Needle (12 page)

“Come on dude, take a fuckin’ hit,” Jim urged me.

I politely declined.

“I have a bag of dope for you,” Perry said.

I politely accepted.

“Where the fuck did you guys get
crack
?”

“WE MADE IT!”
Perry said with a big smile and a bit more satisfaction than the moment deserved. “Jim showed me how to cook it up.”

“Yeah, dude. We had crack-cookin’ class!!!!” Jim said as he suddenly pulled a plastic ashtray out from under his dirty sweatshirt and lit one of Perry’s Camel Lights.

“Why’d you bring an ashtray over here?” I asked, as there were no less than five scattered around the apartment.

“I take it with me wherever I go.”

“What the fuck for?!?”

“I never leave my DNA anywhere because that’s how they getcha, and
believe
me—they
will
getcha.”

The three of us then smoked that enormous rock for about an hour while Perry explained how we had come to this sad moment in our lives. He had apparently returned home from work and of course, was approached by Jim at the entrance to the building. On any other day
the interaction would have gone no further; however, Perry had finally quit Oscar’s and already snorted a bag of dope to celebrate his departure. That’s pretty much it; he got himself all fucked up and thought it might be a good idea to invite Jim and his cocaine over for a visit.

I learned that Jim actually lived four doors down with his girlfriend, Jenny, whose family owned the apartment—which explained why the crackhead lived in this part of town to begin with. Apparently, the lure of free rent was enough to compensate Jim for the inconvenience of having to cook-up his own stash or travel uptown to score. Beyond that, I discovered that Eduardo was correct in his assessment, for in addition to Jim’s crack-smoking he sported a nasty dope habit as well.

While sitting there in the middle of our living room, sharing a crackpipe with the area’s leading crackhead, it’s interesting to note that not for a second did I think I was a screw-up. Of course, Crackhead Jim certainly was, and though having him over to cook-up rocks the size of testicles was a tad unconventional, as far as Perry and I were concerned we were just living on the edge. We didn’t have a daily drug habit or a physical addiction to contend with and that was all there was to it. Of course, my fondness for heroin was already laying the psychological groundwork for those things to develop.

Soon, the rock was completely spent and in a flash, Jim was again slaving over a hot stove in the kitchen. Then, within moments I started to crash.

“Hey. Give me that bag of dope,” I told Perry and he immediately handed it over.

I then unfolded a little envelope stamped with the word TERMINATOR, and rolled-up a dollar bill.

“Dude, you should boot that,” came a recommendation from Crackhead Jim. “I’ve got plenty of works,” he added, gesturing to a bag of syringes sitting on the kitchen table.

“Only one demoralizing experience per evening, thank you,” I said and then inhaled deeply.

Within seconds the heroin once again asserted itself as King of all Drugs, and the horrid crack craving subsided.

I made my way over to the kitchen and there was Jim, working diligently at the stove. I watched as he slowly added cocaine to a heated mixture of baking soda and water and within a few seconds, gelatinous-looking blobs appeared suspended within it. Jim corralled
them together with a spoon forming a single entity, and then carefully removed it from the water to dry. He then added more coke and baking soda to the mixture and repeated steps two and three.

21

I hated to admit it, but I really enjoyed cocaine under the right circumstance, which simply meant having an ample supply of heroin on hand as well. Although I’d indulged in neither since the session with Crackhead Jim several weeks earlier, I thought about both drugs continuously which was probably a sign that my brain chemistry was beginning to change.

Working with Megan at Barry’s was hardly a deterrent to my drug-related thought patterns. Our daily conversations now gravitated less toward the subject of women, and more toward that of cocaine and heroin. Megan was a fairly regular cocaine user and although I now seemed to have developed an appreciation for the drug, I was still firmly committed to heroin as my drug of choice. Furthermore, I failed to understand how anyone could enjoy coke—much less crack—without being overcome by the crash. From my own experience there was nothing other than heroin that could completely offset the horrible side effects, and I found it inconceivable how most cocaine users preferred to ride out the misery, or perhaps make a feeble attempt to drink it away.

