Needle (29 page)

The day before I actually moved in, I met Jeff at Tony Roma’s near Times Square for happy hour and to make a quick stop at his apartment afterwards. At the time, he was also providing temporary refuge to another friend with issues, and I suppose he felt an introduction was in order before I came storming in on the following day.

“We should go soon,” he said as he drained the last of his drink. “Elliot’s waiting. By the way, you know you can stay with me for as long as you need to. I just hope you don’t mind me banging on the piano in the middle of the night.” Besides being a talented actor, Jeff could also play the piano like Mozart.

We left the restaurant and after making a quick detour, decided to walk to his apartment on the east side. Then, upon crossing Broadway at 42
^nd
Street we encountered a particularly aggressive group of Black Israelites, and as a preacher cloaked in purple explained their militant belief system, another politely informed passing white pedestrians that they were bound for hell.

“You see, in the first place it’s you white devils that have been leading society, which is why there’s rampant homosexuality, drugs, and child pornography in this country,” said the preacher in purple. “All nations have seen you devils abuse your power. After all your transgressions—the slavery, the lynching, the church bombings, the financial exploitation, the racial profiling and far too much more to completely recount here—do you think you white people are gonna get away with it? Do you honestly think so?! We suffered as a people under your power;
therefore
, when Christ comes back to put this world in the order that God intended, what do you propose the blacks, Hispanics and Native Americans do with their newly acquired white slaves? Would you then like us to forgive you for everything you've done and continue to do to this day?”

“But why be a hate group?” asked some poor, white-devil-passerby.

“Don't call us a hate group!” bellowed the preacher in purple. “No, no, no. We do not hate. We are a
spiritual
group.”

“Oh.”

“And by the way,” the preacher continued, “we are not a group that makes excuses for evil black people. Wicked blacks share a fate similar to that of the entire white race. They too are devils, and this message will be preached throughout the world as we slowly build our nation. You see, nation building is what we’re primarily concerned with, and accomplishing that requires us to embrace common laws that entirely exclude you white devils. This doesn’t have to be achieved through the use of violence, but since you whites refuse to give up everything you stole, your empire will be taken away from you by force. What else would you propose that the minorities, who are actually the majority, do to remedy the problem of racially-based oppression in this country? It has been going on since the very beginning when your white forefathers conquered a land that didn’t belong to them, and set boundaries for those that it did belong to. Yes, all of you white devils should die a most brutal death!” suggested the spiritual leader. “In fact, you should buy a gun from the CIA—who sells them to blacks in the ghetto—and go home, kiss your family goodbye, shoot them, and then kill yourself. If you white people want to do anything that would benefit humanity as a whole, then do as I’ve instructed so we have less of you to deal with. If any white person will do as I request, I thank you in advance for your forethought and willingness to rid the world of Satan, but of course—
you will still go to hell!!”

Jeff then caught the preacher’s eye for just a moment, but it was apparently long enough to warrant a response.

“What are
YOU
looking at, white devil?!” asked the preacher.

“I’m looking at a man,” Jeff said. “What do you think I’m looking at?”

“Your future taskmaster!”

We tore ourselves away from the preacher as Jeff was eager for me to meet Elliot, who had been a friend of his since childhood. Elliot was supposedly suffering from a life altering, identity crisis of sorts, and had ended up on Jeff’s doorstep after losing his job and getting evicted from his apartment.

“Actually, I think he’s just stuck in the closet and a little afraid to come out,” was Jeff’s analysis.

57

Some people have an uncanny ability to spot a heroin addict from a mile away. Even dope fiends who go the extra mile by camouflaging themselves in what they perceive to be a cloak of normalcy, are usually unable to escape
this
level of scrutiny. As with Andy from Serendipity, Elliot had a dangerously discerning eye, and from the moment he saw me he knew I was a junky—
and didn’t like it
. Fortunately, however, Jeff was unaffected by my lifestyle. As a matter of fact, Jeff, who is six years my senior, usually remained uninfluenced by the behavior of others and I believe he is a rare example of a
truly
non-addictive personality. He’d dabbled with heroin and morphine before, mainly in Asia, but had never developed a habit and perhaps that was the cause of his indifference toward my own situation. As far as Jeff was concerned, I was a big boy and could make my own decisions. Elliot, however, felt differently and found it difficult to be around me—
especially when I was high
.

