Needle (8 page)

Although the personalities would swap roles from dream to dream, the moral of the story remains the same: I don’t graduate.

When I first received my degree I was very much ambivalent about it. However, I soon decided that it provided me with the symbolic blank check I needed to passionately pursue a dream, and not suffer any detrimental consequences because of it. I always believed that regardless of how badly I screwed up my life, I still ultimately had the safety of an education to fall back on that couldn’t be compromised.

As my life would eventually spin further and further out of control, these nightmares would seem more real and represent another reality which I would do everything in my power to ignore.

15

I arrived early for my first day of work and was immediately greeted by Megan Cabrini. Megan had been working at Barry’s for several years. She was in her forties and was one of the few lesbians I’ve ever
truly
gotten to know.

Having grown up in New York my entire life, I’ve always prided myself on having a very acute sense of GAYDAR. But in relation to Megan, any technique designed to detect latent homosexual traits was a wasted one. Megan was the stereotypical, stoutly built, butch-variety of lesbian and this was evident to even the most casual of observers. Her daily attire rarely deviated from that of corduroys and a plaid shirt, just as our daily chats rarely deviated from that of women and
sex
with women.

As far as the store’s management was concerned, Gina was easy to get along with and after my first week at Barry’s I realized I wouldn’t completely despise working there. At no point was I expected to produce an original thought, and there was no dandruff-ridden dickhead telling me what to do. I spent my days slicing bagels and spreading cream cheese and that was all there was to it. I was in at eight and out by four, with no
real
work in between and no ass-kissing for tips. What more could I ask for? My nights were completely free and I would finally be able to focus on the music without suffering too badly in the process.

When I met Colin Emerson, another co-worker who had been at Barry’s for almost two years, I knew I had it made in the shade. Not only was he a musician with a background and goals that were similar to my own, but he was also a really nasty asshole. It was hard to believe, but as long as Colin Emerson remained employed at Barry’s I felt I had a fair degree of job security.

On Friday, my first week as bagel-boy was officially coming to an end. As I left the store and started toward my apartment, from across the street I noticed what surely had to be one of the city’s sadder stories hobbling in my direction. Hunched slightly forward, which made his ass appear to stick out unnaturally, a shabby old man took bow-legged strides that were each no more than a foot in length. His unnatural gait seemed to indicate a recently suffered stroke and he struggled to keep pace with sidewalk traffic. He was just another
forsaken member of society wading in a sea of abject indifference. I don’t know what exactly came over me, but my heart went out to the guy because he really did appear to be suffering. I decided to cross the street to see if I could be of some assistance. Then I realized it was Matt and attempted to run in the opposite direction.

Unfortunately, he was on his way to Barry’s and had seen me coming. As he desperately began to scream my name I felt sympathy transform itself into humiliation-by-association.

To be honest, Matt was a difficult person to feel sorry for because he was always the source of his own misery. Whatever his suffering, rest assured, it was typically the result of something stupid he did, thought, or said; so rather than compassion I usually felt he got just what he deserved.

Matt had no concept of moderation and was fast becoming a heroin addict—which ran afoul of my renegade drug policy. Under the pretext of jamming, almost every evening he would drop by the apartment only to get fucked up away from the Bronx and the prying eyes of his father. And if he got fucked up, I usually got fucked up. Well before physical dependency sets in, one of the first signs of addiction is an inability to, ironically,
just say no
.

Now thoroughly disgusted and with nowhere to run, I walked over to him. Up close he seemed even more pathetic and hunched over than I previously thought.

“What the fuck happened now?” I asked, much more annoyed than concerned.

“Craig, I really need some dope,” he said ignoring my question.

Matt had yet to be officially introduced to the daytime dope dealers and as a result, they refused to serve him. This was clearly the reason for his surprise visit and I knew it the moment I realized it was him.

“Why are you walking like that?” I asked

“I was just at the clinic,” he said a little reluctantly. “I had to have a minor surgical procedure taken care of. No big deal.”

It didn’t look minor.

“Where?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” he answered though in obvious pain.

“I’m not worried,” I assured him. “I just wanna know where you had the surgery.”

“Please get me some dope,” Matt said trying to change the subject. “I’m hurtin’ real bad.”

