Needle (49 page)

Consequently, I gathered up what little change I had for train fare along with my guitar, a dirty needle, and whatever was left of my self respect before heading to the East Village pawn shop on Avenue D.

90

After succumbing to my addiction right there on Avenue D, I returned to Jackson Heights where I got myself dressed for work and then headed back into Manhattan. As I sat on the subway mulling over my options, the notion of getting clean still lingered but only in a vague and unreachable way. Saturday was still three days away and without the possibility of securing methadone, any knee-jerk reaction to quit using was quickly squelched by recollections of the previous night. But regardless, it was clear that I wasn’t earning enough money at Gotham to survive—drug addict or not. As soon as I arrived at the restaurant I raised the issue.

“Amanda, I don’t think I can afford to work here anymore,” I told her, even before she had a chance to greet me.

“Oh no! Please don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “I really want you to stay.”

I was suddenly struck by a profound sincerity in her words. For the first time in a while, I was able to see beyond a cloud of opiated indifference and realize that I had developed a meaningful friendship with someone. Incidentally, Amanda had also become one of
For Now’s
most ardent supporters as she played it continuously in the restaurant.

“I’m really having a hard time getting by,” I told her, and her eyes suddenly lit up.

“Do you wanna work Friday nights?!?” she blurted out. “I think they make over three bills on Friday night!”

“Get the fuck outta here!”

“No—I’m serious!” she went on. “Nadia found a better job, so after next Friday the shift is permanently available.”

“Nadia
found a better job?!?!”

“Yeah, I know—hard to believe, right? Anyway, you—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted her. You’re telling me that Nadia—who can barely speak a
word
of English—is leaving this shithole for a better gig?!?”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Listen—it gets a little weird in here on Friday, but I know you’ll make a lot of money.”

Unfortunately, by now her words were falling on deaf ears, and I needed to narrow the field a bit further to make sure things were really
as bad as they seemed.

“You mean to say that
NADIA
, the
ROMANIAN
chick with the
MUSTACHE
and the
FAKE, FUCKING, FOOT
is gonna be making more money than
ME?!?!”

“Yes!!!” Amanda shouted and then laughed out loud.

Will the indignities ever cease?

“If you want, come in next Friday so she can train you.”

No, apparently not
.

With little else in terms of choice, I agreed to pick up the shift. Although I couldn’t imagine how working at Gotham could result in a $300 windfall, I was in no position to question anything. Besides, I knew Amanda wouldn’t deliberately lie to me and was certain the shift would be at least
somewhat
profitable. Until that point, however, I would have to carefully ration my money—and even
more
carefully ration my dope.

My Friday night training shift occurred near the middle of November. That day, I had arrived at the restaurant at 5 p.m. and was confronted by staff members whom I’d only previously seen in passing. I approached the night crew congregating around the bar, but before I even had a chance to introduce myself I was addressed:

“Freee
essssh meat!”
shouted Maurice Weathers, who was one of the other waiters.

Maurice was also an actor from the Midwest. That night I’d be on the floor with him and Tom Bennington, another aspiring thespian, while an East Hampton model named Melissa Sanford ran the bar. Interestingly enough, Nadia elected not to show up for her final shift, so my training would be administered by Maurice.

“The drawer’s completely empty and we’re out of a ton of shit,” Melissa said, shaking her head in semi-disbelief while she counted the change.

“Stratis came in here and raided the register about an hour ago,” Tom grumbled. “He was already lit up, so it’s probably gonna be a long fucking night.”

“I’ve got ten bucks,” Melissa said. “Anyone else wanna help sponsor the restaurant for a few hours?”

“I’ve only got five but it’s all yours,” said Maurice as he reached into his pocket.

“Craig, do you have any cash you can lend us?” Melissa asked.

“I’ve been working days.”

“Enough said.”

Given the dimensions of Gotham City and the number of staff members present, there seemed to be some expectation of a significant dinner rush. However, by 7:30 there still wasn’t a customer in the restaurant.

“Where the fuck is everyone?” I asked Maurice. “It’s Friday night and the place is empty.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with extreme confidence. “They’ll be here.”

“Late diners?” I asked.