“You know, he’s
really
freaked out by you,” Jeff said with regard to the effect my presence was having on Elliot.

“Sorry.”

“Oh no, man, don’t worry about it. Actually, he’s been here way too long and I’m kinda hoping you drive him out anyway.”

Good. My life had purpose. And besides—fuck Elliot because I quite liked it there, thank you very much. Jeff’s apartment was on the top floor of a four-story building that was otherwise occupied by business tenants. The split-room studio was larger than most, and the windows offered direct access onto the roof of the adjacent, three-story building. Essentially, the neighboring rooftop functioned as Jeff’s patio, as well as a small marijuana farm he’d been seasonally cultivating for years.

On January 1
^st
, 1994 came rolling in as Perry rolled out of the hospital against medical advice. He then relocated himself to Gina’s with strict orders from Dr. Wendel to remain bedridden until at least January 15
^th
. So, on January 2
^nd
, when he left an urgent message for me to call him at her apartment I had a feeling he was probably up to no good.

“How’re you feeling?” I asked as soon as he answered the phone.

“Shitty. Come over and bring some dope.”

“Later,” I told him.

“No. NOW.”

“Listen—my money’s running out and I’ve gotta find a job. If you’ve got so much time on your hands, why don’t you use it to make some calls and start looking for another drummer?”

“I can’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m all fucked up.”

“So why do you need more dope?”

“I’m not fucked up on dope; I’m fucked up on
acid
.”

A hit of acid would certainly increase the rate of his recently stitched heart, and that seemed like poor decision-making.

“Where the fuck did you get acid, Perry?”

“Katrina gave it to me a few hours ago.”

“Katrina gave you acid after you just had heart surgery?”

“I promised her I wouldn’t do it until next month.”

“That’s amazingly stupid, Perry.”

“It’s some fucked-up shit, too. I think my head’s gonna spin off my shoulders. Please, man. I really need some dope, bad.”

I wasn’t sure whether his request for heroin was the result of withdrawal symptoms, or simply a need to mitigate the anxiety brought on by the acid. Regardless, I wasn’t willing to let him have his way that easily, especially when he was being so reckless while he was supposed to be recovering.

“You just had open-heart surgery three weeks ago and now, a day after checking yourself out of the hospital
against
medical advice, you drop a hit of acid. Did you think that was a good idea, Perry?”

Perry—normally very quick-witted with his one word, bullshit responses—was having a difficult time with this one. I hadn’t immediately realized it, but by framing the question in a past-tense context and utilizing the word “Did” as opposed to the word “Do,” I had unwittingly complicated things for him. Forcing him to look back and assess the intelligence of his decision at the very moment he executed it, made it impossible for him to appease me with his usual brand of bullshit. If he was to answer “No,”
I did not think it was a good idea to drop acid after having open-heart surgery
and then dropped it anyway—he was an idiot. On the other hand, if he was to answer “Yes,”
I thought it was a good idea to drop acid after having open-heart surgery
—he was, well, an even
bigger
idiot. I clearly had him cornered and he knew it.

The silence on the other end of the phone went on for a few moments as he struggled to find an answer. Typically, Perry wouldn’t have cared whether I was satisfied with his response or not. But since he was interested in not only shutting me up, but having me do his dirty work as well—there was a bit more riding on this particular load of crap than usual.

“Well, Perry. Did you?” I asked again.

“Did I what?” he replied, desperately hoping that I might lose track of the conversation.

“Did you think it was a good idea to drop acid after having open-heart surgery?!”

I could hear him squirming.

