Needle (2 page)

Spoiled-rotten, crybaby-bitch
.

Now and then, after considerable begging, he would take me with him to work in Manhattan. His offices were located near the Flatiron Building in a Helmsley property that housed showrooms for the world’s leading toy manufacturers. My father was president of a company called Intoport, where after years of fruitless business efforts he’d finally struck it rich manufacturing transistor radios that bore the likenesses of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck.

My father was one of the first to truly realize the merchandising potential of Disney, and
I
soon realized that going off to work with Daddy could be almost as lucrative, as my four-year-old demeanor and a head full of curly red hair would tug at the heartstrings of young secretaries and toy reps from every corner of the building. The moment we arrived, pretty young women—perhaps trying to quell the steady ticking of maternal clocks—began filing into his office with gifts of product samples for none other than yours truly. I got tremendous mileage out of those curls and apparently, in terms of ass, my father did equally as well.

An afternoon of ice skating at Rockefeller Center with Daddy and Phyllis eventually led to my life-altering confession. Though it resulted in years of retribution, I can only recall this one instance of my father’s—I mean
our
infidelity. It stood out not because of where we were or who we were with, but because I clearly remembered his advice:

“Don’t tell mommy…It’s a
surprise
!”

A surprise? Brilliant!!! A
surprise
would surely guarantee I’d shut my mouth and not ruin all the careful work and thoughtful planning
that went into my father fucking his secretary.

Much to his advantage, my father died before my mother became aware of the marital transgression, leaving me alone to carry the brutal baggage for both of us. Then again, I was the one who let the cat out of the bag, so perhaps in some strange way I got just what I deserved.

I made the big disclosure on Christmas Day at the Queens residence of my Aunt Rosie and her family, about three months after my father’s death. That fateful evening, as I sat on the kitchen floor with the dog while Aunt Rosie quietly washed the dishes, I suddenly remembered the previous holiday spent with Daddy and Phyllis beneath the gigantic Christmas tree. Then, out of nowhere it all came rushing back:

Oh my gosh…The Surprise! What about the big surprise for Mommy?!?

I was suddenly overcome by the horrible feeling that I might be missing out on something. Everyone knows that “a surprise” calls for cake, candy, and of course—wrapping paper and presents. Now granted, the surprise wasn’t for me, but past experience indicated that I would certainly be a beneficiary, and there was just no way in hell I was going to let something as trivial as a dead father stand between me and a good time.

“Aunt Rosie! Aunt Rosie!!!” I shouted with all the passion and excitement the not-so-late-breaking news seemed to warrant. “Guess what!”

“What’s that, Craig?” she asked with a big grin.

“Daddy took me ice skating at Rockefeller Center with Phyllis!” I gleefully shouted. “But don’t tell Mommy because
IT’S A SURPRISE!!!”

Aunt Rosie stopped doing the dishes
.

“It certainly is,” my
mother’s
sister agreed.

I don’t quite remember the immediate fallout—but there definitely wasn’t any cake. Soon afterwards, however, it became clear that due to the confession I’d been branded a co-conspirator and sentenced to a childhood of physical punishment for Daddy’s adultery. The notion that given my age, I might not be responsible for my actions—never factored into the equation. As far as Mother was concerned, I knew what was going on and did nothing to prevent it.

3

I would like nothing better than to blame my mother for the drug problems I experienced as a young adult. It would be incredibly easy to manufacture a connection between the daily, physical and emotional abuse she doled out and the poor choices I made later on. Though there definitely were external forces that contributed to my undoing, I would have to say that I
don’t
include my mother with that group of factors. If she is a factor in some way, I would consider her to be a subconscious influence—if there even is such a thing.

Ironically, my tendency to categorically reject a dysfunctional childhood as cause for adult dysfunction stems from my mother’s attempt to use it to justify her own abhorrent behavior. Years later, she gave me a half-assed apology along with the standard excuses:
it was an inherited cycle; she was slapped around as a child at the hands of her old-school, Italian father (as was he); and the times and norms were different back then
. Her rationalizations sickened me, as I would relive endless nighttime beatings followed by early-morning rehearsals of explanations for the new laceration or bruise.

