Needle (46 page)

But you really
were
looking for heroin because you’re a junky, and everyone knows it
.

“It doesn’t matter, we’re gonna be famous.”

But your lawyer said you’d beat the charges
.

“It doesn’t matter, we’re gonna be famous.”

Douche bag! This isn’t like blowing off community service. Failing to appear in court is some serious shit!

“It doesn’t matter, we’re gonna be famous, and I’ll worry about it later.”

86

As the summer continued in much the way it began, my life followed suit as each day I awoke in Gina’s apartment and tapped a vein. By this point, however, there was a warrant issued for my arrest for failing to appear in court to address the
trespassing
and
intent to purchase
charges that had gotten the whole ball rolling to begin with.

On a more positive note, in August Catherine gleefully informed Perry that we were “number one in Pittsburgh.” Though I think she was being deliberately frugal with the details, according to at least one college radio station broadcasting to a summertime audience of approximately zero, “The Wish” was receiving more airplay than any other independently-released single. But regardless of the listenership, as far as I was concerned—number one was number one, and that only better enabled me to look the other way. Unfortunately, however, things would soon be taking a decidedly ominous turn.

By the end of August, Perry’s heart was once again turning into vegetable matter. Accordingly, on September 18
^th
he was slated to begin another six-week regimen of antifungal medications at Lenox Hill Hospital. In the meantime I had remained in a fog, unemployed, and determined to ride the gravy train until the last possible second. Then, much to my disappointment, on September 16
^th
Perry took a leave of absence from The Boulevard and by the following day we were completely broke. So, after living off of Perry for months, I
finally decided to rise to the occasion and do what anyone else would under such dire circumstances: I gathered up whatever worthless crap Gina left lying around the apartment and had a yard sale.

Most notable among this fine collection of consumer goods were oven mitts, a variety of porcelain figurines, refrigerator magnets, a paperweight, a can opener, a letter opener, 23 stuffed animals, some candles, cutlery and a cutting board, a fancy Zippo, several picture frames and a can of refried beans.

“Why don’t you just go out and get a job you lazy fuck?” Perry suggested as I assembled my line of products. “Nobody’s gonna buy a bunch of old and abandoned shit anyway.”

“A bunch of old and abandoned shit to you—is a treasure trove of new and exciting shit to someone else,” I countered. “And I will get a job…
tomorrow
.”

We set up shop right outside the building, and laid out the merchandise on a folding table that Gina had also left behind. Remarkably, within 45 minutes everything was sold, including the beans and the table which left us with about $40 each.

Early the next morning Perry grabbed his Les Paul before departing for the hospital. Mamma didn’t raise no fool. He knew full well that the remaining proceeds from the yard sale wouldn’t last more than another day, so before arriving for his 8 a.m. appointment at Lenox Hill he would first have to find his guitar a new home. Unfortunately, he failed to realize that the East Village pawn shop on Avenue D, chosen for its proximity to several dope dealers roaming the surrounding streets, wasn’t open for business at 7 a.m.
No pawn shop is open for business at 7 a.m
. As a result, he would have no choice but to report to the hospital first, and then manage an escape a little later in the day. Not to be deterred, he took the #6 uptown to the hospital and checked in, and then waited patiently in his room until he felt the coast was clear enough to inconspicuously depart the premises. By 1:30 in the afternoon it was, and after grabbing his guitar and fleeing through a service exit he hopped in a cab heading south. Perry was certain the guitar would fetch at least $700 as it was in stellar condition, and that would be enough to see him through a six-week stint in the hospital. Unfortunately, his estimation was a bit off:

“Three hundred bucks?!?” Perry repeated back to the pawnbroker, flabbergasted by the lowball. “It’s worth four times that!”

“That’s the best I can do,” said the pawnbroker, equally astounded
by the haggling junky that stood before him in a hospital gown and with a catheter sticking out of his arm.

“It’s a Les Paul, man, a
Les Paul
you filthy cocksucker!”

“Hey man, fuck you! Why don’t you just take your business elsewhere?”

Perry probably would have done just that, had a dope dealer not been waiting outside of
this
particular pawnshop.

