Needle (17 page)

“How were we?” I asked her. Katrina was a devout lover of live music and extremely blunt, so I was both curious and terrified to hear her assessment.

“You guys were great! But nobody got pummeled on stage,” she said sounding a bit disappointed.

“Assault and battery is restricted to shows during
odd
-numbered months,” Perry explained. “Even-numbers are for stealing liquor and pillaging sound equipment—
so sit tight.
”

“Hey Craig—a buddy of mine is coming into town on Tuesday, and he’s gonna have some of that shit you wanted,” Katrina suddenly told me.

As if being a heroin addict wasn’t enough, ever since the mescaline adventure with Helmer I harbored an intense desire to experiment further with hallucinogenic drugs. Katrina was a card-carrying Dead Head, and her presence was enough to intensify the yearning so dramatically that each time I saw her she was subjected to an interrogation and a frisk. Before we left the club, Katrina and I made tentative arrangements to drop acid on the following Tuesday night. Although I shared my plans with no one, I had the evening mapped out for months and was determined to trip-out and then visit the
Alice in Wonderland
sculpture in Central Park.

When Tuesday morning arrived, I reported to Barry’s and was already eagerly anticipating the end of the workday and the beginning of my trip to Wonderland. Then, at around 3 p.m., Gina called from the Lexington Avenue store. For some reason, she’d been terribly affected by a sob story authored by none other than Colin Emerson.

“Hey Craig, Colin is really upset,” she said. “He told me to tell
you that he really thinks it would be in your best interest to have him on stage at CB’s.”

In
my
best interest.

Of course, his motivation to speak up had nothing to do with the caliber of the gig, or the fact that we’d be getting some very valuable exposure. I was floored by his audacity. Even after getting attacked on stage before an audience of friends and co-workers, Colin Emerson was still willing to swallow his self-respect and remain the shameless self-promoter.

If the impending trip hadn’t so completely captured my fancy, I would’ve had more to say to Gina—who I was a little annoyed with for speaking on Colin’s behalf in the first place.

“You know, we
were
gonna give him a call,” I told her. “But then I thought we might try using a good bass player.”

Thankfully, 4 p.m. finally rolled around, and as I reported to the apartment for the big trip, the skies opened and a thunderous summer storm began to soak the city. When I finally made it home, Katrina and Rachel were already waiting for me. Although Rachel previously mentioned that she would accompany us on our little adventure, she also said she’d be abstaining from any drug use. I thought this to be a wise decision as certain personalities react poorly to acid, and I had little doubt that Rachel was one of them. Furthermore, this particular batch of Dead Head acid had a reputation for being extremely potent, and I felt that Rachel was far too impressionable to handle it. Besides, I wasn’t willing to be anyone’s babysitter. I was finally about to attend a never-ending tea party, and would no more allow myself to be deterred by a bumbling blond, than I would be by the rumbling storm outside. So imagine my surprise when Rachel turned to look at me with her mouth opened, and a square of blotter-paper stuck to her tongue.

“You’re gonna be sorry,” I told her, when I knew it was I who’d be sorriest of all.

I swallowed my own hit and then we waited for the rain to subside. Unfortunately it was to no avail, and by the time we’d finally given up on the possibility of a moonlit evening, two hours had passed and we were tripping our faces off.

At about 9:30 Rachel, Katrina, and I began our trek toward 80
^th
Street and Central Park East. Although I could never quite remember where the sculpture was exactly, I was certain it was on the eastern side of the park between 80
^th
and 90
^th
Streets and assumed we’d bump
into it eventually.

As we were about to depart the building and head into the rain, Rachel stopped dead in her tracks—blocking our path to the sidewalk.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I’m not so sure this is such a great idea.”

This was exactly what I was worried about.

“Christ! What’s wrong, Rachel?” I asked.

“Well, you know, it’s just kind of late to be fucked up and running around Central Park. It could be dangerous!”

I’d been getting drunk in the park since I was sixteen years old, and was convinced that at that hour it was as safe as virtually any other part of Manhattan. But make no mistake about it: I was determined to enjoy an evening of wild hallucinations in the middle of Central Park and I was going—safe or not, and with or without them.

