Needle (25 page)

“Hey man, can I have another rock?” I asked.

Randy looked up from the blowjob he was administering just long enough to give me the go ahead—and then got right back down to business.

Once I knew what they were up to, it seemed like it really didn’t matter anymore. Now at least it was out in the open and after all, you can’t blame a guy for trying.

Homosexual gratification continued as I smoked crack and played the synthesizer. Unfortunately, however, all good things must come to an end as the supply of cocaine and erections was eventually depleted. Of course, although I abstained from the latter—I may have overindulged in the crack.

“Craig, you smoked almost all the coke!” Randy said as he went to hit the pipe.

“Well…you guys were smokin’ the poles,” I responded with a nervous chuckle. “Listen, I’m sorry. I got a little carried away. Let me run uptown and I’ll replenish the supply.”

I knew that within a matter of moments I’d be feeling the coke crash, so I quickly ducked into Randy’s bathroom to tap a vein before heading up to Harlem to score.

Although I had never purchased crack anywhere other than Hell’s Kitchen, I knew there were several coke dealers lingering in and around the projects of 110
^th
Street. Upon arriving I exited the cab, entered the nearest building, and was immediately confronted by a crackhead dealer who was intermittently smoking and selling his stash. I bought four rocks and then turned to leave. Just as I did, I noticed a very young, white, uniformed cop approach the building and I immediately wet my pants.

Hoping he didn’t catch sight of the transaction—or the piss—I walked toward the doorway as if absolutely nothing of interest was going on, and causally dropped the rocks into an empty paper bag sitting on a nearby windowsill. I was extremely subtle and except for the spontaneous bit of peeing, was impressed with my ability to remain calm and collected in light of certain doom. Of course, I was sure I was going to jail anyway.

Just before we brushed by each other I was trembling and hesitant to meet his gaze; however, after summoning the courage I was acknowledged with a friendly head nod as if I were another cop. He didn’t say a word to me and fortunately, this brush with the law ended without incident. I decided to cut my losses and call it a night.

Clearly, for the first and only time in my junky experience, my whiteness—along with a bit of flawed racial profiling—saved me from almost certain arrest. This extremely rookie cop had gone into the building with a preconceived notion of what to potentially arrest and apparently, a white boy wasn’t on the menu. Now, this is not to suggest that the cop was necessarily a racist. More likely, at this early stage in his career he simply wasn’t programmed to associate a Caucasian with the illicit activities known to occur in this particular part of town. Ironically, a more seasoned cop would have stopped me at the door, and taken my whiteness as a sure-fire indication that I didn’t belong in the area and was up to no good.

49

I was overwhelmed by the smell of rot and decay and at first, was puzzled by it. As the rising sun began to illuminate the park, I scanned the surface of the lake. My eyes suddenly settled upon a bloated body floating just on its surface, and then of course—I recognized the smell.
It was the smell of death
.

He was perhaps 20 years old, and at that age the loss was especially tragic. I took a step closer to the lake, and upon further examination made the horrifying discovery that he wasn’t alone. There were others…
many, many others
.

###

I hadn’t seen or heard from Perry in at least a week and was getting a little agitated. It appeared as though he’d grown a bit complacent living in the sweet surroundings of Gina’s apartment, while I was living the lonely life of a drug addict in a shithole. Sections had done nothing in months, and though I didn’t mind being a junky, I didn’t want to be a
shiftless
junky.

On October 30
^th
I reported to Central Park at 7 a.m. to commence with community service and repay my debt to society. When I arrived at the ranger’s office I was met by a police officer and told to sign-in which I did, along with six or seven other incorrigibles.

“Oh boy,” said the officer. “We have something
really
special planned for you guys today!”

At around eighteen acres, The Boathouse Lake in Central Park is surprisingly large, and there are areas so secluded that if you didn’t know any better, you might think you were in the middle of the woods and not the middle of Manhattan. As a matter of fact, in some of the park’s most isolated patches there’s no visible skyline, and the sounds of city life are somehow muffled by the noise of nothingness.