“Did I think it was a good idea to drop acid after having open-heart surgery?” he rolled the question around for a while. “Did I
think
it was a good idea to drop acid after having open-heart surgery? Did I think it
was
a good idea to drop acid after having open-heart surgery?”

Apparently, by accentuating different parts of the question Perry thought he might discover a new way to answer it, and thus, a way out of the predicament.

“No, I definitely don’t think it’s a good idea” he said.

“Of course it’s not a good idea you moron, but that’s not what I asked.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

Obviously, he ignored my question and rather than explain what was going on in his head when he made the stupid decision, he instead provided a 20/20-hindsight assessment as a way out. Unfortunately, I just didn’t have the fortitude to press the issue knowing that in the end, it would have been pointless anyway.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll get you the dope, but only if you promise not to boot it.”

Technically, I suppose this wasn’t a direct question and so, of course, Perry said nothing and hoped he’d be able to slide right by without making any kind of a commitment.

“Well, do you?!” I demanded.

“Yeah, fine.”

No he didn’t.

Though it was difficult to give in, I again knew that if I didn’t he
would just go out and get it himself. Besides, my own monkey was awakening and since I was about to score anyway, I reasoned that—given his fragile health—it would be foolish for him to risk arrest and exposure to the less than sanitary conditions of jail.

Incidentally, the notion of permanently abandoning heroin was never really a consideration for either of us—even after Perry’s surgery, which was in no way the wake-up call that it should’ve been. As far as Perry was concerned, his fate was the unfortunate result of a bicuspid valve and incredibly bad luck. Of course, he would now have to be more vigilant when it came to cleanliness—but that was where the lifestyle adjustments ended because the dope was here to stay. In fact,
it was written into the business plan
. We wanted nothing other than to be junky musicians, occasionally pumping out a CD or two to support ourselves. We really didn’t care about fame or fortune—and we certainly didn’t care about what anyone thought. Our only concern was having enough money for a decent place to live and a lifetime supply of dope, but not necessarily in that order.

I left Jeff’s and took the #6 downtown to Alphabet City. Given the new mayor’s mission to rid the city of drugs, scoring continued to be a complicated affair. Rather than positioning themselves on the usual street corners and waiting for addicts to arrive, dealers were now constantly in motion and transactions were made on the go. Fortunately, on this particular occasion my junky timing was perfect and I scored immediately. I copped two bags and then walked over to Gina’s apartment on First Avenue, where I would be permitted entry only because she wasn’t home. I met Perry in front of the building, and then almost immediately noticed the strain of dopesickness on his face as we rode the elevator up to her ninth-floor apartment.

“Wow. I feel sneaky,” I said as we exited the elevator and entered her dwelling.

“Yeah—Gina would fucking kill me if she knew you were here.”

“Should I suck your dick and
really
piss her off?”

“That would be entirely unnecessary. She’s already really pissed off.”

I laid the dope down on the table and Perry wasted no time fixing the syringe. After a few seconds passed, he tapped a vein.

“That is just
so
much better,” he said, and let out a huge sigh of relief as the drug-induced anxieties dissipated.

Perry then opened his wallet and pulled out the sheet of LSD that Katrina had given him.

“Take a hit,” he said.

I carefully tore a little square away from the perforations and placed it under my tongue. Then, I loaded a syringe and booted.

For about a half-hour we discussed Sections and the need for a second drummer. Then suddenly, Perry changed the subject.

“You wanna get some ice cream?”

“No.”

“OK, let’s go.”

We left the apartment and headed to Baskin Robbins, only a few storefronts away from Gina’s building. When we arrived the line of customers was not only surprisingly long, but very slow-moving and as we inched our way toward the counter I could feel the acid creeping into my brain. Though only ten minutes had passed, it seemed like hours.

“Hey Perry,” I said. “I don’t even want any ice cream. Let’s go.”

“No. I wanna waffle cone.”

“Well, you better have some fucking money because I spent all of mine on drugs,” I told him along with a group of children waiting in line for ice cream.