“OK—sounds great. But first tell me where you had it.”

“On my fucking ass, all right!” he shouted in a whisper.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the “where” to which I was referring. Actually, I was curious to know what medical facility would perform such a debilitating procedure—and then allow the disturbing post-operative result to hobble right the fuck out the front door. Of course, now armed with this new bit of information I couldn’t help but pursue a different line of questioning.

“Why?”

“Listen, man—I’m in a lot of pain. Let’s get some fuckin’ dope,” he said, ignoring my question once again.

Now typically, there’s nothing I liked better than using someone else’s medical condition to justify my own drug use. However, by this point I wasn’t quite the ravenous junky I’d soon become and I just couldn’t let him get off that easy.

“WHY DID YOU HAVE ASS-SURGERY, MATTHEW?” I asked firmly.

“Craig, I’m really not in the mood right now. I’m in a lot of fucking pain here. Come on!” he begged.

“No problem, brother. Just tell me why you had ass-surgery and we’ll hook it all up,”

“I caught anal warts and had to get them removed, all right?” he quietly confessed.

This was getting better by the second
.

“Where’d you get’em?”

“I fucking told you already, dickface!” he openly bellowed at me. “On my ass!!! Where the fuck else would I get them?!?!”

“Yeah, I know. But where exactly did you—”

“OK, YOU FUCK!!!”
he roared.
“RIGHT UNDER MY ASSHOLE AND ABOUT TWO INCHES ABOVE MY BALLS!!! ARE YOU HAPPY?!?!”

“I am,” I said—though once again he was answering the wrong question. “But I wanted to know where you
contracted
the warts, not where they erupted on your ass. And incidentally, I believe the area to which you are now referring is known as the taint.”

“Great, can we go now?!”

“So then you actually had
taint
warts removed—not anal,” I confirmed.

“Yeah, fine, taint warts. Can we go?” he begged once more.

“Did they put you in stirrups like a lady?”

“No,” he said a little on the patronizing side but I think he was lying. “Can we
please
get some dope?”

“Yeah, but where’d you catch’em?” I pressed. “Who was the dirty little slut that gave’em to you?”

“Cynthia,” he said sheepishly, clearly embarrassed by the implication.

“CYNTHIA?!?”
I bellowed.

“Yeah.” Matt quietly admitted.

I couldn’t believe it was true. I had to make sure we were talking about the same girl:

“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT CYNTHIA, PURE AS THE DRIVEN SNOW—CYNTHIA, YOUR GIRLFRIEND—CYNTHIA, GAVE YOU TAINT WARTS???”

“
Yes
” he said again, now obviously getting irritated.

“The bitch cheated on you?”

“No. She caught them from that guy at Bethany.”

For a moment I had to digest the news because up until now, Matt had always insisted that “that guy at Bethany,” also known as Josh McGregor, was merely a figment of Cynthia’s imagination. Apparently though, Josh was a real person—with
very
real warts.

“You’re telling me that the ex-boyfriend you previously denied the existence of not only took Cynthia’s virginity, but also gave her anal warts which she has now transmitted to your taint. Is that correct, Matthew?”

Matt said nothing but his silence was confirmation enough. I was rendered speechless by the poetry of the moment.

I dropped the subject and followed Matt to his car, which The Good Detective had just purchased for him the previous day. It was a Ford Taurus, only three years old and in great shape. For a totally psychotic and physically abusive asshole, Ernie Anson wasn’t a bad guy. He secured his son the cushiest of teaching jobs, provided him with free room and board, and now purchased him a car to go to work in and buy drugs with.

We hopped in the car and headed to Hell’s Kitchen, aptly named and located in midtown on Manhattan’s west side. At the time, to our knowledge, it was the only dope spot in the city. Of course, we would soon find other locations because as far as heroin was concerned—Hell’s Kitchen was for suckers. There, a bag of dope sold for $15 as opposed to ten, which was the going rate.

Matt parked the car on 53
^rd
Street facing Tenth Avenue. As
always, the same slippery-looking Colombian with bad skin manned the appointed building stoop awaiting visits from a burgeoning list of clientele.

“Do you wanna come with me so you can meet him for yourself and stop busting my balls?” I asked though knew better.