“Fine,” Perry finally said as he collected the money and left the shop, but not before telling the pawnbroker to fuck his mother. He then stepped outside, spent most of the money on two bundles of dope, and then jumped in a cab heading back uptown to Lenox Hill.

As the taxi pulled out, he began fixing his dope in a spoon that was taken from a hospital lunch tray. But just as he was booting, the cabbie made a sharp right turn onto First Avenue causing Perry to drop the loaded syringe on the dirty, taxi-cab floor.

“Take it easy, man!” Perry shouted from the back of the cab, as he picked up the contaminated syringe and plunged it into his arm. “I’ve got a fucking heart condition.”

In the meantime, I had already begun the painful task of finding a job. After two full days of searching, however, I was still jobless and beginning to feel the pressure, as my own $40 had evaporated with only a week-and-a-half left of rent-free living before Gina’s lease expired. Although my living conditions had yet to completely bottom out, I was never as impoverished as I was during this period.

As the second day of fruitless job searches came to a close, I curled up on the cold floor of the dark apartment and began to worry. Of course, though I knew it would only be a matter of months before my monetary concerns resolved themselves, my inability to find a job and know exactly where the next bag of dope was coming from made it difficult to look the other way. Without this junky survival tool at my disposal and the onset of withdrawals only a day away, I was forced to come to terms with my sordid condition—but only to a certain extent.

In retrospect, this would have been the perfect opportunity for me to clean up my act and completely get my shit together. After all,
For Now
was getting some attention in Pittsburgh and if the summer was any indication of what was coming in the fall, we were well on our way. However, getting clean wasn’t on the itinerary, and rather than eliminating the blight from my life I chose to work around it.

For really the first time during the course of my downward spiral,
I seriously addressed the fact that I looked like complete shit and would’ve grabbed a flashlight and mirror to confirm it—had I not sold both of them for a dollar. That was stupid. I definitely could’ve gotten a buck-fifty. Regardless, even without visual aid, I accepted the fact that I looked awful and had to acknowledge it as a continuing factor in relation to my unemployment woes. I realized that the highly sought after jobs in more prestigious restaurants were now off limits to me, and I would have to refine my search for unrefined eateries where lackluster positions were abundant due to the few souls desperate enough to accept them. Now, I had finally become one of those souls and the next few restaurants I worked in would reflect that. To the casual observer, it wasn’t so much that I looked specifically like a junky, but I did have a vaguely unhealthy appearance. I was a little underweight, pastier than usual, and had dark circles around sunken eyes that peered-out over protruding cheekbones. Furthermore, my arms were beginning to look bad again. Since I usually tapped only one vein per day, I was able to avoid track marks; however, my arms were always covered in bumps, bruises and scabs. Even so, I felt that as long as they stayed covered, I’d eventually find a dump desperate enough to hire me.

The next day I awoke and mentally prepared a list of appropriate restaurants to investigate. But before commencing the job search, I had other issues to contend with. First and foremost on the list was the small matter of starvation, which supplanted the need to score only because I had several hours before withdrawals were due. Having spent most of the money generated from the yard sale on dope, I hadn’t eaten anything substantial now in almost two days. So, with a rumbling belly I picked myself up off the makeshift bed of dirty blankets and sheets, got dressed, jumped the subway turnstiles, and made my way to the hospital. I had a feeling that Perry was somehow getting high while hording his daily dose of meth, and was confident I’d be able to ward of withdrawals
and
fill my gut with hospital fare in a single visit.

After arriving at Lenox Hill, I was directed to Perry’s room and when I entered he was in the midst of a drug-related discussion with his roommate, Lawrence. Lawrence was black, in his early thirties, and was the first hospital roommate Perry felt he shared a common bond with. Like Perry, Lawrence had destroyed
his
body as well—but with booze instead of heroin—and after finally admitting himself into the hospital he’d been diagnosed with several, life threatening,
alcoholism-related illnesses.

“Hey Craig,” Perry said upon my entrance. “This is Lawrence.”

“That’s nice. Got anything to eat?”

