Needle (15 page)

After emptying the chamber’s contents into his arm Perry removed the needle, gently closed his eyes, and seemed to just barely clench his jaw. Within four or five seconds he reopened his eyes and I could see he was completely wasted.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

“It feels like heroin,” he said. “Yours is on the counter.”

I went to retrieve the dope and was disheartened to find only a single bag awaiting me. Of course, I could get high by snorting only one, but to get truly fucked up would require a second bag and I mentioned that fact to Perry.

“The dude only had two left. That’s why I got the needles,” he responded. Apparently, delivering heroin into the bloodstream intravenously is the most efficient and cost-effective way to manage what could become a very expensive habit. “Booting one bag is like snorting three,” he explained.

This was a defining moment in my own drug consumption history as I realized I now had two options before me: I could either head over to Hell’s Kitchen for another bag to snort, or for the first time in my life—
plunge a needle into my arm
. Though previously opposed to this brand of drug delivery, watching Perry tap a vein helped demystify the process and remove the aura of depravity I had associated with it. I was now suddenly able to look past the seedier side and accept IV drug use for what it was:
A matter of economics
. So, once again, I would confront yet another line not to cross and take a tremendous leap forward.

I approached the waiting hypodermic with a mixture of awe and loathing and then realized that these syringes differed dramatically from those belonging to Crackhead Jim. Jim’s were orange, fairly short, and designed for diabetics—while these were blue, longer in length, and required assembly as the actual needle had to be attached to the chamber.

Even though I had just witnessed the procedure, I drew a blank when it came time to execute. Fortunately, Perry had always assumed a big brother role with regard to such matters, and once again confidently took the helm. After he combined the ingredients in a spoon, I held a lit match beneath it. As soon as the mixture boiled, I extinguished the flame and tossed the spent match into the kitchen’s
wastebasket.

Perry loaded the syringe, grabbed me by the wrist, and then began to search for the perfect vein. He carefully examined my arms, and though I could see several possibilities and pointed them out, Perry dismissed each as “rolling veins” which are difficult to penetrate.

“Your veins are hard to get at,” he told me. “Maybe we should skin-pop it.”

“What’s a skin-pop?”

“It’s when you don’t mainline it. You shoot it in your ass, or anywhere other than a vein.”

“Fuck that shit. I’m going for glory.”

After a few moments of searching, he spotted his target: a barely perceptible, greenish-blue bump located on the top of my left forearm, about two inches from my elbow. As far as I was concerned it barely qualified as a vein at all, but Perry was certain it was the best candidate. Even so, the pressure from a belt wrapped around my arm was required to coax the vein out, and I was again impressed with Perry when he nailed it on the very first attempt. I would later learn that his proficiency with a needle was the fortunate result of a short stint in the army as a medic.

As he emptied the contents of the syringe into my arm, my fascination with his needle-wielding prowess was interrupted by the immediate effects of the heroin. I felt a river of warmth flowing through the penetrated vein, eventually culminating into a rush that can only be described as a body-orgasm. As the climax began to subside, it dispersed throughout—showering me with a million little bursts of euphoria. At one point I could feel my heart tighten, and as the drug traveled through its chambers I could actually
taste
it.

Within a few minutes I realized that the intoxicating effects induced by administering dope intravenously, are ultimately the same as those achieved by snorting it. Cost-effectiveness aside, the only difference between the two delivery methods is in the
immediate
effect. Unlike snorting heroin which results in a gradual, creeping kind of intoxication, booting it provides a rapid rush that many dope fiends become specifically addicted to. This sensation quickly subsides, however, and the hours spent in a nodding euphoria is essentially the same experience—though perhaps for a shorter duration. Although I did find the orgasmic intensity of the IV rush to be pleasurable, and Perry actually preferred it, if given the choice I would’ve still preferred to put heroin up my nose.

After the rush, I came back down to earth and thought it would be a good idea to clean up the mess, fearing that my new roommate might take exception to the dirty syringes, blood-speckled tissues, and burnt spoons strewn about the kitchen. Although Rachel knew that Perry and I liked to “dabble,” this would clearly be too large a slice of life for her to handle.

Once restoring the kitchen to a less traumatizing state, Perry and I relocated to the living room to nod. Then at some point Rachel returned from the store, and immediately greeted Perry with a big hug.