“Actually, this group doesn’t do a whole lot of dining. But they’ll definitely make an appearance and when they do they won’t wanna leave.”

“Why’s that?”

“There really isn’t anywhere else for them to go.”

By around 9 p.m. the restaurant was
still
completely empty, with the exception of five teenage boys and girls sitting up front by the windows.

“Hey Craig—you know who that is over there?” Tom asked, gesturing toward one of the girls.

“No.”

“That’s Mia Tyler.”

“Who’s Mia Tyler?”

“You call yourself a rocker and you don’t know who Mia Tyler is?”

“No,” I told him. “Why don’t you help spread the word, brother?”

“Mia
TYLER!
Daughter of Steven, sister of Liv?!?”

For some reason it still wasn’t registering, and that must have been apparent from the expression on my face.

“Tyler! That name doesn’t ring a bell for you? Steven Tyler? Aerosmith? The
band?
Ever hear of them?” he continued with profound sarcasm.

Before I had a chance to respond, Melissa called my name.

“Craig—can you run to the store for me? I hate to leave the register completely empty but we really need some juice.”

“Sure.”

She handed me the fifteen donated dollars and I ran across the street to a Korean grocer, where I stood in line for fifteen minutes with three containers of orange juice and two bottles of cranberry. When I returned, I noticed that two parties of four were now also seated in the restaurant. Unfortunately, however, they were
all
teenagers and
everyone knows that
teenagers don’t tip
. As Maurice finished taking beverage orders from one of the tables, I approached him to see if I could be of any assistance. Just then, six more teenage girls entered the restaurant.

“Hey Tabitha!” Maurice called out to one of the girls as they walked in.

“Hi Maurice!” Tabitha yelled back. “We’re gonna be super-quick tonight.”

“OK, I’ll be right with you,” Maurice said as the girls seated themselves at a large table and Melissa summoned me once more.

“Craig, I need you to run to the store again and grab some pretzels,” she said as she handed me five dollars.

“Why didn’t you tell me that fifteen minutes ago?”

“We couldn’t afford it fifteen minutes ago.”

“This place is fucked up,” I said, but I was only just beginning to scratch the surface.

After waiting in line for ten minutes with two bags of pretzels I returned to Gotham and while distributing the snacks, I was summoned by Melissa yet again.

“Craig—I’m sorry, but I need you to get us some chips, and four containers of chocolate and vanilla ice cream,” she said. “Two of each.”

“Fucking
ice cream
?!?! Are you serious?”

“I’m afraid so. And then go to the liquor store and grab two bottles of rum and three bottles of vodka…the cheap stuff. We’re OK for now, but we’ll probably need it later.”

“What do you want me to pay for all of it with?”

“Here—Tabitha’s table just settled the check,” she said as she handed me a hundred-dollar bill. “Quick, take it and go before Stratis gets here and raids the register again.”

How Maurice collected a hundred dollars from a table of six teenage girls that were there for 15 minutes and ordered nothing beyond beverages was certainly mysterious—but I didn’t care. The last thing I wanted to do was waste my time catering to a bunch of unemployed children. I was through with Gotham City and would inform Amanda of my decision as soon as possible.

When I returned with the items at around 10:15 the diner was totally packed with kids, and I’d never before seen a restaurant go from zero to 60 in so little time. It was like I’d suddenly stumbled into a Chuck E. Cheese on a Saturday afternoon, except there were no
pizzas or parents and the kids were out of control…
really out of control
. Not only were they smoking cigarettes in the restaurant—which was already illegal for adults—but they were shooting spitballs, violently pushing each other around, and at one point a younger boy stood on a table as he bellowed to his buddy in the crowd.

“Ask her out—ask her out you fucking pussy!!!” he shrieked.

Apparently, someone had now finally stepped over the line of what was considered acceptable restaurant behavior.

“Get the fuck off the table you little cocksucker or I’m gonna come over there and beat the fucking shit out of you!!” Maurice roared, while pointing menacingly at the kid from across the dining room.

“Oh…Sorry dude, sorry,” the kid yelled back. He then jumped off the table and onto the back of his buddy as the controlled chaos continued.

