Needle (50 page)

Ultimately, I realized that my compensation amounted to hush money. Well beyond Amanda’s estimation, Maurice and Tom each made over $400 that night and I’m sure they didn’t want me to ruin a good thing. It was all quite brilliant, really. To make ends meet and perhaps support an alleged drug habit, Stratis employed a junky, an immigrant, and a couple of struggling actors to serve liquor to minors in an otherwise failing establishment.
Who the fuck was gonna tell?
By doubling or—in some cases—tripling the price of each drink, waiters pocketed at least 50% of the monies collected, and as the muffled roar of unrestricted adolescence leaked into the street it was usually enough to keep legitimate customers away. Those who did wander in would immediately wander back out, and were either unaware of what was
really
going on—or just didn’t want to get involved.

The indifference was demonstrated by not only potential diners, but also police officers charged with patrolling the relatively posh Manhattan neighborhood. In fact, the first time I saw evidence of this I had momentarily forgotten about any underage drinking, and assumed the cop was there to address a certain staff member’s inability to comply with court orders.

“Oh Shit!!!” I shouted and then ducked behind the bar during a Friday evening in mid-December, just as one of the boys-in-blue stepped into Gotham.

As the officer was confronted by the brassy illumination of the restaurant his eyes squinted, though that may have been because the
sight of what was going on within it was just too much to bear. Then, after scanning the crowd repeatedly and/or shaking his head in disbelief, he seemed reluctant to open Pandora’s Box any further than he already had.

“What are you worried about?” Melissa asked me as I cowered in a corner. “He’s not gonna do a fucking thing.”

Sure enough, the cop left Gotham City almost as quickly as he had entered—clearly shocked by the illicit activity but unable to intervene. I later learned that a large percentage of the teenage revelers came from prestigious and influential families, and as a result the police were extremely reluctant to make waves.

In the meantime, Perry had secured a job at a French restaurant in the East Village called Le Brasserie. Somehow, he managed to impress the owner so completely that he was provided with not only a job, but management-like status and keys to the establishment. Unfortunately, however, though his career in the hospitality industry was blossoming, Catherine remained unreachable.

Rather than hold myself accountable for the stagnation of our music careers, I blamed Perry and in no way did I consider my own drug problem to be a cause. Drugs or not, the CD was completed and though not widely heard, it had already garnered significant praise. Clearly, I had fulfilled my end of the bargain, and whether it was his failure to proceed to the next step or Catherine’s—I cared little and resented them both. Still, I held Perry chiefly to blame. It was no longer simply a matter of rolling snake eyes at conception and being dealt a bicuspid valve. Obviously, after open-heart surgery he should have gotten the message, but didn’t. Now, after five years of listening to his predictions of fame and fortune it had suddenly dawned on me that I was a 28-year-old dope fiend going nowhere. I obviously couldn’t stop using and wasn’t even sure that I wanted to. I had fucked up my life by making bad decisions and it was all
Perry’s
fault.

By January of 1996 nothing had changed, and like Catherine I stopped taking Perry’s calls and began avoiding him completely. He never had anything positive to say, and his presence only reminded me of my own sad existence. I now simply went through the motions like a zombie, getting high after work as I tried to look the other way without acknowledging the darkness that had already consumed me. Gone were the aspirations of old, as well as the steadfast desire to make things work in spite of my poor decision making. Each day I would report to Gotham City to stand around, and then on Friday
evening earn anywhere from three to five hundred dollars which was enough for dope
and
rent as life had become absurdly one-dimensional. And fortunately or unfortunately, my tiny apartment provided the perfect backdrop to remain medicated, detached, and indifferent.

“You know, that CD of yours is great!” Melissa told me during a busy, Friday evening shift. “We were listening to it earlier when Amanda told me it was you.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “Well that and a dollar gets me on the fucking subway.”

“The subway’s a buck-fifty,” Maurice pointed out.

“Can I buy one of them?” Melissa asked me.

“Buy what?!?”

“One of your CD’s!”

“No!”

