Needle (30 page)

“Shit…Alright,” Perry said. “I’ll run upstairs to get some cash.”

“Please don’t leave me here alone. I’m beginning to trip.”

“Don’t be such a pussy. I’ll be right back.”

He then left me standing in line at Baskin Robbins surrounded by screaming kids, a pink and brown motif, and 31 shades of ice cream that were now fusing into one. I knew that a very bad trip was on the way and I started getting upset.

Fucking asshole! Leaves me standing here by myself, and I don’t even want any ice cream. Who the fuck eats ice cream on acid anyway? And on dope too! In January!! I’ll bet right now I’m the only idiot in the world that’s fucked up, tripping balls, and waiting in line for ice cream at a Baskin Robbins in the middle of the winter. There are Baskin Robbins’ all over the world—aren’t there?

I wasn’t sure.

“Hey lady—are there Baskin Robbins’ all over the world?” I asked a woman behind me.

“All over the
universe
, I think,” she said.

Haaa! She must be high. But that would be cool, wouldn’t it? “31 Flavors on 31 Planets.” I should’ve been an advertising executive. I
would’ve
been if it wasn’t for Judy. No, I wouldn’t have. Ahh, but fuck her anyway. She’s probably telling Gail that she was a fool for ever
getting involved with me. And Venus…That bitch! Poor Becky. Poor, poor, Becky. I miss that stupid dog. Shit, I almost died for her. I’m gonna get that dog back someday. No, I’m not. Becky’s probably happy now. No, she isn’t. She deserves to be happy, though—she was such a good little puppy. I really miss her—but fuck it. I don’t have time for a dog anymore because I’m gonna be a rock star. Perry said so. Hey! Where the fuck
is
Perry? Shit! He’s been gone for a while. Maybe he had a heart attack and died. I should try to find him. But I’m so fucked up! I can barely see straight. I can barely see at all. Huh, what?

“Next customer, please.”

Somehow, seemingly in the blink of an eye, I had been transported to the very front of the line. Confronted by a pimply-faced kid wearing a brown visor and a pink and brown striped shirt, I suddenly realized I had no idea where I was or what the fuck I was supposed to be doing.

“How can I help you, sir?” the polite young man asked me.

“HEY!!! You need to fucking relax, OK???!!!” I demanded, before bolting out of the store and wondering if I was in trouble.

I suddenly found myself roaming up and down First Avenue, completely confused with one eye closed and the other half-opened.

“Hey, are you OK? Are you OK?” I heard from indiscriminate voices that seemed to be coming from nowhere. Then, I felt a firm grasp on my shoulder.

That’s it. I’m going to jail
.

“Hey asshole!!! I want my fucking waffle cone!”

58

By the end of January, although Perry had returned to work—I was still jobless, rapidly running out of money, and convinced that Rudy Giuliani was the devil incarnate. In fact, the lengths we would go to score were becoming more ridiculous with every passing week, as the out of shape, uniformed cops that pretended to patrol the drug infested areas of Manhattan were mostly replaced by undercover,
steroid-injecting psychopaths that had joined the police because they were too unstable for the marines. We were definitely in need of a weapon to assist us in the war against the war on drugs. Little did we know, that weapon would come on
wheels
.

On January 29
^th
we were scheduled to resume recording efforts after almost six weeks of inactivity. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for the upcoming session was dampened by the fact that Chris was still missing the point musically, and I had a feeling that little to nothing would be accomplished.

Under normal conditions, drums and bass are the very first tracks to be recorded; however, due to Chris’ difficulties, only one of the songs had been performed with a rhythm section. Beyond that, Matt managed to record three rhythm guitars to click tracks, but there was some question as to whether or not the respective drum and bass lines could be added later—in this unconventional, reversed-recording order.

“When we get inside let’s try ‘Sitting in the Sky,’” Perry suggested. He seemed to think that this particular song was tailor made for Chris’ drumming style; however, I still had my doubts.

“Listen, I really like Chris and he’s a great drummer,” I said. “But eventually we’re gonna have to find somebody else to help out on a few of the songs. Trust me. His range is a little limited.”

We were due at Fast Trax by 8 p.m., but with dopesickness on the horizon Perry first needed to score or else he didn’t think he would survive the session.

We made the usual stops throughout the East Village, but there was no one selling anything and if they were, they were getting busted. As a matter of fact, just after spotting a dealer operating on Avenue C, three roid-raging cops came out of nowhere and threw him against a wall. Things were becoming
surreal
. One day we would have no trouble scoring and on the next it would seem as though the same area had never been anything other than a completely drug-free zone.

“You wanna try uptown?” I suggested.

“We don’t have time for that. I’m gonna look for Winston.”