“No,” he said. “That’s all right.”

Of course it was all right, as long as someone else was willing to risk a trip to jail.

I grabbed $30, left the car, and made my way to the spot. As I walked toward the middle of the block I met the gaze of an incredibly beautiful girl. When we made eye contact she tried to maintain it—and she was so attractive that quite frankly, I found the moment unsettling and even a bit suspicious.

Why the fuck is she looking at me?

This was the type of girl who, typically, wouldn’t stop to give me the time of day—let alone a come-hither look. But there she was like an angel in white with green eyes, blonde hair and alabaster skin—offering the sweetest and most tender smile—
and it was really beginning to piss me off
.

The dealer must have darted back inside the building to re-up, so I decided to circle the block and assess this new development that was now disturbing me more with every step.

Why was she looking at me like that? Is she a narc? Is that why the dealer took off?

No, I didn’t think so. She had a kind of elegance and sophistication about her that would be impossible for a cop to mimic. I rounded the block and as I approached her once more, I could see she was
still
gazing at me.

Christ, she is really hot! So why the fuck is she looking at me?! For God’s sake, who the fuck is she?
Just then, as I came within a few feet of her I figured it out.

“Excuse me, miss?” I said, trying to get her attention as politely as the moment permitted.

“Yes?” she replied much like an angel, while a glowing luminescence seemed to engulf her as she spoke.

“Are you a prostitute?”

As it turned out she was
not
a prostitute, which I was able to determine from the middle finger she answered my question with before she reached into her purse and handed me a scrap of paper with her name and number scrawled upon it. Then Venus walked away,
and clearly her parents were right.

The dealer was nowhere to be found, so I returned to the car to wait. Matt could barely contain himself.

“Did you get it? Huh, did you get it?!?” he asked in desperation.

“Not yet.”

“FUCK!!! THIS IS SUCH FUCKING BULLSHIT! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!” he wailed. “These motherfucking dealers don’t give a shit. They know you’ll wait! They know you’ll come back!”

“Relax!” I said, “He probably ran out and went inside to re-up. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few minutes—so calm the fuck down.”

“Then what took so long?”

“There was this really beautiful girl staring at me,” I told him a little reluctantly.

“Awesome. Did you say anything to her?”

“Yeah…I asked her if she was a hooker.”

Within about 20 minutes the dealer returned. I again left the car, made the exchange, and returned to Matt who was by now almost completely covered in drool. The sun was setting, so I turned on the car’s dome light and emptied both bags on to one of Matt’s textbooks. As I arranged the lines, I was startled by the unmistakable sound of a police baton tapping against the window beside me. I couldn’t believe it. The cops didn’t even see the deal go down, but just happened by the car as I prepared the dope.

At this point in my fledgling junky career I was relatively fearless when faced with the prospect of arrest. In fact, the only thing I was feeling was resentfulness because I now knew I wouldn’t be getting high but of course—I had yet to be acquainted with the world of hurt inflicted on those similarly stumbled upon by the NYPD.

I could tell that the cop with the baton wanted to drag me out of the car by my curly hair but thankfully—the door was locked which gave me a moment to assess the situation. As I slowly unlocked the passenger door, I had a feeling that at some point Matt would try to mention the fact that his father was “Detective Ernie Anson,” but I wasn’t sure how. I found out in less than a second as the now unlocked door was suddenly ripped open and Matt started squealing, “DETECTIVE ERNIE ANSON!!! DETECTIVE ERNIE ANSON!!! DETECTIVE ERNIE ANSON!!!”

There were two cops present and for a moment, both seemed
confused as they stood by looking at Matt and then back at each other. They had no idea of what in the world he was talking about, and I had no idea of what an incredible pussy he was.

The cop with the baton then grabbed the book with the dope and emptied it into the street. As the powder floated off into the twilight I could see a tear well up in Matt’s eye, though I was unsure if it was due to the wasted dope or the thought of being arrested. Either way, I offered him a Kleenex to underscore the pussy theme. As I handed him the tissue, the cop with the baton pulled me out of the car and onto the sidewalk. Then, rather than collect Matt at the driver’s side he instead chose the scenic route, dragging him across both seats and through the passenger’s side as well.