I remember some nights underestimating her endurance and falling asleep, only to be ripped back into consciousness with a burning smash to the face. Then dazed, I’d run wildly down dark, endless hallways desperately looking for a way out and yet always knowing there wasn’t anywhere to go. Mother had conditioned Celine and me into believing that the moment we tried to escape, she would call the police and we’d be hunted down and cast off to reform school. What exactly “reform school” was nobody seemed to know, but if Mother was threatening us with it then surely it must have been a fate worse than life with her.

Although anywhere from two to five times a week Mother found a reason to beat the crap out of us, the fact that I cheated on her seemed to be the underlying cause—at least as far as
I
was concerned. Her fury might be triggered by a footprint left on the freshly-mopped kitchen floor, or perhaps a few overlooked cookie crumbs; but somewhere in between disciplinary kicks and retributory punches she would usually let me know that she hadn’t forgotten The Grand Deception.

Early on, as a survival mechanism designed to deflect
accountability for my father’s affair, I told Mother that he had given me a beating to scare me into keeping my mouth shut. It was a complete fabrication, but to some degree it worked. I informed her of the preventative measure he had taken to secure my silence, and in a moment of hilarious hypocrisy she berated and cursed his memory for being not only an adulterer—but a
child abuser
as well. Though the beatings continued on at the same steady pace, my mother never again referred to the past or my previous infidelity. Unfortunately, the real damage was already done. From the moment I accidentally trumpeted our adulterous behavior she destroyed most of his photographs and did everything she could to dissuade me from reflecting on and appreciating the loss. Instead, the only emotion encouraged or openly permitted was born from fatherly resentment, and through a regimen of physical abuse and psychological conditioning she effectively brainwashed me into despising a man who did nothing other than put me on a pedestal.

By 1980 my mother learned she had breast cancer and though she ultimately survived the disease, at the time of her diagnosis she began drinking heavier than usual. This only further escalated her aggressive and dangerous behavior, and since she generally refused to cook we’d usually spend the evening in an expensive restaurant—followed by a drunk and death-defying drive home that occasionally resulted in a collision with someone or something. And on those occasions when she ordered dinner in, or the scant few when she attempted to prepare something, we usually ate in separate rooms with Celine and me in the kitchen and Mother in the living room. Incidentally, right up until around the time I graduated from high school, Celine and I weren’t even
permitted
in the living room unless it was a major holiday or special occasion. Indeed, living in that apartment was like living in a museum. It was very cold, very tiled, and very beautiful to look at, but you couldn’t touch anything and you certainly didn’t sit on the couch.

As I entered adolescence, though my father’s bigamy became a dot on the horizon of his memory, I finally realized that my mother was completely absurd in blaming me for his affair. However, I also resented my father—not because of my mother’s indoctrinations, but for leaving me with this incredible mountain of emotionally charged bullshit to deal with. Sadly, while growing up, I don’t think I ever said or thought a nice thing about a man who cherished me beyond words. The posh apartment I lived in, my unrivaled collection of toys, winters in Puerto Rico, summers in Disney World, and for everything else that
was good in my life I had my father to thank for his business acumen and the clever investments he made before his death. But in an effort to hijack that appreciation my mother would constantly belittle him and drone on about how
she
selflessly forfeited her own career so he could succeed and ultimately provide us with such lavish surroundings. And though she did little in terms of managing the family’s investments even
after
he died, as far as she was concerned we had
her
to thank for everything—not him.