Though many are surprised by it, the lake is brimming with bluegills, carp, koi, perch, catfish, and who knows what else. But the rulers of the lake are, undoubtedly, the carp. Central Park carp have no natural enemies, and as a result some are almost 30 years old, over three feet long, and weigh as much as 50 pounds. They are
true
abominations. In fact, I once saw one swim up and swallow a rat like
it was a grain of rice. As traumatized as I was by the experience, I realized that these deranged fish were a novelty of sorts, and what better place for a rat-eating breed of carp to call home than in the middle of Manhattan.

There was no doubt, the carp were on top of the lake’s food chain and had been for years. That was, until the fall of 1993, when an algae that had been forming all summer finally decided to extinguish scores of them the night before I was scheduled to perform my community service.

At first glance it appeared as though the oldest and largest fish were among the most prevalent victims, as hundreds of giant carcasses floated on the water’s surface or had already drifted ashore. Since retrieving and disposing the bodies of decomposing monsters would make most people turn to drugs, the task was left to a squad of already established addicts. For almost six hours we hauled dead fish from the edge of the shore to dumpsters positioned around the lake’s perimeter. It was such a horrifying experience that the park rangers actually took pity on us, and historically broke with precedent by allowing us to leave early.

50

Once again, I hadn’t seen or heard from Perry for several consecutive days. I decided to leave him alone because he was supposedly sick, but I was also sick—sick of his fucking bullshit. Nothing was getting done, and as it was my responsibility to ensure the songs were written—it was Perry’s to ensure they were heard by the right people in the right places. Unfortunately, it seemed he wasn’t living up to his end of the bargain.

In reality though, Perry
did
have a plan for Sections. While working at Dabney’s he had recently made the acquaintance of Catherine Walter, who was originally from Westchester County and nothing if not ambitious. More importantly, however, Catherine was well-positioned with influential music-industry contacts that could facilitate our eventual success, if it behooved them. After hearing the
demo Catherine eventually convinced Perry, who would then easily convince me, to sign a contract which would enable Sections to record a CD with Son’s Comic—a new, independent label she was involved with.

On a Sunday afternoon in mid-November I finally got a phone call from Perry, who wanted Matt and me to meet him at Dabney’s in order to discuss the details of the recording agreement.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there right after work. By the way, I was wondering if you were ever planning on coming back to the apartment. Or have you finally decided to give Gina some of your vile seed?”

“I’d chop up my dick first,” he said which probably wasn’t too far from the truth. “Actually, I’ve been getting
really
sick at night and I don’t know why. Right now I’m more comfortable over there, but I’m seeing a doctor this week and I’ll find out what’s going on.”

“You’re probably just dopesick,” I offered.

“No, I’m not. I drank a bottle of methadone three days ago just to be sure and I’m
still
getting sick. It’s gotta be something else.”

At about 5 p.m., I met Perry at Dabney’s and he did look sick. He was pale and even skinnier than usual.

“You
do
look like shit,” I told him. “Where’s Matt?”

“He said he’d be here an hour ago.”

Shortly thereafter Matt appeared and believe it or not, he actually looked worse than Perry. But Matt, unlike Perry,
was
dopesick. Perry outlined the details of the recording arrangement and it finally seemed as though things were moving in the right direction. We would begin recording on December 10
^th
.

“I’m calling Justin today to arrange rehearsals so we can figure out what we wanna record,” Perry said.

“I know what we wanna record,” I told him.

During the discussion I asked a variety of questions regarding the details of the contract, the timeline, and what level of control we’d be afforded. Matt, on the other hand, said not a word and only sat there staring off into space like a little kid waiting to be excused from the dinner table. When he sensed the conversation was winding down, he finally made an inquiry.

“Hey, can either of you guys lend me 40 bucks?”

Apparently, Matt was having a hard time supporting his habit on a teacher’s salary alone.

“I’ve only got 20 but I can spare ten,” I said. Though I needed a
bag to avoid my own withdrawals, I was willing to sacrifice the $20 nod.

“That’s not gonna be enough,” Matt said.

“I have ten I can give you,” Perry said. “There, that’s 20 bucks.”

“It’s
still
not enough.”

