Needle (22 page)

Junky-Man, Junky-Man
,

Friendly neighborhood Junky-Man
.

Cops and courts he’s ignored

Nodding off is his reward
.

Hey, there

There goes the Junky-Man
.

41

My arms were beginning to look bad. Since I was booting only once a day I never developed track marks, but I did sport a fair share of bumps and bruises from injecting heroin into places where there really wasn’t anywhere for it to go. But even though my needlework was questionable, I was a stone-cold junky and knew it. Hence,
relocating to the belly of the beast was probably not the wisest of decisions.

After his death-defying escape from “the police,” Perry voluntarily fulfilled his community service obligations and decided to move out of the Whitehouse Hotel. Within a week he found a large studio apartment located in Hell’s Kitchen on Tenth Avenue between 45
^th
and 46
^th
Streets. His new living arrangement, however, would require me to reprise my role as his roommate now that I’d found a job and was once again a contributing member of society. Of course, I was still a drug addict contributing to the
decay
of that society; but at least now I was legally employed, so as far as I was concerned
—me and society were even
.

I ended up getting hired as a waiter at Serendipity 3 on 60
^th
Street. Although homosexual men largely populate the rank and file of the city’s food service industry, Serendipity was unusual as not only the staff—but the management, ownership, and décor of the restaurant was so
flamboyantly
gay. Decked out in pinkish tones with tiffany lamps hanging from almost every ceiling, it was clear the establishment and its employees were more concerned with how things looked as opposed to how they actually tasted, which also helped explain the number of hours dedicated to the procurement and consumption of sperm.

Besides myself, there were only three other confirmed, straight waiters. When I say “confirmed,” I mean their heterosexuality was vouched for by a gay wait staff that was always on the lookout for someone who might even be just
a little bit gay
—but unwilling to admit it. Those considered beyond the pale of homosexuality were Renee Lewis—an actress from Los Angeles, Bill Sorvillo—an artist from Florida and a kid from New Jersey named Ian Brewster who, to my knowledge, had no ulterior career motives.

Serendipity was led by Debbie Christie, and as the restaurant’s apex predator and general manager she terrified me from the very beginning. Of course, Serendipity’s owner was and still is Mr. Stephen Bruce, and though it would be years before the movie was released, due to his efforts the restaurant enjoyed a great deal of exposure even back then.

Though Serendipity was much more style than substance it mattered little, as tourists and natives alike were somehow drawn in by the glitz and glamour of it all. I must admit, though, it was always a very beautiful atmosphere to dine under, and the rich and famous
were even more sucked into the allure than the average person. Celebrities regularly frequented the restaurant not only for its aesthetically pleasing quality, but also because a darkened atmosphere and an unaffected staff allowed them to maintain the anonymity they seemed to cherish so dearly. In fact, during my stint at Serendipity I personally waited on Jackie Onassis and her grandchildren, as well as Neil Simon, Martin Short, Alyssa Milano, Jim O’Brien, Andre Previn, Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon among a host of others.

Hollywood and Broadway elite were a constant presence at Serendipity, a fact shamelessly promoted and often printed in the New York dailies. As a matter of fact, though I cannot personally attest to it, it was once allegedly reported that Madonna had popped in for one of Mr. Bruce’s famous foot-long hot dogs. Of course, the singer’s staunchly vegetarian status might have made the story a bit difficult to swallow.

42

In mid-April, Perry and I moved into the $800 per month studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and for the first time, I could see how my habit was beginning to affect my standard of living. But even with the concession of living in a rundown part of town where rent was cheap by Manhattan standards, my overall cost of living was dramatically increased. Of course, my overall cost of living included a healthy dope habit to contend with and if I wasn’t careful, I knew it would be only a matter of time before I was checking into the Whitehouse myself.