“Hi Perry!” she said. “I love my new roommate!”

“That’s nice, Rachel,” he responded.

“Hey, how’s the demo going?” she asked as she passed the kitchen on her way to the bedroom.

“It’s going OK,” Perry told her. “If Danny would shut up and Matt could remember how to play his guitar, things would be perfect.”

“Hey guys?” Rachel then called out from the back of the apartment; however, failing to hear her Perry and I continued on with the conversation.

“Danny will
never
shut up and Matt can’t even remember where he
left
his guitar,” I told him.

“Hey, you guys…” Rachel tried again to get our attention.

“Danny’s days are numbered,” Perry stated.

“Hey guys, excuse me—” Rachel again politely attempted to elicit a response.

Unfortunately, Perry and I were not only engrossed in matters pertaining to Sections, but completely fucked out of our skulls. Thankfully, she got right to the point:

“Hey guys…excuse me, but umm…the kitchen’s on fire.”

Rachel said it so calmly and without any sense of urgency that it took a moment to register. In fact, I remained in a daze until I saw Perry leap into action as smoke began wafting into the living room, at which point I too jumped to my feet and darted into the kitchen behind him.

The kitchen was filled with smoke, and at first we had no idea of the source or cause. It must have taken Perry a full minute to pinpoint the burning wastebasket, fueled by a smoldering match that
I
failed to completely extinguish, as the culprit.

We mounted an assault on the fire. Perry kicked the smoking wastebasket out from under the sink, I dumped a can of Mountain Dew over it, and Rachel stood by to monitor events. It was a
team
effort
. Unfortunately, two fucked up junkies and a messenger from Mars were apparently not the best equipped to deal with the crisis. The Mountain Dew proved itself an ineffective fire retardant, and as the flames grew to within three feet of the ceiling the prospect of an inferno became very real. Then suddenly, throwing all caution to the wind, Perry hastily picked up the melting wastebasket, ran into the bathroom, and threw it in the tub.

27

Rachel was a great singer and had a sultry, bluesy voice that was intoxicating. Before I knew it we were fooling around and within a week, without ever saying a word, we became a very casual item. However, my affair with Rachel took a backseat to my relationship with heroin, which blossomed into something truly meaningful as I became a regular user for the first time.

Although I wasn’t getting high on a daily basis just yet, Perry had discovered a new spot in Harlem and I found myself there between three and five times a week to inhale two or three bags of dope. It was located on 110
^th
Street and Lexington Avenue and for a junky—it was the
Mother Land
. In fact, there were not only a number of dope dealers roaming the block, but also a few crack dealers stationed in projects and on street corners. Unfortunately, the increased access to my drug of choice brought new problems to deal with and after two weeks, on days in between using, I began to experience minor withdrawal symptoms that would erupt in the form of headaches, though at the time I didn’t recognize them as such.

There were two external factors contributing to the escalated drug use, besides of course, the discovery of 110
^th
Street. One was the minimal amount of rent I was paying while living at Rachel’s, and the other was a staff change at Barry’s that resulted in more hours on the clock—and more money to buy drugs with.

The primary change at work involved Gina. Along with an associate, she was about to be transferred to the Lexington Avenue store and seemed depressed about it.

“Don’t worry, Gina. I promise, I’ll write everyday,” I told her in an effort to lighten the mood as our final day as co-workers was coming to an end.

“It’s not that,” she told me. “Paul has been giving me a hard time lately and I think we’re gonna call it quits.”

Paul was Gina’s eccentric, sculptor boyfriend.

“Well, that’ll give
Perry
a reason to live,” I said, as he often stopped by under the pretense of visiting me, when he was really just interested in boning her.

I gave Gina a hug and left the store as my shift ended. I then headed downtown as earlier that morning Rachel had asked me to pick up a box of headshots recently taken of her at a photography studio in the West Village. She mentioned she was a bit concerned about the final product, recalling that the photographer wore a patch over his left eye. As things turned out, however, the pictures were great. Rachel looked beautiful and her stage history, in resume format, was included on the back of the photos at no additional charge.

As I left the studio I realized that Dabney’s was only a few blocks away and that judging from the time, Perry’s shift should have been winding down. I decided to see if he was interested in getting high before returning to his mother’s apartment in Brooklyn. He was.