“I’ve got this delicious chicken sandwich left over from lunch.”

It was dry and cold but I didn’t care and wolfed it down in seconds. Perry then handed me three methadone pills which confirmed the fact that he’d managed to score. Of course, I too would have preferred dope, but I knew that beggars couldn’t be choosers and decided to shut my mouth, especially since I was already beginning to feel sick and a little meth was better than nothing at all.

“You can have this shit too, if you want,” Lawrence then said to me as he held out two, darkly coated pills.

“What are they?”

“I don’t know. Some bullshit they gave me so I wouldn’t drink—but I don’t like the buzz.”

Apparently, the medically sanctioned remedy of substituting one addictive substance for another was used to treat drunks as well as junkies.

“But aren’t you gonna be sick or something?” I asked.

“Na, your boy here got me a 40 when he made a run.”

That got me thinking.

“Perry, did you pawn another fucking guitar?!” I decided to ask.

“No.”

“Fucking liar.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said and attempted to change the subject rather than deal with my wrath or even worse, fork over some dope in retribution. “Try one of those pills Lawrence gave you.”

I swallowed
both
pills, but if I wasn’t so completely broke and thankful for what little charity was being offered I would have had a few words for Perry. Instead, I decided to remain silent, which became easier to do as I began to feel the effects of Lawrence’s pills. I wasn’t entirely sure what they were, but I grew quite fond of their opiate-like effect that also seemed to eliminate withdrawal symptoms as effectively as methadone. In fact, I was so impressed with the drug that I contemplated the pros and cons of alcoholism, as I clearly preferred the medicinal remedy for this dependency much more than my own.

For five days the routine went uninterrupted, as I showed up at Lenox Hill for Perry’s lunch and Lawrence’s pills before embarking on an unsuccessful search for employment.

“Why don’t you just get on welfare,” Lawrence suggested on day five while I rabidly consumed a dry-as-hell turkey sandwich.

“Are you fucking crazy? I would never go on welfare. That’s for poor people,” I said with a mouthful of free turkey and a poorly timed display of dignity.

“You mean
black
people.”

“No, I mean
poor
people.”

“Everyday you steal a ride on the subway just to come over here and eat your buddy’s lunch meat. You look pretty fuckin’ poor to me,” Lawrence said. “Just because you’re a white boy you don’t think you’re poor enough to go on welfare.”

He was right and without admitting it, that was exactly what I thought. But why should I allow my whiteness to prevent me from getting a little free love from the government?

“You know—I would,” I said, “but it’ll be weeks before I see any money and I’ll be dead by then.”

“They’ll give you emergency food stamps to get you through until they process the paperwork,” Lawrence informed me.

I found out that Lawrence was right about everything. As luck would have it, a government building charged with the distribution of food stamps was located in Queens, not too from Gina’s apartment. So, the very next day I completed the necessary paperwork, showed ID, and was provided with public assistance. I then proceeded to a Harlem bodega where I traded $50 in food stamps for $25 in cash—and purchased two bags of dope, a fresh set of works, a pack of smokes and a slice of pizza.

87

On September 28
^th
I was seriously beginning to feel the heat. Although thanks to Perry and Lawrence I remained fairly well nourished and avoided withdrawals, I was still unemployed and couldn’t help but see the Whitehouse Hotel looming ahead.

“I can’t check in to the Whitehouse, Perry.”

“Sure you can,” he said with a smile as the anti-fungal drip
continued to drip.

“No, I can’t.
You
don’t understand.”

“You can stay at Gina’s until Friday, and then I’ll give you ten bucks to pay for it with.”

“Perry, it’s not about the ten bucks,” I said.

“Oh! Are you a rich, junky, white boy now?” Lawrence suddenly asked me.

“Go fuck yourself,” I told him. By this point I’d already heard enough out of Lawrence and besides, he was to be discharged later that day and was of no further use to me. “Perry,” I continued. “I have a
really
bad feeling about that place.”

“What’s wrong, Craig?” Lawrence opened his mouth again. “You don’t like hanging out with poor white junkies? Didn’t we just have a talk about poor folks the other day?”