Needle (28 page)

“So, Perry—what’s it gonna be?” asked Dr. Wendel who for days had been desperately trying to persuade him to swear off heroin, and take the synthetic option which would likely spare him from having to undergo future procedures. Of course, the notion of wasting a perfectly healthy donor valve on a junky who’d probably just fuck it up anyway, must have raised some ethical questions for the doctor as well. “You are going to quit using…aren’t you?”

“Of course (not),” Perry said. “But just out of curiosity: Let’s say I was to choose the donor valve and then for some reason had a relapse. What would happen?”

“There’d be an increased likelihood of a recurring infection, which could result in vegetation entering your bloodstream followed by a major stroke, possibly a heart attack, and then another valve replacement.
Trust me
. Your best option is to quit using and choose the synthetic valve. If you stay clean and take the blood thinners it’ll probably last forever.”

“OK, OK, I know. But if I chose the donor valve and then had a relapse, would I die?”

“Well like I just said, Perry, you could have a stroke, and yes, as a potential candidate for a heart attack and a second heart surgery you would ultimately be putting yourself in—.”

“Yes, I know—but could I immediately drop dead like I might with the synthetic valve?” Perry interrupted, finally cutting to the chase.

“In the event of a relapse the donor valve would allow vegetation to pass through without shutting down, so in that situation
immediate
death is unlikely but—”

“I’ll take the donor valve.”

As far as the doctor was concerned, for someone with Perry’s obvious inclinations it was ultimately a choice between life or death, but as far as Perry was concerned, it was merely a choice between life—
or life without heroin
.

“Alright Mr. Ward,” Dr. Wendel said as he heaved a great sigh
and then left the room, fully disenchanted by Perry’s selection criteria.

“Maybe you should reconsider your options,” I suggested carefully, as Perry was not one to be told what to do.

“Let me worry about it,” he said.

“Well then you better quit poking holes in yourself.”

“Alright, I will.”

No he wouldn’t. Perry was going to do what Perry was going to do. If you tried to suggest otherwise, he would tell you exactly what he thought you wanted to hear—and if that didn’t work he’d tell you to fuck yourself.

“Where’s my heroin?” he asked.

Just as I was handing over the dope, Gina walked in.

“Oh Christ!!!” she said as she saw the transfer. “Is that a bag of heroin?!?”

“No,” Perry said.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Yes.”

“And what the fuck are
you
doing here?” she said to me.

“I’m always here.”

“No doubt,” she said. “You’re the reason
he’s
here.”

In recent months Gina, as well as Felicia, had convinced herself that I was the cause of Perry’s drug problem. Yes, it was all painfully ironic, and if I gave a shit about what either of them thought I might have been offended. Admittedly, I was bringing Perry drugs while he was is the hospital suffering from a condition brought on by the very substance I was delivering; however, I knew that if I didn’t he’d simply escape and get it himself. And let’s not forget, I was also a junky and the antibiotic IV rationale still sounded like a pretty good one to me.

“Go away,” Perry said to her on my behalf.

“Go away?” Gina said in a shocked voice. “Do you actually think I’m the only one who feels this way? Your mother doesn’t want Craig around you either.”

“I’m 28 years old and my mother’s a cunt.”

“Actually, they’re both cunts.”

“Fuck you,” Gina mentioned to me and then continued on with Perry. “Look. I know you two are friends, Perry, but he’s always talking you into getting high.”

That was like saying the Jews were always talking Hitler into getting them dead.

“I’ve already told you about a billion fucking times,
I
turned
him
on to dope and you wanna know something? My habit is
twice
as big as his,” Perry said.

“At least,” I threw in my two cents.

“I don’t care,” Gina said. “He’s not my problem—
you are
. I don’t want you around him anymore aside from the studio. OK?”

“OK.”

