Needle (21 page)

I was on the verge of unloading a torrent of pent up, withdrawal-driven aggravation that was now bolstered by Danny’s inability to know his place. After all, what exactly did he think was going on here? Not to belabor the point, but the band was mine—
MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE
. If he was ever going to come to terms with this critical detail, now was the time.

“Don't say another fucking word Danny, not another fucking word! Just stand there and keep your mouth shut,” I warned him. I then unleashed my fury upon the drummer.

“Pat—what the fuck is going on with all the busy bullshit?!”

“What are you talking about?!” he shot back with some disgust.

“More snares and bass—less high-hat. Got it?”

“I'm trying to capture the vibe, man,” he said.

“What
vibe, man
? Just play the fucking song! If you think that stifles your creativity then maybe you should pick up another instrument.”

“We don't wanna sound like all the other bands out there,” he said in defense of his playing. “I want Sections to be known for something different.”

“And what’s that, Pat?
SUCKING?
Because that’s what we'll be known for. Sucking big, fat, motherfucking dick and nothing else! Is that what you want, Pat!?!
IS THAT WHAT YOU FUCKING WANT
?!?!”

“Craig, shut the fuck up,” was uttered by someone with a death wish. Of course, it could be none other than Danny.

“What did you say you little prick-motherfucker?” I inquired.

“OK,” Perry interrupted. “The little clock on the wall tells me rehearsal time is
over.
”

I was beyond enraged but before I was able to grab Danny by the throat, Perry ushered me down the staircase and out into the street.

“Just relax, man,” he said. “This isn't worth beating anyone up over.”

“Well I don't have time to lose another bass player, especially one that I wanna keep around,” I told him. “I just lost my job, I'm broke, and I'm a fucking dopesick junky! I can't afford to let that little fucker hold things up anymore with his big mouth!”

Just as I finished my sentence, I noticed Danny and Pat standing behind me.

“He guys, listen, it’s nothing personal,” Danny said. “But I think the drugs and shit are getting out of control, and we’ll never get anything accomplished when you guys are so fucked up all the time. So, we’ve been thinking about it for a while, and feel it would be best if me and Pat left the band.”

“See that!” Perry said to me with a big grin. “Problem solved.”

With that settled, we headed in the direction of a new spot on Sixth Street and Avenue D, as the only other options were Harlem or Hell's Kitchen. Unfortunately, the 18
^th
Street location was now out of the question as the memory of Perry's recent bust lingered ever present.

“Guys!” Danny called out as we walked away. “Don't leave like that…come on!”

We weren't leaving like anything. We were leaving to get fucked up and not a moment too soon. I felt a fart developing somewhere around my intestines, but in my dopesick condition I couldn't at all guarantee that the matter being detected was only gaseous in nature.

As the new spot was located on the outermost edges of the East Village and about a block away from the river, we had at least eight avenue blocks to traverse. Making matters worse, withdrawal symptoms were coming on strong and given the unreliability of my bowels, we wisely stopped at a Barnes and Noble to use the facility. I no sooner plopped myself down on the bowl, I felt a hot gush of burning, fecal-colored liquid immediately shoot out of my ass. That was hardly the end of the deluge, however, as a steady flow of clear liquid followed until the bowl was almost filled to capacity.

We eventually reached Avenue D, and by the time we crossed Sixth Street the dealers were obvious. We quickly copped two bags of dope and two sets of works, and then headed back in a westerly direction toward something that resembled civilization.

The next closest junky-friendly bathroom to which we could gain access was located in a pizza restaurant on St. Mark’s Place. Though it was only four blocks away, my stomach began making an extremely loud, industrial-sounding gurgle as another vulgar discharge seemed imminent. I definitely had to get that dope inside of me as soon as possible or things were going to get messy.

“Perry, I gotta get off,” I told him.

“Just relax,” he said as he tried to calm me down.

“No, you don’t understand. If I don’t get off soon I’m gonna take a shit right on the fucking sidewalk!”