We left the building and headed south on Third Avenue, marching silently in single file with me leading the pilgrimage. It had been raining for hours, and as the city marinated in the summer heat it soon produced a warm, toxic, street-gravy that was ankle-deep on certain corners and impossible to avoid. When we finally reached 80
^th
Street, we hung a right and eventually passed my old apartment building just prior to reaching the park. We then crossed Fifth Avenue and as we stood at the edge of the park it began to rain harder. Even with the soggy conditions, it was a monumental occasion and an epic point in my history of hallucinogenic expeditions.

While I stood there absorbing the moment and reflecting, for the first time I took a gander at Rachel’s outfit. She was wearing a wool hat, sweatshirt and boxer shorts—all of which were outdone by the now completely saturated, fake fur boots that donned her stupid feet.

“What the fuck are those?” I asked.

“They’re my special winter galoshes,” she said. “Aren’t they neat?”

“They’d be neater if it was winter instead of summer, and snowing instead of raining,” Katrina pointed out.

“What’s the big difference?” Rachel asked, as we stood there in the pouring rain.

“No difference, Rachel,” I said. “And by the way: After we spend some time in the park, I wanna sail down the Hudson in a boat made of sponges, OK?”

Then, as I took a deep breath and was about to officially embark on my search for Alice, Rachel opened her mouth once more.

“I
definitely
don’t think this is a good idea.”

Now I was getting annoyed. If she was going to bail, she should have done so before we left the building. At that point I would have gladly left her behind to ride out the trip in the secure and friendly confines of our apartment. However, if she was to abort the mission now, I’d have no choice but to walk her home and by then I’d probably be too mangled to make it back to the park in one piece.

“Rachel! You will
NOT
ruin this for me,” I told her. “Everything will be fine.”

She then turned to Katrina.

“Come on—this is crazy! Let’s go back,” she said, almost pleading with the Georgian.

Katrina paused for a moment to mull the situation over—and then she said it. Though her remark seemed innocent enough at first, it was fully equipped with all the latent implications necessary to ruin my evening.

“I trust Craig,” she said. “And if Craig says it’s safe…then I believe him.”

The fucking bitch
.

As Katrina’s vote of confidence successfully closed Rachel’s mouth it would also dramatically alter my plans, though this was unknown to me at the time. Without further consideration I entered the park and the girls followed.

The intense rain seriously hampered visibility, and as we made our way through an area marked by crisscrossing walkways and maple trees, Katrina’s words echoed in my brain:

“If Craig says it’s safe, then I believe him… If Craig says it’s safe, then I believe him… If Craig says it’s safe, then I believe him…”

But what if it isn’t such a good idea for two, naïve, country chicks and a skinny junky to be roaming around Central Park in the middle of the night? Now, if something happens to them it’ll definitely be my responsibility. Shit! Maybe this isn’t so safe after all. I mean, this is New York. What if one or both of them get raped…or even murdered?

As we continued on I tried to calm down and tell myself that the sudden fear was acid-inspired. I looked back at the girls who seemed relaxed as they continued to silently trudge forward.

After about ten minutes of searching for Alice, I stopped for a moment to look around. As we stood in a field of gigantic trees that were no more than ten feet from each other, I tried to get my bearings. As I did, I noticed what appeared to be a Mexican, approximately 50
feet away and darting from tree to tree. For a moment my heart jumped out of my chest. I could see he was wearing a white dress shirt with black pants and shoes, and his attire gave me the impression that he was a busboy or waiter.

I looked back at the girls to see if they noticed anything. They didn’t.

This
must
be the acid
.

I tried to refocus on the task at hand. Then, about 20 seconds later I saw the mysterious Mexican once more and he now seemed to be staring at us. Unfortunately, he was much too fleet-of-foot for me to be able to focus on directly. In fact, I could barely see him from the corner of my eye as he again began to bolt from tree to tree.

Who the fuck
is
that!

