump up and give
me a juicy kiss goodbye. He always flirted with me, but not in a
serious way. It was more like he was teasing me.
He’d
say something like, “Girl, you so fine. We should hang out together
some night.”
I
knew he was joking, but I still had a crush on him. He was tall and
stately, and he looked like an athlete with his muscular physique. I
thought he was gorgeous.
Living
as an unsupervised teenager, I stumbled into drug dealing. At first,
I bought my drugs from high school seniors I partied with, and then
re-sold them to my peers in middle school for a profit. But then I
met Jamal at a liquor store near his house where I went to buy cheap
wine with fake ID. He was charming. We formed an instant bond, and
when he took me to his house full of lava lamps, colored beaded
curtains, and velvet furniture, I thought it was the coolest place
I’d ever seen. I began hitchhiking there regularly to buy all of my
drugs from him.
The
Lincoln brothers’ house was always full of people, mostly hookers
and junkies. I found them intriguing, especially the girl hookers who
were my age. I became friends with two of them. They called
themselves Spicy and BJ, and they were always forking their
hard-earned cash over to their boyfriends—wanna be pimps with
needle bruises covering their scrawny arms.
Spicy
and BJ told me countless stories of sex for profit. Sex with
toothless old men, or with men so fat they had to climb on top of
them by stepping on a folding chair. And sex with shoe-fetishists who
masturbated while the girls pranced around rank hotel rooms in high
heels. They were always bumming cigarettes off me, and asking men for
spare change as we walked down the street together.
I
couldn’t quite understand their choice to hook. As a dealer, there
was no sex with sleazy men for a twenty-dollar bill, and no pimp to
take that bill away. I lived like royalty. Everyone wanted to be my
friend. I was phoned constantly, sought out between classes by kids
camping in front of my locker, saved the best seat on the school bus,
and stalked by the Jonesers; those ghosts who think of nothing but
getting high.
When
I focused on something, I tended to excel. I thought about being a
lawyer, or a teacher, but I was afraid I would never fit into the
normal world. When I spoke of college, my mother, Joan, sarcastically
called me a dreamer. She suggested I clean houses instead.
The
stranger extended a gloved hand towards me. “Come with me,” he
said, and flashed a movie star smile. “I’m Armando.”
I
took his hand and walked down the porch steps holding it, teetering
slightly on the stiletto heels of my black suede boots. When we
reached the pavement, I jerked my hand away.
“Where
are you taking me?”
“For
a ride.”
Taking
a deep breath, I stared expressionless at him. “No, I’m sorry, I
can’t. I don’t know you.”
“Ah,
but I know you. I saw you leaving here once, and I asked Jamal about
you. You are the gringa who comes from the country to buy
mesc.” He placed his hand on my arm, and I knew I was going with
him.
“Come
with me to pick some up and I will give you the best deal,” he
said.
I
followed him along the sidewalk. I thought he was the most charming
man I’d ever met. I flirted with him, smiling and twisting a long
dark curl with my finger while we walked.
I
suspected Armando was Jamal’s supplier. Going over your dealer’s
head to his dealer is considered a loathsome crime of loyalty. I
loved Jamal, but my ambition had long outweighed my loyalty; I had
gone over my dealer’s head before. Besides, I didn’t go looking
for Jamal’s supplier. I just got lucky.
Armando
stopped walking. He stepped off the curb and opened the driver side
door of a brown El Camino, and then pulled the beige front seat
forward. He motioned for me to get in. A typical Hispanic car, I
thought. The Virgin Mary statue glued to the dashboard completed the
stereotype.
Sliding
into the backseat, I noticed a girl up front holding a baby. Her
shiny black hair, pulled tightly back with an elastic band, fell to
her waist. She looked about my age.
“This
is Lourdes, she does not speak too much English.”
“Hola,
mucho gusto.” I fumbled to speak the tiny bit of Spanish I
knew.
She
replied in rapid-fire Spanish.
I
interrupted her. “Un poquito.”
“The
little you speak is good,” Armando said. “I’ll teach you. Do
not learn from her, she is Puerto Rican. She butchers my language.”
“Is
that your baby?”
“Yes.
José. He is one year.”
Armando
started the car, and then jerked it quickly away from the curb
forcing us all to lurch. The unexpected slide across the seat sent me
slamming into the door. As we drove, Lourdes clutched her baby to her
chest. I held onto the headrest in front of me.
He
soon careened onto the interstate and floored the gas, weaving in and
out of narrow lanes, passing cars on both sides without signaling,
and honking his horn in frustration. He yelled and cursed in Spanish
while angrily tailgating every car in his path.
I
had never seen anyone drive like this before. A man I once talked to
in a bar told me people in other countries drive really crazy. He was
from Egypt, and he said there were no traffic lights there. Maybe
Armando had only just come to America?
“Where
are we going?” I hoped talking to him would distract him, maybe
slow him down. It only made things worse as he looked over his
shoulder to talk to me without braking.
“114th
Street.”
“You
mean the city?”
“No,
Manhattan.”
“That
is the city, and it’s over two hours away! Why are we going there?”
“To
get mesc. That’s what you want, sí?”
“Yeah,
but I didn’t plan on being away for hours.”
I
had hitchhiked to Jamal’s straight from school. My sister Seely,
who was only thirteen, was home alone with no one to watch her. Our
mother had been sleeping at her new boyfriend’s house almost every
night. We had friends who came over to drink and drug with us daily,
so she probably had company, but I didn’t want to disappear on her
for hours.
“I’m
gonna give it to you cheap, muchacha
Half
the price you pay the Lincoln brothers. I’m getting you a hundred
hits for seventy dollars.”