“Matt!!!” Perry exploded. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!? If you don’t have enough money to completely obliterate yourself, then you’re just gonna have to settle for getting straight! Is that OK, you gluttonous dickhead?!?”

“I need 40 to get straight!!” he fired back.

Holy crap! His disclosure amounted to a cost of $280 per week—just to avoid withdrawals. That was some pretty serious shit. Apparently, the reckless abandon with which Matt indulged in heroin during the summer, had resulted in an even
bigger
habit that was now impossible to maintain without the help of a second income. And a 40 dollar-a-day addiction meant that he now needed at least $50 to actually get high.

“Then we can’t help you.”

“Well, if you don’t lend me the money I’ll sell my car,” Matt threatened.

“Then sell your fucking car,” Perry said as if he couldn’t have cared less.

“Matt,” I said. “If you sell your car, then how the fuck are you gonna get to work?”

“I’ll worry about that later. Perry—I’ll give it to you for a $1,000.”

“Matt! Are you crazy?” I interrupted as I tried to talk some sense into him. “It’s worth at least three times that!”

“I don’t care. Come on, Perry—give me a thousand bucks and take the keys.”

“Matt,” Perry said, “there’s no way I can come up with a thousand dollars and since I don’t really want or need a car, I wouldn’t give you that much anyway.”

“Then how much would you give me?”

“I only have 300.”

“Three-hundred-fucking-dollars!?!” Matt screamed. “Come on, man. Give me at least 800.”

“Three hundred’s all I have.”

“How about 700?” Matt countered.

“Nope.”

“Then 600.”

“Can’t do it.”

“What about five?”

“No way, man,” Perry said refusing to yield. “Matt, I really don’t want your fucking car.”

“Four hundred is as low as I can possibly go,” Matt said.

“Matt!” Perry screamed. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I just told you I only have $300 to my name and I really don’t want a car to begin with!”

“FINE!!!” he roared back. “Three hundred dollars then!
ASSHOLE!!!”

“Matt, you’re an idiot,” I said. “You could drive into Queens right now and get five times that amount from a dealer—and you’d
still
be getting ripped off.”

“Mind your own business.”

Perry opened his wallet and counted out the
agreed
upon sum.

“Wait a minute, Matt,” he said. “I forgot I bought a cheeseburger for breakfast. I only have 298.”

“Perry, I have to have at least 300.”

At $300, Matt apparently drove a hard bargain.

“Matt,” I decided to try again. “Why don’t you forget about it, or at least get a thousand bucks from a dealer? This just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Asshole!!! If I wanted your fucking financial advice I’d ask it for it!”

Wow. He was getting really nasty. The withdrawals must have begun to set in.

“Fuck him, Perry,” I said. “I’ll lend you two bucks. Buy the fucking car.”

We gave him the money and he signed over the title.

“You’re a fool, Matt,” I told him.

Of course, the moment Matt had the money in his hand, he needed to score. Unfortunately, in order to do so he would now also need a ride from Perry. Withdrawals were well on their way and his bowels were in no condition to complete the journey by foot.

We jumped into Perry’s new Ford Taurus and, selfless as ever, he was kind enough to give Matt a ride to Avenue A and Houston. There, he and I waited as Matt bought drugs.

“I hope he gets busted,” I said, which would mean he’d lose his car, money, dope
and
freedom in one, felled, swoop. Unfortunately, I had no such luck as Matt returned to the car with not one, not
two—but three
bundles
of dope. With ten bags to a bundle, he now found himself in possession of 30 bags of heroin and yes, he blew the entire wad in one, magnificent, load. Honestly though, I don’t think I ever saw Matt happier, and this is precisely why I’ve always considered his addiction to have been the most dangerous. He had absolutely no sense of self-control and gave no forethought to anything, which is why he would often find himself the subject of ridicule, derision, and his own humiliation. Now, he would also find himself penniless and without transportation.

Matt fixed five bags of dope in the backseat of the car and booted. Within seconds his eyes rolled back in his head, and I could tell that if you were going to blow your bottom dollar on a batch of dope—this was probably the one to do it with.