Needle (20 page)

Perry scheduled a gig at The Bank on Houston Street. It would be Justin’s first performance with Sections and the first time we’d taken the stage in almost four months.

On the day of the gig, just before my shift ended at Barry's, Megan stopped me at the door.

“Here,” she said. “I have a present for you.”

In my hand she then placed a tiny blue pill.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s a valium. Try it.”

“What’s it gonna do to me?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll like it. But these are pretty strong, so you might wanna start off with half.

Half?

“Thanks,” I said as I popped the whole thing in my mouth.

After leaving the store I realized I had six hours to kill before the show, so I decided to return home to Brooklyn. I walked over to the 77
^th
Street subway station, boarded the #6, and as I sat down I began to feel the effects of the valium. I eventually transferred to the F at Bleecker Street, and as the train pulled out I felt a potent little buzz come over me. Then, seemingly within the blink of an eye, I found myself in Coney Island as the train came to a rapid, thudding, halt and pulled me out of my stupor. I’m not sure exactly when, but at some
point the valium had hit me like a ton of bricks. Well over an hour had disappeared from my life as I suddenly found myself in the southern-most part of Brooklyn, fifteen stops past my own.

“FUCK!!!” I said out loud.

As tourists returning from the aquarium boarded the train, I couldn’t believe that the stupid little pill caused me to miss my stop. It was already after 5p.m., and I knew that I now wouldn’t be home until at least six. Then, all of a sudden there was another thud, only it wasn’t at all sudden as I realized I was back in Manhattan.

“FUCK!”

I couldn’t believe that I actually passed out and missed my stop
again
.

The train rapidly filled with men and women in business suits returning home to the borough of Brooklyn, and I can only assume they did—as I returned to the state of unconsciousness. When I realized that the same thing happened yet again, it was exactly 8:00 and I was back in Coney Island.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!!!” I screamed, marking the hour like a vulgar cuckoo as I’d now been traveling back and forth on the F train for four hours.

I eventually made it home at 9:00 to shower, and then immediately returned to Manhattan for the gig. By now, the valium had worn off sufficiently enough for me to maintain consciousness and without a moment to spare, I arrived at The Bank just as Sections was about to take the stage.

37

I don’t know exactly what I was thinking, but in December I decided to accept Hunter College’s invitation to attend graduate school. The semester started in January of 1993 and for me it would end that very month, though I did learn a few interesting things during my brief stay. Most notably, I learned that graduate school is no place for a junky.

Meanwhile, Anton asked Perry if he would be interested in
managing Big Sounds during the evening hours in exchange for free rehearsal time. Though the bartering arrangement was a valuable asset to the band, a cot in the back room was an even greater allure to Perry as he could no longer tolerate living with Felicia. Though his belongings and mailing address remained in Brooklyn, he now spent the majority of his time at the studio.

Perry’s arrangement at Big Sounds was an extraordinary benefit to Sections, as some or all of us were there virtually every night working on material. One evening in late January Perry, Matt, and I convened at the studio to discuss a letter of interest we’d received from Boomerang Productions, a small management company that handled a growing list of rising bands signed to independent labels. The general consensus was that they were relatively smalltime for a band of
our
caliber and as a result, the letter was immediately set aside. In reality, however, the cavalier disinterest in the management company was due less to cockiness, and was mainly the result of a rumor that our demo was being passed around Atlantic Records. Though Boomerang’s interest in the band would go ignored—it was still cause for celebration. Accordingly, Matt and Perry left to score while I stayed behind to mind the shop.

A couple of hours had passed and I began to grow restless as they’d gone to score on 18
^th
Street near the Beth Israel Medical Center, which was only eight blocks from the studio. By around midnight my junky impatience had finally gotten the better of me, and I decided to venture over to the spot to investigate the matter.

When I arrived nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were a few junkies roaming around, and the dope dealer was manning his usual post outside the doorway of a rundown building. As soon as he saw me he motioned me over.