“We'll be there in three minutes.”

“I don’t fucking have three minutes!” I said. “I’ve got about 30 seconds.”

With that, Perry whipped out his stash and we immediately ducked down the basement steps of an old brownstone.

My veins had deteriorated extensively over the past few months, and since we were operating right out in the open I decided to defer to Perry’s expertise and allow him to perform the procedure. He loaded the needle and due to my ravaged arms, several nerve-racking minutes passed before he was able to locate a battle-worthy vein. Eventually, a useable pathway was at last identified and penetrated as sidewalk pedestrians passed by in broad daylight without noticing. However, just after inserting the needle but before he could pull the trigger, we were interrupted by the sound of a door opening directly behind me. I couldn’t believe my shitty luck. After ten courageous minutes working under extremely risky conditions we’d finally found a vein, and now the entire effort was about to be compromised along with my underwear.

With little in terms of choice we temporarily suspended operations, scrambling back up the staircase to escape detection. Then, to further complicate matters, just as we stepped onto the sidewalk a police car was seen patrolling its way down the street and in our direction. There was simply nowhere to turn.

Now the challenge was to make haste and not attract any unwanted attention, so we continued on as I moved quickly and inconspicuously. That is, as quickly and inconspicuously as one can be expected to move with a syringe dangling out of one’s arm.

40

I was in a bad place. No job, no money, no idea of what to do next. I was having serious concerns about Sections, our perceived talent, and if any of this was at all worth it. I was discouraged by the way the
band’s progress had completely ceased, though I did find solace in the fact that we finally had a great bass player to work with. Unfortunately, beyond that one bright spot I really didn’t know what to do to get things back on track. I felt that, for really the first time, we were floundering and I was beginning to question my decisions. Perry, however, never seemed to think that our eventual success was ever in doubt.

“I wish I could take what I know to be true in my heart, and put it in yours…But I can't—so fuck off and just believe me,” he once told me when my confidence began to wane.

Ultimately, I decided that I was in too deep to quit and would see things through. I reasoned that the only thing worse than wasting anymore time on a musical journey to nowhere was the thought of ever having to say,
“What if I’d stuck it out?
” Of course, it eventually made no difference as I would later adopt the slightly revised,
“What if I’d stuck it out—without a needle sticking out of my arm?”

By the middle of March I was still jobless, but as my rent was paid and Perry kept me flushed with drugs while also supporting my less expensive
eating
habit, I had a hard time finding motivation to re-enter the workforce. My lack of drive was due less to drugs, and more to a painful acknowledgement of what would be my only, viable, employment option.

Perry suggested that I come to grips with the fact that, at least for the short term, I’d be working in a restaurant.

“Stop being such a pussy,” he told me during a phone call. “Face up to it and get it over with.”

“Strong words coming from someone who’s still running from the law,” I responded, referring to his failure to perform the community service he was sentenced to after getting busted with Matt back in January. “You know, eventually, they
will
come and get you,” I told him—and we both knew what that could mean. New York addicts may have enjoyed relatively relaxed penalties with regard to drug possession, but when bad little junkies disobeyed and didn’t follow through with their punitive commitments the result was often 30 days at Riker’s Island.

“Don’t worry. They won’t catch me,” he bragged. “Besides, I’m gonna take care of it in a few weeks anyway. I just don’t have the time right now. Meet me at the Whitehouse tonight after I get out of work. We’ll talk about everything then.”

In reality, though we weren’t gigging, the band was slowly
evolving into what it needed to become in order to perform the songs the way they were intended. The moment I wrote a song, I heard the finished product in my head. It was this mental prototype that I attempted, but was never able to fully realize with any of the previous configurations of musicians. Adding Justin to the lineup and subtracting Pat and Danny were the first solid steps taken to achieve this end. Of course, we were now without a drummer.