I
was thrilled. I immediately began calculating the increased profits
in my head. But dealers, like poker players, must always hide their
true feelings. I remained stoic. He glanced at my expressionless face
in the rearview mirror. I glared at him. “If you don’t fucking
kill us, cabrón. You drive like a crazy man, slow down.” I
looked over his shoulder at the speedometer. It was punched to
eighty-five. “Slow the fuck down or let me outta this car!”
Armando
laughed. “Okay, chica, I’ll try, but you are mine now.”
His
gentle bullying annoyed me. I would never be his—or anyone’s,
especially not for a crummy handful of drugs, not even for a million
dollars.
I
sat back and rummaged through my purse. It contained a small notebook
where I kept my drug books and wrote poems, and a small silk bag with
pearl-colored rosaries my grandmother had given me. I also carried
two makeup cases. One was a black case housing cherry red lipstick,
black eyeliner, powder, and a battery powered lighted mirror, and the
other was a pink case that functioned as a stash bag with marijuana,
rolling papers, and small glass cigarette holder inside.
“Can
I smoke pot?” I asked.
“Sure,
it is okay. Just relax.” Armando switched on a Spanish pop station
and blasted the tinny music.
I
rolled a perfect joint. I placed it in the cigarette holder and lit
it, deeply inhaling the thick smoke. No one wanted any so I smoked
alone, occasionally leaning forward to survey the speedometer.
When
we reached the city, it was night.
“Armando,
where are we?”
“Spanish
Harlem.”
He
parallel parked along the curb, and then jumped out of the car
telling us to lock the doors. I felt nervous as I watched him walk to
the corner, turn, and vanish.
I
had heard of Harlem, as in the Harlem Globetrotters. Other than that,
it meant nothing to me. At home, I hung out in what was called
“Spanish Town.” Spanish Harlem looked a lot like it with its
painted brick townhouses, and tiny stores lining the streets with
signs advertising Lotería and Licor de malta along
with flashing red and yellow lights circling the windows.
Lourdes
and I struggled to converse, then politely gave up. I wished I spoke
Spanish so I could ask her about Puerto Rico. Instead, I passed the
time by watching the people walking by. There were girls swathed in
rabbit fur with high, tight ponytails and huge gold hoop earrings,
and young men in parkas walking in small groups talking animatedly.
Occasionally I’d see a solitary figure walking briskly, seemingly
coaxed by the cold wind.
I
was drawn to Latin culture: the exotic sounding Spanish words spoken
so rapidly, the spicy food, the garish décor, and the candles with
the Saints on them. When I was twelve, I liked a boy named Jimmy
Martinez. I gave him my number and he called me while I was out. My
mother answered the phone and while taking a message, she asked his
name.
“Don’t
you know you can’t date spicks?” She began yelling as soon as I
came through the front door.
“Why
not?” I asked.
“’Cause,
you go wich your own kind. You can’t date any boys unless they’re
the same as you.”
I
went out with Jimmy anyway. I liked brown skin, melodic accents, and
jet-black hair.
Armando
finally returned with small bags full of steaming hot food. “These
are empanadas, we eat them in Colombia all the time. You have
never tasted anything so good.” We ate the hot yellow pastries
filled with spiced beef out of grease-stained paper bags.
I
said that I needed to call my sister. Armando nodded and then drove
slowly down the street, pulling over when he spotted a phone booth.
He offered me some change. I jumped out of the car clutching a
handful of dimes and was soon pushing dirty buttons with my black
leather gloves.
“Seely?
Were you asleep?” She sounded groggy.
“Nah,
I’m just fucked up.” She then burst into laughter. “Where the
fuck are you, you never came home after school?”
“I
had to leave town, I’ll be back around eleven. Are you okay? Did ma
call?”
“I’m
alright, just hangin’ out with Jack. Ma never called tonight.”
“Cool.”
I was relieved she was with Jack, her boyfriend for almost a year.
“Where
are you, sissy?” Seely always called me by the same nickname our
father called his sister.
“I’m
doing business ... working, ya know. I’ll tell you later.”
Seely
was my biggest fan. She often bragged at school about being my
sister. I felt responsible for her and even though I was often mean
to her, she was the only person I trusted with my secrets.
When
I got back into the car, Armando asked me where I lived.
“Farmingville.”
“Where’s
that?”
“About
ten miles from Southbridge.”
“Oh,
sí. No hay problema, I will drive you home. Aquí.”
He tossed me a tiny packet containing more mesc than I had ever seen.
I pulled the money out of my wallet and gave it to him.
“You
gotta pen, muchacha?”
I
pulled out a pen along with my trusty notebook.
“Here
is my number. From now on you call me, sí?”
“Sí.”
The
ride home was quiet. Lourdes rarely spoke, though occasionally she
murmured to Armando in Spanish, and he answered almost as softly. I
understood nothing they said, but it sounded like music.
Armando
looked at me often in the rearview mirror. Sometimes, I met his gaze
and held it for a moment. His raven eyes made my heart race. Maybe I
saw my future in them, a future more glamorous than I’d ever
dreamed, and more horrible than I’d ever feared.
"I spent six years on my memoir: two writing it, two rewriting it, two rewriting it with editors. Although it garnered interest by agents and publishers all of them wanted me to "create an ending that sells." I wanted to write a true story so I self-published my book without a manufactured ending. It is about my life as a teenage criminal. It covers just four years in the early 80s. I learned a lot while creating my book so I made this blog to share my thoughts about writing and the memoir genre. "You can visit Indra Sena’s website at www.closetfullofcoke.com. Indra is currently working on her second memoir. It covers two years in her twenties, where she joined the Rainbow Family and traveled the US and abroad.
Her latest book is the memoir, Closet Full of Coke.
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& Socialize with Indra
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