54

“Uh-uh. No fucking way! I simply refuse. Go ahead and see what happens, you shithead motherfucker! You’ll be amazed. I swear to God, the moment you stick me in there I’ll shrivel up into nothing before you ever get a chance to close the deal. Fuck you, dude. I don’t care; I’m not going into that fucked-up place. You know what goes on in there and you’re
still
gonna go through with it, aren’t you? OK smart guy,
try it!
You college boys are all the same. You think you’re all so smart with your fucking
procedures
.”

###

Three days after surgery, Perry was removed from intensive care and returned to his room to begin the recovery process. That day after I got out of work, Matt and I headed to the hospital bearing the usual gifts, but Perry was so wasted from the morphine drip that there was no need to hand over the heroin.

“Then can I have it?” Matt asked me.

“Of course you can’t.”

Although the surgery was a success, Perry looked like death. He was attached to a variety of devices and drips, had no color in his face, and appeared extremely frail. We hung around for about an hour filling him in on the less than stellar, first-day recording details when Dr. Wendel entered the room. It was the first time he’d seen Perry since sewing him shut.

“How are you feeling today, my boy?” Dr. Wendel asked his
patient.

“Pretty good, I guess.”

“The surgery went incredibly well, but we couldn’t use the donor’s valve,” the doctor explained.

“What happened?!” Perry asked, fearing a metal valve and the end of life as he knew it.

“I’m not exactly sure. The valve seemed perfectly alright after the harvesting procedure, but during surgery it shriveled up into nothing before I ever got a chance to close the deal. Unfortunately, the other donor options were too small to plug the gap, so I had to use something else.”

“So you put a metal valve in me?!” Perry cried out as the tears began to roll.

“No, I put a pig’s valve in you,” Dr. Wendel said with a smile. “They’re used all the time and it was the only other option, especially since you didn’t want any part of the synthetic replacement.”

Perry looked on in confused silence—but I had so many things I wanted to say.

“You should have nothing to worry about,” the doctor went on. “Your body accepted the pig’s valve without any complications, and for some reason it turned out to be a much better match than the donor’s.”

I covered my mouth with both hands and held on tight.

“As a matter of fact,” the surgeon continued, “I’ve never seen that happen before with a healthy human valve, the way it just deteriorated mid-surgery. I was really amazed. But that pig valve was something else, I tell ya! It took to your heart like a, like a—”

“Like a newborn takes to its momma’s titty?” I suggested.

“No, not exactly,” said the doctor, a bit dismissively.

“Like a long-lost baby chick at last returning to the brood?” I tried again.

“Perry,” said the doctor who was now completely ignoring me, “for about a billion reasons it’s really important that you quit using. And whatever you do, you’re never,
ever
going to stick yourself with a needle again. Right?!?!”

“Right!”

Wrong!

55

Perry was supposed to remain in the hospital for 28 days recovering from heart surgery and endocarditis, brought on by the use of dirty needles and unsanitary street drugs.

“Where’s my dope?” he asked me on day ten.

At some point after surgery and in accordance with pain management procedures, his morphine was gradually being reduced in order to prevent, ironically, an addiction to opiates. Unfortunately, the greater irony was that Perry, who had managed to maintain a large habit and complete numbness during the pain-free weeks prior to surgery, immediately began to suffer from withdrawal symptoms afterwards as he was slowly being weaned off his medication.

“This can’t be a good thing,” I said as I handed him the heroin.

“It doesn’t matter,” he responded, referring to the massive dose of antibiotics he was now being given to prevent post-operative infections. “Besides, I’m still recovering from surgery and I’m not healthy enough to go through withdrawals.”

So, every day after work I would continue to score for both of us and then deliver Perry’s portion to the hospital. Afterwards, I would meet Matt at the studio where relatively little would be accomplished. In fact, during Perry’s recuperation only three rhythm guitars were recorded to click tracks, though we did manage to completely record the music for a song called “Araby.”

Although Chris was a vast improvement from Pat, the CD had to be perfect and it quickly became apparent that we would eventually need the services of a second drummer, at least for some tracks. And although I was willing to pick up some of the organizational slack resulting from Perry’s absence, I would have no part of recruiting musicians. Consequently, I decided to suspend recordings until Perry was fully recovered, which probably wouldn’t be until the end of January.