We walked toward Union Square to catch the #6 train uptown. Just after crossing Seventh Avenue, progress was halted by a commotion in front of a bodega. Apparently, the little grocery store was in the process of being robbed, as a vertically-challenged Mexican thug was stationed just outside preventing customers from entering and interrupting the progress of his amigos.

The mini-Mexican had apparently felt my path and proximity to the store was somehow a threat to the operation going on within it, and as Perry and I attempted to pass—the little prick actually tried to push me into the street. It was like being roughed-up by a fifth grader.

I am in no way a hero. New York City can be a rough and unpredictable place, and if you choose to live or work there you do so at your own risk. However, I don’t take lightly to people putting their hands on me in an aggressive manner, especially when they happen to be…little.

I told him to keep his fucking hands off me and with that, pushed him so forcefully that he fell on his ass. Unbelievably, he then rose to his feet and rushed me. I tossed Rachel’s headshots aside, and then courageously showered the little thug with punch after punch as a
crowd of onlookers gathered to suggest I pick on somebody my own size.

Believe it or not, the misinformed crowd was becoming hostile and though Perry attempted to explain the situation, a few of them actually threatened to call the police if I didn’t stop punching the little bastard. I stopped throwing fists and decided to push him to the ground once more so I could flee the scene before getting arrested for obstructing a robbery in progress. As I gave him one final shove, I noticed that Rachel’s box of headshots had exploded onto the sidewalk and was now being trampled upon.

“Shit, Perry—quick! The headshots! Get the fucking headshots!” I shouted, at which point Perry began kicking the Mexican in his head.

28

At the beginning of May in 1992, Rachel left Oscar’s for another job at Ed Dibevic’s which was located on Broadway in The Village. In New York it was relatively a short-lived, Chicago-based, 1950’s-style restaurant that enjoyed some success during the nineties. During this period, such theme-based eateries were all the rage. Among many others, there was Planet Hollywood, Jekyll and Hyde, Ellen’s Stardust Diner, The Hard Rock Café, The Fashion Café and The Harley Davidson Café.

In an effort to help emphasize the restaurant’s theme, Ed Dibevic’s expected its employees to project a certain attitude. A very
bad
attitude. This became immediately apparent to patrons, as they would enter the establishment and be confronted by a sign that read, “EAT FAST, TIP BIG, GET OUT.”

As Ed Dibevic’s prepared for its grand opening, it conducted auditions as opposed to job interviews because little importance was placed on issues pertaining to table service or past experience. In fact, candidates were instructed to “interview” for positions while assuming the role of an unusual character they felt would best demonstrate the theatrical skills needed to support the restaurant’s spirited theme. Perhaps due to my half-serious recommendation,
Rachel auditioned as herself and was hired on the spot.

The idea of being generously rewarded for telling people to fuck off was too much for Perry to resist, and after Rachel secured a spot so effortlessly—he decided to audition as well. Noting the sound advice I provided Rachel, I suggested that he audition with a needle sticking out of his arm. Instead, Perry played the role of a very clumsy nerd, and his performance was so convincing that management thought him an insurance liability and immediately sent him packing. Fortunately, Perry’s lack of success was for the better, as Rachel soon realized the job wasn’t all that it was cracked-up to be and as a result, her commitment to Ed Dibevic lasted only two weeks.

In mid-May, shortly after Rachel found another job, her roommate—Melody—returned from her theatrical trip abroad and we all got along exceptionally well. So well, in fact, that even though Melody was back in town a month earlier than expected, I was invited to continue on as a member of the household for as long as I wanted. Meanwhile, on the musical front, Casey the Cop had gotten drunk and nearly killed himself along with a friend while racing his Monte Carlo down Park Avenue. So, while the police were busy ignoring the incident and Casey remained in traction, we recruited Colin Emerson—my co-worker from Barry’s—to play bass on the demo as well as at any upcoming performances while we continued to search for a more permanent replacement. More suitable to our sound, Colin came from an alternative rock background—as opposed to the funk influences that molded Frank’s playing or the heavy metal style that Casey seemed to favor. Unfortunately, Colin’s one shortcoming was that he happened to be a complete douche.