“The blow I get is super clean and I don’t really notice the crash,” she told me.

“No such thing,” I said.

“No, really—I’m
serious
. I get this primo shit from a nurse on 83
^rd
Street. You should go over and pick some up.”

Although I’d done my dabbling, to this point I’d never personally purchased cocaine and under normal circumstances the suggestion would have gone ignored. However, about an hour earlier Perry called to inform me that he’d landed a great job at Dabney’s—a somewhat chic, Chelsea restaurant—and that he’d be bringing heroin home to celebrate. Even though dope purchases were still limited to weekends
only, during the last two weeks of Perry’s unemployment we addressed the shortage of cash by completely abstaining—so now it was apparently time to cut loose.

“Would you call her for me?” I asked Megan, thinking we might as well
really
cut loose.

After work, I walked over to Nurse Feelgood’s building and she buzzed me in. When I got to her apartment she was at the doorway in a nurse’s uniform, with one hand on her hip and the other wrapped around a big bag of cocaine. Yes, it
was
weird, but it would hardly be my first run-in with a member of the healthcare community that was secretly living the life of a drug dealer or abuser.

The coke was $120, but it seemed like a large amount for the price.

“This is a special price
only
for Megan, OK?” she had to point out.

“Yeah, whatever,” I answered, and then hastily left her standing there in front of her apartment.

Though I lived only nine blocks away, the thought of getting high had gotten the better of me and I jumped in a cab heading south. Within a minute, I arrived at my building and was greeted by none other than Crackhead Jim, who seemed to sense my excitement—or perhaps he just smelled the cocaine in my pocket.

“Hey dude, you wanna hang out,” he actually asked.

Without answering I rushed passed him and into the building. When I opened the door to the apartment I was confronted by a forlorn and dejected Perry. I knew something was terribly amiss.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I got beat.”

“What do you mean?!”

“I think I bought baking soda from a fucking junky,” he said.

This was the first instance in which either of us had ever been victimized by a dope fiend and we’d soon learn that—in general—you can never
really
trust a junky.

“That’s great, Perry. Now what the fuck are we gonna do with this shit?” I said as I tossed the coke onto one of the couches.

“What do you think we’re gonna do with it?” he rhetorically asked and then immediately pounced.

For three hours, Perry and I snorted lines as I tried to convince myself that the crash wouldn’t be so bad because, after all—
Megan said so
. Then, at the three hour and one minute mark I wanted to kill myself. This was clearly the most cocaine I’d ever consumed and all
without the sedating effects of a bag of dope to go with it. It was the worst and last coke crash that I would ever allow myself to suffer.

A half-hour after the last line was snorted I couldn’t believe how badly I felt. A bag of dope was all I needed, but Hell’s Kitchen was already closed for the evening. Then I thought about trying to hook-up with some more coke, but we couldn’t afford it and I knew that doing so would only delay and intensify the inevitable misery to come.

I left Perry in the living room to wrestle with his own demons while I hid in the bathroom and began grinding my teeth. I then looked in the mirror and was disgusted by my own reflection, which further intensified the horrible depression. I chastised myself for wasting money on drugs, and then all reasonable thought was thrown out the window as I again began to devise a way to get more cocaine. This was probably the point at which most addicts either cry or resort to criminal activity. I chose to weep for about an hour.

My life sucks, my job sucks, my band sucks… My drummer
really
sucks
.

I decided to take a bath which is something I’ve always found incredibly soothing. Even as a child, I’d often find myself jumping into a hot tub during moments of severe stress or discomfort. There was something primordial about it as perhaps, some deep recess of my subconscious found comfort in what it deemed to be the relative safety of water. Then, I thought about how easy it would be to drown myself in it.

Relax… It’s the coke
.

Deep in my heart I knew this to be true. But with the same conviction I also knew that had this overwhelming depression engulfed me without a traceable cause or foreseeable end to the misery, I definitely
would
have killed myself.