That’s really what it all came down to. She thought
she
should get the credit and the moment someone dared acknowledge my father as a thoughtful posthumous provider, she would launch into a self-serving tribute, partially shrouded in the martyrdom of single motherhood, but mostly centered on the limitless generosity she showered her children with. She would go on at length about how she dressed us in the finest clothes and sent us to the most exclusive summer camps. She would commend herself for providing extravagant Christmases and birthdays, and was quick to point out how we almost always got what we wanted which was mostly true. But of course, her generosity only came in the form of bandying my father’s money about as this was the sole means by which she measured the depth of her parental commitment, because if it didn’t have a price tag—Mother didn’t seem to know about it: Though she would gladly pay for little league, she’d rarely drive me to the games and never stay to watch. Though she would bring in fabulous fare from fantastic restaurants, we almost always dined alone. Though we’d usually have our cake, we’d never really get a chance to eat it. And when she did shower us with the fruits of my father’s labors it seemed as though she was logging it in a child-rearing ledger of sorts. In fact, sometimes it seemed like our relationship was part of a business agreement, as if she was fulfilling her end of a financial obligation. Even college had been discussed in similar terms several years before I would attend, when I once blurted out that I had no intention of actually going.

“Oh, don't worry about it, Craig—
you’re going
,” she said in a way that left little room for dissension.

“But I don’t want to go to school any longer than I have to.”

“It doesn’t matter, you’re definitely going…and then I’ll finally be through with it all.”

Apparently, there’d be no empty-nest syndrome for
my
mama
.

“Well what if I drop out?” I asked with just a hint of indignation.

“You
won’t
drop out. But honestly, Craig—what you do when
you get there is
your
business,” she said as if sending me to school would signal the fulfillment of her commitment.

It wasn’t until junior high school that I met Troy Holst and saw evidence of the family dynamic. Troy and I had hit it off immediately, and for the next several years I’d spend more waking hours in his home than anywhere else. It was there where I witnessed the manifestation of family. It was there where I saw people of the same bloodline watching television together in the living room with their feet on the couch and as if they were all actually there by choice. Of course, it was completely foreign to me—
but I liked it
. There was no drama, no drunks, no wronged and angry widows. There were only home-cooked meals at dinnertime that
everyone
was expected to attend, and holidays when the whole clan would sit around and bask in each other’s glow—
while in my family we only went through the motions
.

Troy introduced me to his older brother, Eric, when I was twelve and over the years he’d often play a similar role for me, which, given my particular set of circumstances was an invaluable asset. Although Troy’s entire household treated me like extended family, Eric’s gestures were especially meaningful and ranged from assisting me with technical school projects to driving me to a few of the little league games my mother chose to sleep through. Although I doubt Eric was ever aware of the impact he had on my life, he would later affect me in ways that I cannot yet begin to describe.

4

I hold no one, besides myself, responsible for my dark and seemingly endless descent into the abyss of heroin addiction. But just for the sake of argument: Let us consider for a moment that I was suffering through a painful bout of retrospection, desperately seeking a way out of accepting accountability for my own poor judgment and the consequences that have followed. If that was, in fact, the case then maybe—just maybe I might point an accusatory finger at…Nancy Reagan.

During the 1980’s, the First Lady and wife of our 40
^th
President built her legacy on nothing if not a battle cry as
“JUST SAY NO”
was passionately preached throughout the New York City school system. Three ordinary words—yet with the help of school administrators they were given new life as brightly colored,
JUST SAY NO
posters were plastered in classrooms and cafeterias as if the phrase itself was running for school office. Of course, there were no other candidates to vote for and the posters were never removed, for this was the start of a grueling campaign dedicated to helping us elect a way…
to be
.

Our conditioning was thorough, and its blanketed simplicity left little room for questions as we ate, slept, and
just said no
across the board:
No is good; yes is bad. Negative is positive; positive is negative. In is out; up is down. Don’t ask questions, stupid—
just say no
.
Don’t try to think for yourself because you’ll probably fuck up and say yes, so
JUST SAY NO
.
All drugs are bad except for the ones that aren’t—but take a hit off a joint, man, and you’ll definitely go crazy and kill somebody you love. Just like in ‘Reefer Madness’ dude! It’s a true story, you know. Ever see it? No? Well
,
you will!!
They’ll sit you down in the auditorium and you’ll watch people smoke pot, jump out of windows and kill each other. They’ll show it to you at the beginning of the semester…in September…
every
September
.