Needle (3 page)

For a while it worked. As a teenager I was firmly against smoking pot or any other drug use for that matter, with the one exception being that of alcohol which I would only occasionally indulge in. Though often unsaid, as long as I didn’t overdo it, a little booze every now and again seemed perfectly acceptable to almost everyone around me. In fact, on at least one occasion, even my crazy mother was aware of the fact that I had come home a little drunk but chose to overlook it with a lighthearted chuckle as though it was a rite of passage. But there would be no
real
drugs for me or any of my friends, by God—else they would suffer the lecture. I simply drew the line.

Year after year JUST SAY NO remained the maxim, and though it has assumed a variety of different appearances since its inception, the country’s drug education is still riddled with some of the same shortcomings, inconsistencies and misinformation—as well as a lethal lack of understanding when it comes to adolescent psychology. And if there
was
an external factor that contributed to my heroin addiction, it was this very,
ask no questions and just say no
curriculum.

I don’t blame marijuana for my troubles with heroin. I don’t believe that pot—
in and of itself—is
a “gateway” to harder, more lethal drug use. From an informed perspective, there really is no reasonable segue between taking a few hits off a joint and sticking a needle in your arm, and for me personally—a little honesty and clarification would have gone a lot further than simply being conditioned to JUST SAY NO.

Once I noticed that murdering those nearest and dearest was just about last on my
Things To Do While Stoned
list I began to question the experts. And when I realized that pot was less expensive than alcohol, didn’t make me sick or suffer from any hangover-related symptoms, and didn’t generate a physical or psychological craving for more I concluded that federal legislation was at least partially driven by special interests. At that point the conspiracy theory was officially set in motion as I decided that JUST SAY NO TO DRUGS, actually meant JUST SAY NO TO
ILLLEGAL
DRUGS. But by exclusion, it apparently also meant JUST SAY YES to alcohol, cigarettes and pharmaceuticals.

During my freshman year at Bethany College in West Virginia I smoked a lot of pot and can honestly say that the only damage I ever did was to a box of Bugles. I never drove into a school bus or got into a barroom brawl when I was stoned. In fact, I recall experiencing nothing other than enjoyable and enlightening moments, except when I was once convinced that my feet were too big for my body.

This period marks a pivotal, yet dangerous point in the formulation of my own, personal, drug policy. It was a policy anchored in unrestricted experimentation, born from an incomplete education, and one which I would mistakenly attempt to share with others. Thankfully, none of those whom I shared my revelations with are still using and again, a little bit of honesty might have made a big difference.

Of course, I now realize it isn’t as black and white as I’d originally thought and there are many shades of gray that I completely missed—
but so did Nancy and I feel that hers was the graver transgression
. Had the JUST SAY NO campaign been a little more detailed, informative and truthful, and drawn a distinction between marijuana and other drugs like heroin and cocaine—I might not have ended up so determined to uncover the facts for myself.

5

After graduating from Binghamton University in June of 1990, I immediately moved into Manhattan with Helmer. Troy and I had first met Helmer Pelaez in 1983 when his older sister, Virginia, began dating Eric. Eric and Virginia were eventually married, while their siblings and I remained virtually inseparable until we each went off to college in August of 1986.

After a brief, post-collegiate reunion, Troy relocated to Paris and Helmer and I decided to share a small studio apartment on East 80
^th
Street between Central Park and Madison Avenue, literally a stone’s throw from the Metropolitan Museum. From there with a degree in hand, I focused on getting my foot in the door of an advertising agency as I thought it might be a good outlet for me. In retrospect, I can see the desire was largely a passionless one. I would eventually secure a position at an agency as a glorified receptionist, but in the meantime I was bartending at Oscar’s Chop House on Third Avenue while Helmer was managing The Chess Shop in the West Village.

Oscar’s was my first exposure to the strange drama and turbulence that exists within so many New York City restaurants, and where I first met Perry. He was employed there as a waiter at the time, and one evening while I was making a round of drinks he posed a question:

“So what do
you
do?”

“I’m trying to get into advertising,” I answered in between Martinis.

“Yeah, sure…but what do you
do
?”