“Why the fuck not?!?”

“Because I don’t have anymore!” I told her, obviously irritated by the subject.

“So go get some. It is your band, isn’t it?”

“Listen: Things haven’t turned out quite the way I expected, and you know what? I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Well did you think it was gonna be easy, moron?”

“Yes!!!”

After a short pause, the conversation reignited.

“Did you ever consider doing some networking out there?” she asked me.

“Out where?”

“Out there,” she repeated while gesturing to the crowd of intoxicated teenagers only a few feet away.

“I’m not gonna ask a bunch of children for help with my music career,” I said dismissively. “Besides…
I hate them
.”

“You’d be surprised,” she went on. “Some of these kids have close ties to the music industry.”

“Yeah, I know—Mia Tyler,” I said with complete disinterest.

“Not only Mia.”

“Oh really? Well if at any point
Menudo
bellies up to the bar—be sure to let me know.”

A little disgusted, I walked away as a commotion near the front of the restaurant caught my attention. One of the taller boys, to whom I’d just served several shots of tequila, was now slapping around a
smaller kid at another table.

“HEY!!!”
I roared. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself before I shove my foot up your ass!”

“Fuck you!!” he shot back.

Now typically, threats of violence were usually enough to restore order, but this kid had apparently borrowed some courage from Jose Cuervo. Fortunately, Maurice had already impressed me with his zero-tolerance for backtalk and the importance of remaining in control.

“Alright, you’ve had enough,” I told him. “Time to go home.”

As Maurice positioned himself by the front door I approached the bully, and while attempting to escort him out of the restaurant he spit in my face.

For a moment I simply stood there in shock. Then, with the bottom of my foot I kicked him in the chest, and as he stumbled backwards Maurice held the door open to ensure a safe landing on the snow-covered sidewalk.

“That was fucking beautiful,” Maurice said as a sudden hush fell over the crowd of kiddies. It was as if someone had just been sent to timeout and nobody wanted to be next.

Within a few moments things returned to normal, and as the steady howl of teenage drunkenness resumed I suddenly felt a hand tugging on the back of my shirt.

“Hey mister, hey mister,” came a little voice from behind.

I turned and was horrified to see an elementary-school kid standing before me. He wore a plaid shirt and was about four-and-a-half-feet-tall, with bright red hair and a face full of freckles.

“I’ll have a Beefeater martini, please—extra dry and straight up with an olive,” he said.

“No – fucking – way,” I told him.

“Why not?!”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“That’s
why not
,” I said.

“You just gave my brother a beer and he’s only fifteen!”

“Get away from me, Opie—before I call the sheriff.”

“If you do he’ll take
you
to jail.”

“Been there, done that. Now seriously, get the fuck out.”

About five minutes later a police officer actually did show up,
along with the little prick that spit in my face. The moment the cop walked in, our eyes met and he immediately motioned me over. After I made my way to the front of the restaurant we got right down to business.

“This young gentleman said you assaulted him,” the officer told me.

“This young gentleman’s a drunk and belligerent asshole,” I told
him
.

“Drunk? He’s only seventeen. How could he be drunk?”

“I just served him four tequilas in ten minutes. Trust me,
he’s fucking toast.”

Why the cop asked me that question is still a mystery. He knew why the kid was drunk. Most of the neighborhood knew why the kid was drunk. He probably just wanted to see if I’d have the balls to admit it; however, my confession had little to do with courage. Of course, getting arrested was always worth avoiding, but in a very real way I simply didn’t care anymore…
about anything
. Go ahead. Call out the cavalry and burn the fucking place to the ground, but just make sure that I’m inside when you do. Good fucking riddance to it. Good riddance to us all.

92

By the beginning of March, I had successfully managed to avoid Perry for almost two months. It seemed I now became irritated by just the sound of his voice, which drove me from the hazy realm of my chemically-concocted complacency, into a wave of depression and self-loathing. Apparently, heroin had become not only the cause of my problem but the solution to it as well, and by remaining in a nod I could sequester my failures and ignore the devastation that was overtaking my life. By avoiding Perry, I could continue to look the other way, indefinitely…
at everything
.