The apartment was on the fifth floor of a five-story walk-up, and featured a kitchen/dining room that led into a bedroom/living room. What made
this
shithole unique was that the bathroom plumbing couldn’t support anything beyond a tiny toilet and as a result, the apartment’s only sink was situated in the kitchen alongside a rickety, modular, shower stall. Well, at least it was a
quaint
shithole.

As far as the band was concerned, although we hadn’t gigged for
over five months, progress was being made in giant, albeit, very sporadic steps. Justin’s friend, Chris Duncan, ended up liking the demo as did his brother, Leslie, and both signed on as drummer and alternate guitarist, respectively. They were both very competent, very black, and very much members of the same church where Justin not only worshipped, but where his father actually led the flock as minister.

We quickly realized that our new band mates were not only deeply religious but also living completely drug free lives—while Perry, Matt, and I…
weren’t
. Obviously, we thought it wise to keep the lifestyle disparities under wraps as much as possible. Unfortunately, this would be easier said than done while living in Hell’s Kitchen and hardly oblivious to the abundance of crack and heroin being peddled right outside our building. In fact, within a few weeks of moving in, Perry and I were doing more drugs than ever before.

Since I lived almost directly across town from Serendipity, each morning I would make the eleven block journey on foot as attempting the cross-town subway connection never seemed worth the effort. Of course, the return trip home would almost always involve a cab, as I could hardly wait to get completely annihilated the moment my shift ended. Like clockwork, each and every afternoon Perry and I would meet at the apartment by 5:15. Then, for most of the evening we would gorge ourselves on a crack cocaine buffet, followed by a decadent trip to the dope dessert bar.

On the subject of employment, my overall experience at Serendipity was much worse
and
much better than I could ever have imagined. On the upside, I developed some very close and long-lasting relationships with a few members of the wait staff. On a less enchanting note, I found Mr. Bruce to be offensive and Debbie an incredible bully as they both made it exceedingly clear that I wasn’t one of their favorites.

Among the wait staff Evan Bennett, Bill Sorvillo and Jeff Kirby soon became like brothers to me. Bill and Jeff were both completely straight; however, Jeff—a very talented actor—was never able to firmly establish his heterosexuality, as Serendipity’s ruling body on straightness refused to recognize the claim. Though he would never publicly admit it, he found it unsettling as some of the gay waiters made conspicuous remarks about what they believed to be his latent longing for a pair of testes on the chin.

One afternoon as our shift was ending he privately shared his
concerns with me. Although I personally knew that, without question, Jeff was totally straight—for some reason I could see why there were lingering doubts.

“Why’s that?” he asked me.

“I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “It’s just that sometimes…I don’t know, man, it just seems like every now and then you get a little too artsy-fartsy or something.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he responded. “
Everyone
here is artsy and I happen to be a heterosexual pig! I go through a different chick every week and for nothing other than to satisfy my own lustful urges.”

This was true, and in the wake was a trail of warm bodies to prove it.

“Listen,” I said. “The next time you do something especially gay I’ll be sure to point it out. OK?”

“I’d appreciate that. Now—I’m off to dance class!” he said as he pirouetted out the front door of the restaurant.

43

According to
Dictionary.com
, the definition of the word “serendipity” is:
“An aptitude for making fortunate discoveries accidentally”
or
“an instance of making such a discovery.”

While working at Serendipity, I personally made such a discovery. I discovered that being a heterosexual man drifting in a sea of homosexuality was not without its advantages. Of course, hitting on straights is seriously frowned upon by the gay community, but that didn’t prevent my co-workers from showering me with the same degree of attention that a straight man might bestow upon a woman he wanted, but knew he could never have.

I often found myself being spoiled by doting homos and must admit—
I milked it for all it was worth
. I also began to question some of the wisdom behind the feminist movement. Whether my sidework involved maintaining the ice cream cooler, preparing condiments or setting tables—on most days I would arrive at the restaurant to find the bulk of it already completed.
Fuck holding the door open!
If you
wanna burp the worm while I step into my uniform—THEN GET TO IT, MAN!!!
Just drain the coleslaw for me…OK?