At that time in New York City, especially Manhattan, I would estimate that approximately 90% of all restaurant staffs were comprised of struggling artists schlepping food to pay the bills. They were actors, writers, and musicians mostly—so what he really meant was,
“What would you
like
to do?”

Professing a desire for a future in advertising was a bit on the sacrilegious side, and yuppie wannabees were often frowned upon by Manhattan waiters, waitresses and bartenders—as the yearning to work for a monolithic corporate entity was somehow offensive to the sensibilities of an artist. Of course, such aspirations were relatively rare in Manhattan restaurants, as the bearers of these less sensational ambitions usually suffered through limited service-industry stints. In
fact, aspiring yuppies would often achieve their career goals rapidly and in stark contrast to more artistically inclined co-workers, who would continue doling out burgers until that big break finally arrived—or they got too old, too tired, or were simply beaten down by rejection. But regardless, Perry didn’t seem to believe my answer, or it was insufficient in some other way.

“Well I mean, do you write or sing or anything?” he pressed.

I could have, and probably should have said “No” and it might very well have ended there. But in college I
had
, in fact, written quite a few songs with a fellow student named Matthew Anson, and tentative plans had been made to record a demo tape. I say “tentative” because for quite a while I harbored an incredible reluctance to include myself in the legions of starving artists that saturated the city. Although I actually defined myself through the songs I was writing and felt that Matt was about the greatest guitarist I’d ever heard, at least in the beginning I simply refused to cater to any unrealistic aspirations of fame and fortune. As far as I was concerned, I was bartending because I couldn’t pound out 60 words-per-minute and hadn’t yet come up with a way to cheat on the typing test. At this juncture music was only something that I
might
dabble in on the side, just to see what
might
happen.

“Well actually,” I said, “I wrote a bunch of songs with a guy at school. Eventually we might try to record them.”

That was all I needed to say. From that point on, without hearing any of the music, Perry continued to push the matter until he somehow got me to take it and him seriously.

Perry Ward was an interesting fellow. In fact, “Perry” is actually short for Paris, and for some reason I’ve always found that vaguely obnoxious. Already once married and divorced, he had first relocated to Ohio after fleeing his childhood home in Florida. It was in Florida where his mother, Felicia, was able to leave him with his grandparents—but only on the condition that she waive her parental rights and allow him to be adopted by them. This permitted Felicia to relocate to New York and pursue her dream of becoming an actress, while still being able to maintain some semblance of a relationship, albeit a distant one, with her son. And then, like his mother, Paris Ward eventually made his way to the big city to become a star.

6

Using heroin for the first time that summer was a complete accident. I swear. It was ultimately fated one evening when Perry’s girlfriend, Shannon Whirry—the now, well known erotic movie maven—decided not to go grocery shopping and instead order dinner in. Had she gone shopping and been absent during the critical communication I might never have tried heroin. But she didn’t, she wasn’t, and I did. It was all pure chance, right from the very beginning.

That same day Troy was back in town and to commemorate his return, I was bound and determined to score a bag of weed. At the time, however, this was easier said than done as Washington Square Park had been overrun by a crew of morally bankrupt drug dealers peddling oregano and I no longer had a reliable source. Fortunately, I thought Perry would be able to help with the search even though, perhaps ironically, Shannon was a tad on the puritanical side. Even
cigarette
smoking was frowned upon and Perry had abandoned both habits to ensure unfettered booby access.
The man did have his priorities
. Regardless, I picked up the phone and called to ask if he knew where I could get my hands on a bag of dope.

“A bag of what?!?” he replied, sounding more than a bit surprised by my question.

“Dope!” I responded impatiently. “Can you get any?”

“Wait a minute…What do you mean?”

I tried to be more specific:

“Hey moron, I wanna get high!”

“Yeah, Craig. I
know
…but I’m not sure what you mean. Say it again.”

At that point I realized my friend was apparently unable to speak freely. Shannon would obviously disapprove of Perry being involved in a drug transaction, and based on the way he was behaving I assumed she was in close proximity. What I didn’t understand was why my friend should have suddenly become stupid. My question was a fairly pointed one, requiring nothing more than a yea or a nay.