Then on March 5
^th
I accidentally answered the phone at Gotham.

“What’s up?”

It was Perry.

“Nothing,” I told him.

“I have some news for you,” he said. “You wanna meet me outside The Sunshine after work?”

“No.”

“Why not?!?”

“Because I
hate
you.”

“Get over it and come down here.”

“What time?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Fine,” I said and then hung up the phone.

We ended up meeting at a coffee shop on Avenue A, where he proceeded to fill me in on the situation with Catherine who, until today, he hadn’t heard from in months.

“She wants us to meet her tomorrow afternoon,” he told me. “Can you get the day off?”

“No,” I said even though I already had the day off.

“This is really important, Craig. She wants us to meet with a lawyer.”

“Why? Is she suing us?”

“No!” he said firmly. “He’s a big
entertainment
lawyer.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly serious. Actually, he’s about as big as they get.”

“What’s his name?”

“Bob Donnelly,” Perry told me. “He represents Dave Matthews and has a shitload of other big clients.”

Why exactly the esteemed attorney would be meeting with us I hadn’t a clue, but the fact that we’d be in his presence was alone enough for my chemically-dependent ego to awaken from a long winter’s nap. Everything was going to be splendid after all, and I would finally be able to make my living as a junky musician. Indeed, I would not only have my cake but eat it too, and be sure to sprinkle the humble crumbs into mouths that said it couldn’t be done.

On the following morning, my renewed anticipation for unbridled success overwhelmed me. I woke up at ten, put on my nicest shirt, and though the meeting wasn’t until 3 p.m.—I headed into Manhattan at eleven. I then met Perry shortly before noon, and after coming to terms with how great we were we decided to celebrate in the usual way.

After scoring on the corner of 124
^th
Street and Third Avenue, we ducked inside a project to get off in the building’s stairwell and as
soon as Perry tapped a vein, I offered-up my own. Then, a moment later I tumbled down the staircase. Although I never stopped breathing, it was the first and only time I’d overdosed.

At some point later I regained consciousness on the landing of the 17
^th
floor and was immediately confronted by the smiling faces of an EMT and a firefighter, while a disgusted cop milled about in the background.

“He ain’t fuckin’ dead!” the firefighter joyfully announced as the EMT sighed with relief. Unfortunately, the sudden prospect of a bust worth making raised the cop’s spirits as well. As he eagerly repositioned himself amongst the other municipal employees, I immediately recalled my arrest warrant and pleaded valium to dampen his enthusiasm. Thankfully, before fleeing the scene, Perry had removed any damning evidence from my lifeless body that might have pointed to a heroin overdose as the cause of my condition.

Had Perry not taken the preventive measures he had, I definitely would have been spending some time at Riker’s. Instead, I was immediately whisked away to Metropolitan Hospital, while Perry arrived at the all-important meeting without me.

93

To this day, Perry has never fully disclosed the details of the meeting. Therefore, I can only conclude that his silence is part of an ongoing effort to shield me from the consequences of my overdose. It was either that, or he was just too fucked up to remember. Regardless, I eventually realized that being absent from the meeting was likely the straw that broke the back of my musical aspirations. Of course, at the time I was totally oblivious to this. If I was, on some level, conscious of the fact that our fate may have now been detrimentally and irreversibly sealed, that bit of awareness was kept tucked away and heavily sedated.

During the last week of March, a rainy Friday night kept most of the kids away from Gotham City and as a result, I knew I would be unable to pay April’s rent. Once again, I suddenly saw the
Whitehouse in my future and became extremely unsettled by it. Egging on my anxiety was the fact that Stratis owed me $200 in shift-pay which had gone unaddressed for over two weeks, along with several unpaid invoices from vendors who were now refusing to do business with him. That evening, before leaving the restaurant with only $40 in my pocket, I raised the issue with Melissa.

“Well what do you want
me
to do about it?” she asked defensively.