Now I was
really
getting nervous, and though I still thought it was probably the acid I wasn’t entirely sure. All I knew was that if something terrible happened to the girls I would never be able to live with myself. I noticed though, that the suspicious Mexican wasn’t a terribly imposing figure. But what if he had a gun, or even a knife?

Wait a minute… this has to be the acid
.

It did seem peculiar that although I never managed to look at him directly, through the rain and darkness I was still able to discern his attire and possible ethnicity. I was almost certain that he was a hallucination, but decided not to take any chances.

“Let’s go home,” I dejectedly said to the girls.

“Why?” Katrina asked.

“It’s getting too muddy.”

As things turned out, it’s likely that the acid gave me the type of experience I was hoping for—but only within a context that would prevent me from enjoying it, which was that of a perceived threat to the girls. It took what, at that moment, was my greatest possible fear and smacked me in the face with it. Instead of conjuring up a vision that was too fantastic to be real—like a fire-breathing dragon or a pirate ship—the hallucinogen merely presented me with a potentially dangerous Mexican, an encounter certainly not unheard of in
this
city.

32

On the night of the big gig at CBGB’s, Perry and I once again exercised incredibly poor junky-judgment by sharing a few grams of coke before the show. However, due to my last run-in with the drug, I was fully prepared with a pre-opened bag of dope to immediately rescue me from the dreaded crash.

We were scheduled to open for PJ Harvey at approximately 11p.m. As Perry and I entered the club at precisely 10:50, completely lit-up from the coke, the entire band was there and a little miffed by our fashionably late arrival.

I tried to time things perfectly and reserve the final line of coke for just prior to taking the stage, hoping it would maintain the buzz I was already feeling and serve to
enhance
my performance. So, at just before 11:00, I inconspicuously slid a rolled-up dollar bill into a plastic bag and inhaled deeply. A few moments later, Peggy—the club’s booking agent—pulled Perry aside and told him there’d been a change. Things were running late and as a result, PJ Harvey would now be taking the stage and we’d be going on afterwards.

We waited for PJ Harvey to finish and as they did, I realized that the last minute switch had foiled my attempt to correctly time the coke crash. I had initially planned on peaking mid-performance and then crashing as we exited the stage; however, as things turned out I was primed for the PJ Harvey set and completely uninspired for my own.

After PJ Harvey left the stage and we stepped upon it I began to feel the crash. Though I managed to somehow get through the set without killing myself, it would have mattered little as 90% of the audience had already departed with PJ Harvey. As a result, we were left with only 30 or so of our core following which was disheartening, as almost twice that number had showed up to witness my assault on Colin Emerson.

As soon as we finished the set I sprinted to the bathroom, and if the bag of dope hadn’t already been opened I probably would’ve snorted it through the paper. After regaining my composure I returned to the side of the stage and was immediately confronted by Kurt. Apparently, while I was in the bathroom, Danny had given him a tongue-lashing about a minor change he missed during the final song. I don’t recall precisely what he said to him, but whatever it was—Kurt
was absolutely livid.

“That hairless little fucker needs to learn some manners,” Kurt said as he gestured toward the stage in Danny’s direction, and though his voice was calm his hand was trembling.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, trying to muffle a chuckle. “Danny doesn’t matter.”

“No, Craig—it’s seriously fucked up!”

“I know.”

“I mean, come on! Maybe
you
can talk to me that way and maybe even Perry—but that little prick?! No way, bro—fuck him!!” Kurt said.

“Hey man,
no one
has a right to talk to you that way and besides, you know—Danny has no standing here. He’s really just a…well, you know, he’s a—”

“He’s a fucking
ornament
!” Kurt interjected as he hit the nail right on its bald little head. “That’s what he is. A fucking ornament.”

For a moment I stood there in silence, overcome with emotion.

“YES!!!”
I screamed in joyous confirmation while on the brink of tears. “THAT’S
EXACTLY
WHAT HE IS! HE’S AN ORNAMENT!
A FUCKING ORNAMENT!!!
Oh…thank God, man,
THANK GOD!!!”