One afternoon in June as we awaited the lunch rush, Ricky Diaz—a chubby but loveable queer—was polishing my shoes (which were still on my feet) when Andy Hupperts—Serendipity’s host and resident closet-case—had entered the kitchen. Andy was, of course, the subject of great derision as he refused to come to terms with his occasional but overtly gay tendencies, which only added fuel to the speculative fire. And although the committee could be harsh and not always correct when assessing sexual orientations, as far as Andy was concerned they were spot-on. For the most part, Andy was able to subdue any openly homosexual displays; however, he harbored a passion for designer clothing that couldn’t be suppressed. Whenever a conversation about fashion erupted Andy was on it, and if the discussion involved one of his
favorite
designers he’d immediately launch into a gushing review of their latest offerings.

Initially, besides the fact that his façade of straightness prevented him from doing my sidework, I bore no ill will toward Andy. But unfortunately, by this point he’d become a real pain in my ass and quite frankly, a bit of a threat. Although I had yet to tell anyone in the restaurant about my drug habit, Andy would regularly drop little hints that suggested he knew something he shouldn’t. I assumed that in the past he’d been a junky himself, or had an intimate experience with one which provided some insights. Then again, it also could have been the tiny bruises dotting my left arm which usually went unnoticed by most. Regardless of the cause, Andy soon became a constant source of commentary that I found invasive and unsettling.

“Craig, you have a table,” he said as I noticed that my Doc Martens were shining like diamonds.

“Thanks.”

“You don’t look so hot,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, not really. I’m just feeling a little under the weather today,” I said like I did every other time he asked me the same, fucking, question.

“You look a little underweight,” he went on. “Sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“No, Andy!” I said with obvious annoyance. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Relax,” he said. “It’s just that for a young guy you seem really unhealthy.”

“That’s alright, Andy. For a straight guy you seem really obsessed with Versace.”

He was on the brink of tears.

“You have a table,” he said again and then ran away.

I exited the kitchen and found a middle-aged woman sitting in my station with two spoiled brats. The kids ordered burgers and after about 20 minutes of careful consideration, mom settled on the barbecued chicken casserole. When the food was ready, Aaron—the daytime cook—put the order in the window and I immediately brought it out to the table. Not more than a minute passed before I was back at the table dealing with a dissatisfied customer.

“What the hell is this?!?” she asked, referring to a cigarette butt that had apparently been fished-out of her casserole.

This certainly wouldn’t qualify as a serendipitous discovery
.

“Oh…” I said. “That shouldn’t be in there.”

She then stood up, gathered her brats, and stormed out of the restaurant.

44

New York City summers suck, especially in Manhattan. The intense heat and humidity become trapped within its concrete confines, providing natives and tourists with a vague idea of what it must be like to live in an oven that hasn’t been cleaned for a century. To make matters worse our apartment had no air conditioning, which would have been troublesome each night had I not been so completely wasted and oblivious to my surroundings. Of course, the heat had inspired Perry to rekindle his relationship with Gina and the centrally air-conditioned apartment she lived in. So now more often than not I found myself alone, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor like a wayward Indian who had emptied the peace from his pipe to fill it with crack.

One unpleasant side effect of my escalated crack-smoking was an inability to resist picking at my face, as the increased toxins entering my body resulted in the occasional blemish. On one particularly
sweaty evening spent smoking rocks and shooting dope, I noticed what felt like a pimple erupting on—of all places—the very tip of my nose.

I knew full well that picking on a zit would do nothing to camouflage it, and would only cause it to be redder and more pronounced. But the junky in me was convinced that by applying just the right amount of pressure, I’d be able to expel the puss (which had yet to even form) without causing a great deal of damage. Unfortunately, I was so high that I completely lost track of time and space and before I knew it, I was the proud owner of a swollen, bloody, protrusion which at one time was my nose.