Parael was talking so fast that Rusty could only track half of that, but he got the page number at the least as he made for the kitchen. Lots of people, varying stages of wastedness, and little bowls and bottles half full. For a daycare owner, he really did have a lot of shit going around, it really was a 'back to the 70's' party with all the trimmings, including a sugar jar, lift the top and sniff -- yep. Cocaine. The crazy thing was that it was all in kid-safe plastic, and bright colors. 

Some stoned motherfucker had drunk like a milk crate's worth of juice boxes, whose crumpled remains were littered about the place. Someone had fingerpainted while stoned. Usually, he'd appreciate the ambience, particularly if he'd participated and went whatever direction the trip took him.

Usually, he'd be tempted by all the candy, but not today. Instead, he grabbed one, just one, of the yellows, pentobarbital, and dry-swallowed it. He needed calm, but he didn't need conked out. He waited for it, waited for it...then he stopped waiting and just went for the phone, trusting the capsule to melt in his acid-pit of a stomach quickly and bring him down to a mellower place.

Cookbook, page 240 something...one...two...three, phone number surrounded by inappropriate stick figure drawings done in some sort of mockery of the kama sutra.

He picked up the phone and got ready to stick his finger in the rotary dial and found that, as he tried to put his dirty, oily digit in that clean hole, he couldn't do it. He tried every finger he had. He tried the other hand, he got a pen and tried to stick that in, but he couldn't force himself to dial.

Then he tried the number to the place the guys were staying at on Lake Talbot. Same thing; big hairy-scary biker dude trying to make his finger go into the phone dial, while the dial tone went to the beeping that it gave when the phone was left off the hook too long without dialing. That went on for minutes, as the sweat beaded on his forehead and he stared at that thing like he was trying to will it to dial with his mind.

In a normal state, he would have yelled out "FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKERFUCKINGFUCK!" But he'd taken the Mexican yellow a few minutes ago. He would have slammed the phone down, but thanks to the wonders of modern (well, 1950's) chemistry, he replaced it in the cradle with a mellow sigh.

"...fuck..."