“Hey, papi. Your friends got busted,” he said.

“What!?! Are the fucking cops out?” I asked as I looked around.

“They were watching from the roof,” he explained as he pointed to a building across the street. “They’re gone now.”

“Good, then give me three.”

There were no works in the area, so I decided to take a day away from the needle as three bags was enough to snort and still catch a buzz.

As I headed back to the studio, I realized the arrest would probably be Matt’s great undoing. It was quite likely that The Good Detective would eventually get wind of his son’s brush with the law,
and at that point Matt’s double life would finally come crashing down around him. Of course, Matt could probably prevent the news from reaching Mr. Anson; however, that would require him to suck it up like a brave little junky and resist mentioning his father’s name in exchange for preferential police treatment.

“DETECTIVE ERNIE ANSON! DETECTIVE ERNIE ANSON! DETECTIVE ERNIE ANSON!”
Matt cried over and over again as he and Perry were placed in general population, which, besides the likes of child molesters, petty thieves, prostitutes, pimps, drunk drivers, drug dealers and drug buyers—also included a nice sampling of violent felons. They were then relocated to a cell with 20 others, and as Matt’s desperate chant continued—Perry considered bitch-slapping him to avoid the pussy-by-association beating that now seemed imminent.

“Matt!” Perry said with real fear in his eyes, “For the sake of my own survival, I don’t fucking know you right now! OK?!?” He then nervously attempted to conceal his long, girly, black hair beneath the collar of his shirt.

Within seconds a corrections officer appeared at the cell as Matt continued to cry out.

“Who the fuck is Detective Ernie Anson?” was the same old response from a brand new officer.

“He’s my father,” said Matt in between sobs. “Detective Ernie Anson…He works at the 45
^th
Precinct in—”

“OH, WHO GIVES A SHIT YOU JUNKY FUCK!!”
interrupted the officer.

Unbeknownst to Matt, New York City corrections officers were an entirely different breed of cop. Whereas street cops would almost always feel a bit of sympathy for The Good Detective and the indignities heaped upon him by his junky son, corrections officers—known as C.O.’s for short—really didn’t give a shit. They spent the whole of their days in what was tantamount to a chamber of horrors, and had become far too detached to be affected by Matt or his father’s status in the police department. However, Matt’s relationship to The Good Detective had now been revealed to a cell full of thugs, and the C.O.’s only concern was that if he left him there—he’d only be back in a minute to mop him up off the floor. With no other choice, he unlocked the gate to move Matt to a safer location.

“Come on you fucking pansy. Do you wanna bring your girlfriend
with you?” the C.O. asked, as Perry was doing his best to blend in with a group of Puerto Rican gangsters.

They were both transferred to a private cell and remained in the system for almost 25 hours, after which each was sentenced to three days of community service and released. It was quite the traumatic experience for Matt who was convinced that his father was eventually going to find out about the arrest. To lift his spirits, on the following day Perry purchased him a harmonica with an inscription that read,
"For My Cellie.”

38

Oddly enough, Perry’s mother somehow got wind of the arrest before Matt’s father. As a result, while Matt would maintain his secret life a little longer, on February 6
^th
Perry returned home to find his things neatly packed and sitting on the curb. Not one to share his indignities with anyone, he picked up his belongings and checked into the Whitehouse Hotel on Bowery, where he would stay when he wasn’t working at the studio.

Although no foreign dignitaries ever checked in, the Whitehouse still maintained an impressive guest list of ex-cons, drug addicts, and vagrants—along with a few of the city’s more colorful schizophrenics just to spice things up. For a nominal fee of ten dollars per day, guests were provided access to a locker-room shower, and what the establishment referred to as a “room.” However, the 8 x 5 foot space didn’t exactly qualify as a room, and much more resembled the stall of a barnyard stable where one could actually stand up, look over the wall, and sneak a peak at the horse living next door. Of course, this could be risky as the unsuspecting horse might be smoking crack, masturbating, or changing his dressings and not exactly in the mood for company. It was truly a very sad and depressing place to be.