Before heading over to the Whitehouse, I was supposed to meet Justin at Tower Records with a copy of the demo. He had mentioned a friend from church named Chris Duncan whose drumming style might be compatible with our songs. Before wasting any time with formal rehearsals, however, we thought it might be a good idea to have Chris listen to the tape and decide if he was even interested. After arriving at Tower I found Justin and gave him the demo. I then walked four or five blocks to the Whitehouse to meet Perry.

The Whitehouse Hotel was located on Bowery, just south of Cooper Union and north of CBGB’s. It was a very old, grimy, four-story building, and the only thing it had in common with its D.C. namesake were the security measures one was confronted with when attempting to enter the shithole.

As I stepped over the building’s filthy threshold I was immediately struck by degradation in every corner, as homeless men wandered around intermittently muttering to themselves as well as the lifeless drunks scattered around the lobby. Within a few seconds I was then confronted by a shabbily dressed, unshaven, middle-aged man whose status as either a guest or employee was at first, somewhat in question.

“What do you want?” he asked me.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who the fuck are you looking for?” he demanded.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded back, a little put off by his tone.

“I’m the fucking hotel manager!”

“Way to go,” I said. “I’m supposed to meet Perry Ward here.”

“Who the fuck is he?”

Now how in the world was I supposed to answer that?

“He’s a homeless fucking drug addict that just
happens
to live here,” I told him.

Obviously, that wasn’t going to be a specific enough description, but I didn’t know what else to say and was beginning to get impatient.
Without another word, I took a step forward to continue the search when the shabby one raised his hand to stop my progress.

“Only hotel guests are allowed on the lobby floor,” he said, forgetting about the wads of Kleenex and fast-food containers that were apparently also permitted. “What’s that name again?”

“Perry Ward.”

He thought about it for a moment and then a light suddenly flickered.

“Hey Ward! Somebody get Perry Ward down here!” he shouted toward a dark staircase that rose up beside him.

While waiting for Perry to get it together, I snuck into the bathroom to take a leak. It was completely filthy, and as I stepped into the very first stall I noticed a sign that read,
“Attention Passengers: Please remain seated until the shit comes to a complete stop.”
I peed, exited the bathroom, and then approached the manager to check on the status of my friend.

“Did you heed the sign?” he asked me in a vaguely threatening manner.

“I would have, but I didn’t wanna get my turds dirty.”

“Oh, really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ward!!!” he roared again. “Get down here!!! There’s someone
special
here to see you…Hey Ward!!! Are you up there or what?!?!”

Indeed, he was up there. Way up there. On the roof, in fact, completely wasted and desperately trying to concoct an escape route that would help him elude the special someone who was waiting in the lobby—and certain to be wearing a badge and brandishing a baton.

“Someone special
…They must think I’m a fucking asshole,” he said out loud as he tried to calm his palpitating heart and collect his thoughts.

The Whitehouse was one of several adjoining buildings that ran the length of Bowery, from Great Jones to Bond Street. To avoid “capture,” Perry would have to flee the property and somehow make his getaway down the fire escape or stairwell of one of the connected buildings. Unfortunately, the adjacent rooftops were all of varying heights and lengths and in the darkness of night—a perilous, urban, valley stood between him and freedom.

Perry mounted a barefoot assault, scaling peaks and paying little heed to the dark chasms that lay in wait as he blindly jumped from one cement summit to the next. Fortunately, a junky’s bitter disregard for
his own well being—combined with the thought of going to jail—can produce Spider-Man like feats of strength and agility. Only, he wasn’t
Spider
-Man…he was Junky-Man.

Junky-Man, Junky-Man

Does whatever a junky can
.

Evades police at any price
.

Escaped arrest once or twice
.

LOOK UP!

Here comes the Junky-Man
.

Is he strong?

Listen bud
,

He’s got opiates in his blood
.

Can he rise from the dead?

Take a look overhead
.

Hey, there

There goes the Junky-Man
.

In the chill of night

When The Man came to call

From the roof he jumped

But the dope broke his fall!