“This is fucking nuts,” I said out loud. Then, with shopping bags full of ice cream and liquor I attempted to weave my way through the crowd and the carnival-like atmosphere.

“Excuse me…excuse me, please…please, excuse me.
HEY! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!!!”

“Oh…Sorry dude, sorry.”

Eventually, I made my way behind the bar, and as I unpacked the ice cream I suddenly saw Stratis step into pandemonium.

“Uh-oh,” I said to no one in particular.

“What’s wrong?” Melissa asked me as she was serving a plate of onion rings to a boy sitting at the bar.

“Here comes Stratis,” I told her.

“So?”

“So look at this place,” I said. “It’s a fucking zoo! Now the shit’s gonna hit the fan.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, looked at me as if I was crazy and then walked away as Stratis mounted an assault on the register, and as he hastily counted the money he was wiping his nose, dripping sweat and looking squirrely.

“Melissa!!! There’s only eight hundred dollars in here!” Stratis shouted, and without waiting for a response he bolted out of the restaurant with the money.

Only
eight hundred dollars? I was shocked by the figure and didn’t understand how that much could suddenly be generated by a kitchen
that remained virtually inactive for the entire evening.

“Craig—could you do me a favor and bring this check to table seven?” Maurice asked.

“Yeah, whatever,” I said, at this point completely disillusioned by the entire experience.

I grabbed the check and then felt a sudden impact from behind, followed by an embrace. As I turned my head I could see the same, little, bastard—who was earlier scolded for standing on furniture—now behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist.

“Help me! Help me, dude. He’s gonna kill me! You gotta help me, dude. Please, you gotta—”

“Get the fuck away from me you little prick!” I said as I peeled him off my back and pushed him onto the floor.

As he lay there resting on his elbows and looking confused, I thought he might be drunk. Then, as his eyes glazed over—out of his mouth came an explosion of punch-colored puke and I was sure of it.

“
EEEEWWWWW!!!
”
squealed a group of girls who were in close proximity to the lad and his liquid.

Completely disgusted, I delivered the check to table seven and decided that I’d had enough of the silliness. Dealing with drunk and puking adults was one thing, because at least
they
were purchasing the alcohol from the restaurant in which they were befouling it with. But this kid had apparently dipped into Daddy’s liquor cabinet, and from what I could gather—he wasn’t the only one. Inebriated teenagers were on display everywhere, and I didn’t want to spend the night babysitting, nor did I see how it could be profitable to do so. I knew Gotham City was a complete waste of time and wanted out of there immediately. Of course, I’d then be jobless, but since tomorrow was Saturday I resigned myself to buying a bottle of methadone along with some time to figure things out. Before walking out of the restaurant, however, I did feel obligated to share my feelings with Maurice, who at the moment was serving drinks to a table of customers.

“Alright you little cocksuckers—that’ll be 80 bucks,” he said. “Pay the fuck up or get the fuck out.”

Then everything suddenly became clearer
.

“Maurice!!!! What the fuck are you doing?!?!”

“What’d you say?” he shouted back, apparently unable to hear my voice over the roar of juvenile jubilance.

“Aren’t their any fucking rules in this place?!?” I asked, and though he now heard the question he was clearly confused by it.

“What do you mean?” he replied, unsure if I was referring to the round of vodkas he’d just served a table of eighth-graders—or the fact that he was charging them $20 a shot.
*

*
Just prior to publication, in order to more accurately depict the costs and financial burden incurred by underage drinkers at the Gotham City Diner circa 1995, inflationary considerations and adjustments were made with respect to the stated drink price. In reality, Maurice was charging the children $10 each for a shot that would have normally cost about five.

91

A moment after I discovered Gotham City’s secret recipe for Friday night success, Maurice casually slipped a $50 bill into my hand. At first, based on my reaction to the evening’s events, I assumed his gesture was intended to dissuade me from quitting. But why would
Maurice
care if I quit? I’d spent most of the evening running errands, and though my sudden departure might deprive the tykes he was intoxicating from a few snacks, I’m sure he was unconcerned with the quality of service being provided by an understaffed restaurant.
These
kids weren’t going anywhere. After all, it wasn’t as if there was a lot of local competition serving booze to brats that couldn’t hold their liquor.