“Listen. I don’t know what your problem is, but Troy’s in town and I wanna get fucked up. Pick up a bag of dope if you can find one and come over. Goodbye.”

A few hours later he showed up.

Though my open-minded attitude and opinions regarding illegal drug use should have quelled any shock to my system, seeing heroin for the first time made a significant impact. Even I’d considered that this might be the one drug to avoid, and my renegade experimentalism and impenetrable cockiness couldn’t prevent me from stepping back for a moment.

“ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?!?” I shouted as he presented me with a tiny, folded, glassine envelope. “You know, Perry, I ask you to do a simple thing and you fuck it all up! All I wanted was some dope!!”

“Heroin
is
dope,” he pointed out.

(Oh)

Alas, my real-life drug education was finally afoot.

“Don’t worry about it. I knew you were a little confused, so I also picked up a bag of weed—
just in case
,” he added, impressed with himself for covering all the bases.

Ignoring his resourcefulness I went on a mini-tirade:

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING!!!? THIS SHIT IS DEADLY, MAN, DEADLY! WHADDAYA THINK ALL THE STREET URCHINS ARE STRUNG OUT ON?!! CHRIST, PERRY!! I CAN’T EVEN
BELIEVE
YOU BROUGHT THIS SHIT INTO MY APARTMENT!!! ISN’T MY LIFE FUCKED UP ENOUGH ALREADY???! WELL??!! ISN’T IT?!!!…
OK, give me some.”

Don’t get me wrong. I was totally shocked and even a little horrified at the sight of a bag of heroin sitting on my coffee table. That’s the truth. In fact, my first impulse was to throw it away and light up a joint. But then, somewhere in the back of my mind I was thinking,
When the fuck am I ever gonna see
this
shit again?

Perry emptied the contents of the little bag on to a notebook. It seemed paltry. He then divided the powder into two lines. Before I had a chance to ask him how to smoke it he rolled-up a dollar bill and snorted a line. I later learned that this was hardly Perry’s maiden voyage down heroin alley. Although I didn’t know it at the time, Perry—almost three years my senior—had dabbled with the drug before in California, though supposedly not for any significant length of time.

After he finished his line it was my turn. I had never snorted anything before, but I lowered my head and inhaled deeply. The heroin burned my nasal passages and tasted like shit, and at first I
didn’t feel anything other than a craving for nicotine. The closest place to buy cigarettes at that hour was from a machine at the Madison Pub, so we left my apartment and made our way to the little bar near the corner of 80
^th
Street. Literally, as I opened the door to the establishment I began to feel the effects of the heroin.

Ah yes, here it comes now—that false sense of well being I’ve heard so much about
.

A euphoric transformation came over me that began in my head and crept downward to the very tips of my toes. I liked it. I liked it
a lot
. Of course, this was only the tip of the iceberg as the metamorphosis would eventually prove itself to be much more consuming and enduring than I had at first realized.

7

I met Matthew Anson during my freshman year at Bethany College. He was from the Bronx and had been dating my friend, Maggie, whom I had a crush on. Of course, Maggie did have eleven toes—but that wasn’t the only reason I loved her. Regardless, my feelings went unrequited; however, I did eventually spark-up a friendship with Matt and we continued to stay in touch even after I transferred to Binghamton.

Matt was an incredibly gifted guitarist. His riffs and chord progressions were infectious, and I credit his greatness as the catalyst for helping me discover my own talent. Although my guitar playing remained limited, I realized it could completely stagnate as long as Matt continued to crank out the grooves. As a result, I mainly restricted myself to lyrics and lyrical melodies which were areas I seemed to excel in.

Giving in to Perry’s unbridled enthusiasm and to a certain degree, allowing him to infect
me
with it, I finally arranged for the three of us to meet at my apartment during the middle of August. After Matt and I ran through a few of our old songs, Perry’s enthusiasm became greater than ever and the three of us decided to make a go of it. From that moment on, Perry’s reaction to the music and belief that he was in
on something truly special remained the driving force in the band. He was sure he’d hitched his wagon to a galactic train, bound for places that neither he—nor even his mother had ever dreamed of. In a way he was right.