On February 25
^th
Matt’s double life finally came to an end as his father was made aware of the arrest. Then, without saying a word to Matt, The Good Detective went directly to Cynthia to report his findings which included a detailed summary of the monies owed to a
variety of creditors. Unfortunately, though, he didn’t stop there. To top it off, going above and beyond the call of duty, Mr. Anson then sold most of Matt's belongings to help compensate Cynthia for the cost of marrying his son.

The fallout was severe, but quite frankly—it was amazing that Matt was able to maintain the charade for as long as he had. In fact, this time he was lucky because although his marriage was in tatters, he was still somehow able to maintain his teaching job. The day after the drama unfolded he appeared at the studio as Perry and I were running through new material.

“My life is completely over,” Matt lamented as he stepped into the room.

“Are you and Cynthia getting divorced?” asked Perry.

“We’re getting an annulment.”

“An annulment! There you go,” Perry said as he tried to sound comforting. “Just like it never even happened.”

“Too bad you can't get the warts annulled,” I pointed out.

“You’re real funny,” Matt said. “Oh man, what the fuck am I gonna do? I don't wanna live with my father after all this shit! I don't even have a guitar anymore.”

“But at least you’ve got that nifty-looking harmonica,” I reminded him. “Look at it over there, so bright and shiny. It’s almost as if it’s
mocking
you.”

“You’re moving back in with your dad?” Perry asked him.

“Where the fuck else am I gonna go?”

“I don't know, but that should definitely teach him not to stick his fat ass where it doesn't belong.”

On February 26
^th
, 1993, I went to work and Ramzi Yousef attempted to blow up the World Trade Center. While the event was unfolding, a news report could be heard on the store’s television. As I made change for customers I listened to reporters question a Port Authority official, who was quick to brag about the buildings’ structural superiority in light of the failed attempt to bring them down.

After momentarily stepping out of the store, I peered down Second Avenue and could see a gigantic plume of smoke surrounding the towers. I didn't realize it at the time, but the image was a prophetic one with regard to not only the buildings’ destiny—but also Matt’s double-life, and though for the moment they managed to stand upright amidst smoldering flames, it was only a matter of time before
all four
came crashing down.

As I returned to the store, the Port Authority official concluded his remarks:

“
If this had happened at the UN, you'd be looking at a big hole in the ground
,” he said with a swagger that would ultimately prove itself to be not so justified.

39

By the beginning of March, Perry’s new arrangement at Big Sounds encouraged us to dedicate more hours to rehearsing, and after Barry caught me smoking a joint in the basement of his store I found myself with plenty of time to fulfill the commitment.

After getting canned at Barry’s I made a decision to change my life.
“I'm gonna quit using,”
I said. Unfortunately, I was already fucked up when I made the statement so it ended up being inadmissible. In fact, within 36 hours of making the empty promise I was beginning to regret it, as I’d detected a sudden irritability in my bowels which is an early precursor to dope sickness. To make matters worse I was jobless, had no money to alleviate the oncoming withdrawal symptoms, and was now hardly in the mood to rehearse or discuss the rejection letter we’d recently received from Atlantic. Of course, I knew that Perry would get us high afterwards, but the notion of enduring the next couple of hours was tortuous.

The matter of being rejected by a major label went unaddressed and that was fortunate, as the rehearsal left me with enough to be agitated by. During the past month I’d become even more disenchanted with Pat’s playing and now, while Justin desperately tried to hold it together with a bass line that was beautiful unto itself, he busily clamored through each measure with his usual brand of jazz-infused bullshit. Of course, there was no need for Justin to address the issue:

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” I screamed into the mike as Matt was about to launch into a solo.

Just then, Danny decided to handle the situation. Unfortunately, he began reprimanding Justin.

“Yeah man. You gotta do a better job of staying with Pat or we’re gonna have to get someone else,” he said, incredibly.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, DANNY! JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I roared as I whipped around to cut him off.