In the meantime, Matt was driving me out of my mind. He did nothing but sit on the couch, watch television, and sweat as withdrawals erupted while he waited for me to return home from work.

“Matt,” I said to him as I handed over his daily feeding. “Rent is coming up. When are you getting paid?”

“Oh, any day now.”

For some reason I didn’t believe him. He already owed me for December’s rent—not to mention December’s drugs and alcohol—and January was just around the corner.

On Christmas Eve I received a call at Serendipity from none other than The Good Detective himself.

“You know, Craig, I’m really pissed at Matt,” he told me. “But I still don’t like what you’re doing to him.”

“I’m giving him a place to live,” I said, straining to be as polite as possible.

“That’s only because you’re using him.”

At that point my politeness flew right the fuck out the window.

“You know, you’re right. If he wasn’t attached to my couch, I don’t know what the fuck I’d do. And by the way, your son owes me at least $350 for rent and bills,” I said, neglecting to mention approximately $400 for heroin, weed, and Old English 800.

I was offended to say the least, and as I thought about the rising debt, the upcoming rent, and the fact that I seemed to be everybody’s favorite scapegoat I became increasingly angry.

“And,” I added, “if the lazy fucker doesn’t come up with some money pretty soon, I’m gonna kick him off my couch and into the street.”

“Go ahead,” said The Good Detective.

Go ahead?
Apparently I needed to crank it up a notch.

“First though, I’ll be sure to inform the Board of Education that they have a junky teaching in the Bronx.”

Apparently, a homeless son was one thing but a jobless son was quite another, because when I returned to the apartment Matt was gone and in his place was an envelope containing exactly $350.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, I would never see Matthew Anson again.

56

On December 26
^th
I arrived at Serendipity for work, and upon perusal of the upcoming week’s schedule I noticed I’d been given only a single shift. Apparently, a former employee and one of Debbie’s favorite waiters was back in town and needed a job. I believe the pared-down schedule was part of a plan hatched by Debbie to encourage my
voluntary
departure, which would not only provide the necessary vacancy—but also eliminate the obligation of having to dole-out unemployment benefits.
It worked like a charm
.

Rent was due in about a week and I was suddenly unemployed. Although I still had Matt’s $350 and about $500 in student loans stashed away, given the job situation I felt the funds were better left for drugs and to a lesser extent food, rather than being pissed away on January’s rent. Besides, Perry, who was broke and still in the hospital recovering from surgery, had made it clear that he’d soon be heading directly to Gina’s apartment to ride the gravy train for as long as he could keep her running, which left me with no option other than to vacate the apartment as I would never be able to afford it alone.

Fortunately, losing my apartment
and
job during the height of the holiday season stimulated a genuine concern for my well being. As a result, virtually every waiter at Serendipity offered me a place to stay until I was able to resettle myself. Ultimately, I accepted Jeff’s invitation as we had become fairly good friends and shared some interesting things in common. Though Jeff was an actor, he was also from Queens which was unusual as the starving artist sect consisted of people mostly hailing from places other than New York. I had also become quite affected by not only the passion he displayed for his craft, but the mastery with which he executed it and to this day I credit him with being my greatest artistic inspiration. Jeff was one of the only actors I’ve ever known to be completely unconcerned with the prospect of fame or fortune. He was in it purely for the love of the theater, and for that I held him in extremely high regard. But most importantly, I found his invitation to be specifically appealing because by now, Jeff was one of the few individuals who knew I was a dope fiend.

Jeff’s apartment was a few blocks away from Central Park, and not far from Bloomingdales. Besides the prime location, he was lucky
enough to have inherited the rent-controlled lease from his deceased father who held it for close to 30 years. As a result, the cost of his split-room studio near Manhattan’s Gold Coast was a mere $140 per month, while at the same time similar apartments in the area fetched close to 1500. Due to the ridiculously inexpensive rent, Jeff and his unnamed, free-ranging pet toad lived very comfortable lives together.