22

As far as Sections was concerned, there wasn’t a great deal of activity during the month of December as Christmas came bearing down upon us and family commitments took center stage. As a matter
of fact, Pat actually returned home to Nebraska for the entire month, which I thought provided us with the perfect opportunity to replace his ass. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to share that opinion.

On Christmas Day I made the obligatory appearance at my mother’s condo in Bayside as we were
still
going through the motions. Later that evening upon returning home, I opened the front door and noticed that all of the lights were on as I was struck by a stream of cold air whistling through the apartment.

“Fucking asshole-Perry!” I yelled out loud. Not only was the door left opened but the apartment was even messier than usual. Several CD’s and my own personal items were carelessly tossed about, clothes were strewn everywhere, and there was a trail of muddy footprints leading to the bedroom. I was really getting sick of Perry’s bullshit and inability to clean up after himself. Then I realized what had happened:

Somebody broke in and ripped us off!

In fact, I may have actually walked in while the crime was still in progress as a stack of stereo components sat by the opened patio door, seemingly the next items to be heisted from our ground-floor apartment.

I stood there for a moment as it all sunk in. I was suddenly overcome by the fact that after 24 years of living in New York, I’d finally become a statistic and it took some time to come to terms with as I’d never before been the victim of a crime. But acceptance gave way to rage spurred on by the violation of my own private space, as I noticed pieces of my life scattered haphazardly on the floor along with the photograph of Eric and Virginia, now crumpled and creased as if cast aside and stepped upon. I wasn’t one to carry around pictures of girlfriends or family members but for some reason that photo felt sacred—and its desecration only heightened my fury.

The entire apartment was a disaster. At some point I came to my senses and after calling the police, I attempted to take stock of what had been stolen. The list grew by the minute and included my college ring, about a hundred CD’s, a CD player, a camera, a turntable, a television, $300 in cash and some very valuable baseball cards. They managed to grab Matt’s bass guitar as well, but with the exception of that one item—almost everything taken was mine.

About ten minutes later, Perry returned from Brooklyn where he’d been spending the day with his mother, celebrating Peace on Earth and Goodwill Towards Men.

“
Merry Christmas, asshole—
WE GOT ROBBED!!!
” I said as he entered the crime scene.

“What?!?” he responded while frantically scanning the living room. “Holy Shit!!”

He then darted back to the bedroom to discover that his most cherished possession—a twelve-string Rickenbacker—still lay hidden under a pile of his own dirty laundry. Apparently, being the biggest slob on earth had its advantages.

At some point Matt called and Perry informed him of the burglary, mentioning his bass as one of the stolen items. Matt then reacted much worse than expected.

“Oh, man—I need that bass!” he wailed.

“Dude, why don’t you forget about the fucking bass and worry about getting it together on guitar?” Perry asked, but the question went ignored.

“Perry—that’s a $200 bass,” he went on. “I left it there thinking it would be safe. Someone’s gonna have to help me replace it, man
—come on!”

“Don’t worry about it.” Perry replied. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Perry confirmed. “As soon as you replace the $600 guitar you left at The Speakeasy, I’ll be sure to replace your $200 bass. OK, shithead?”

With that he ended the call.

“I can’t believe we got ripped off!!!” I bellowed. “And where the fuck are the cops?!?”

“Relax!!!” Perry yelled back. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

I’m not sure he realized the extent of
my
losses, but that was definitely the wrong thing to say and the wrong time to say it.

“What do you mean,
not that big of a deal?
” I demanded.

“My guitar is safe,” he said with tremendous relief. “I think the only thing they took of mine was a laundry bag.”

“Yeah—to carry all of
my
shit out in!!! You should try
using
a laundry bag, you dirty asshole!”

“Then they probably would’ve noticed the guitar,” he said as if I should have been a little more appreciative of his filth.

About an hour later the cops showed up, and I cannot find the words to accurately describe their level of indifference. The news of my losses was met with a complete lack of interest, and I would’ve been satisfied had they demonstrated just a fraction of the passion
they would later have for locking me up.