Although I hadn’t met him prior to this point, I’d heard Perry mention Winston’s name on several occasions ever since they first met at the Whitehouse Hotel. Winston was a middle-aged gypsy cab driver who, for the past 20 years, had supported his sizeable habit by stealing fares from yellow taxis in Manhattan. What made Winston a
valuable asset was that for the price of a bag, he would transport junkies to the closest and safest place to score before returning them to whatever rock they crawled out from under. It was a pretty good deal, especially if your objective was to buy drugs and not get busted in the process because Winston was nothing if not cautious. Although getting arrested is always traumatic, for Winston it would be truly disastrous because not only did he lack the proper insurance and permits to operate a taxi—
he didn’t even have a fucking driver’s license
. As a result, in the event of a police encounter Winston would end up in jail and his 20-year-old, emissions-failing cab would end up permanently impounded. That would effectively end life as he knew it because for all intents and purposes, Winston
lived
in his cab. With the exception of two nights a week when he checked-in to the Whitehouse for a shower—Winston ate, drank, slept, scored, fixed, and booted in his cab, all while maintaining a semi-respectable front transporting passengers around Manhattan.

Perry and I headed west on Houston until we came to a navy blue sedan sitting on the corner of Essex Street, where a hippyish-looking man wearing sunglasses and a beret was nodding off at the steering wheel.

“Winston!” Perry greeted the cabbie, rousing him from his stupor.

“What’s up, my brother?” replied Winston as he emerged from his nod.

“Hey Winston, this is Craig.”

“What’s up, my other brother?” the wasted cabbie said as he held out his hand.

“Man, I’m glad we found you,” Perry said. “The police are everywhere. We were about a minute away from getting busted ourselves.”

“Sometimes it can be difficult to know where it is hot, and where it is not.”

“Well then why don’t you show us,” Perry suggested as we climbed into the back seat of the cab.

Although I considered myself well informed with regard to heroin spots in lower Manhattan, I was very much mistaken. Winston must have scrutinized over a dozen locations that were previously unknown to me as he searched high and low for a safe place to score.

“How about here?” Perry suggested as we passed a familiar spot near Delancey Street that seemed to be police-free.

“No way,” Winston replied. “Something’s going down…I know
it. I can almost
smell
the little piggies.”

At first we were unaware of the cause for his concern but sure enough, as we turned the corner we spotted two men that were too white, too big, and too wholesome-looking to be anything other than a couple of narcs. Winston had been a junky for so long that he’d developed a sixth sense for detecting police activity by somehow gauging the energy in the street.

Eventually we ended up at the corner of Rivington and Clinton Streets, a couple of blocks south of Houston. Winston then illegally parked the cab and immediately ran into what
appeared
to be a women’s clothing boutique on Clinton. Costume jewelry and handbags sat on display in the store’s window, and above the merchandise hung a black sign with the name, “Angelina’s” written in shiny gold lettering. We were waiting in the car for less than a minute when Winston returned with a hairclip in one hand and a bundle of dope in the other.

“Where do you guys wanna go?” Winston asked as he then put the car in drive and handed over our share of the treasure.

“Could you bring us up to 28
^th
and Eighth?” Perry asked.

“No problem,” he said, and then made a quick left onto Rivington while fixing his dope and dismissing stop signs as suggestions.

Always the consummate host, Winston soon noticed we weren’t indulging and offered us each a fresh set of works.

“No thanks,” I said. “We’re gonna wait until we get to the studio.”

“Groovy, brother.”

As we approached Allen Street the cabbie made a sharp right and the car fishtailed, clipping the back bumper of a
real
cab and subjecting it to a 360 degree spinout in the middle of the intersection.

“Shit—that was fuckin’ close,” Winston said, and at once stumbled upon a whole new dimension of adjective. He then crossed Houston and sped up First Avenue rolling through red lights as he tapped a vein.

My heart was pounding out of my chest. I was amazed how someone could exercise such extreme caution while buying heroin—and then go on to commit a multitude of traffic violations with a needle sticking out of his arm.

As he made a 50 mile-per-hour left turn onto 23
^rd
Street I could actually smell burnt rubber.

“At best, we die. At worst we go to jail,” said Perry.

Somehow we arrived at the studio in one piece and as Winston
popped the trunk, Perry retrieved his guitar.

“Thanks for the dope, brother,” Winston said to me as I exited the car.

“No problem, brother. Thanks for the brush with death.”

We went upstairs to Fast Trax and before saying anything to anyone, Perry and I locked ourselves in the bathroom to get off. By the time we made our presences known we were already an hour late, but otherwise—fucked up and ready for business.

Although only one song was attempted, the session ended up being our most productive thus far. Perry recorded the rhythm guitar track for “Sitting in the Sky,” I recorded the vocal, and Chris put down a solid groove which allowed Justin to do the same. Furthermore, Leslie came up with a riveting lead which made Matt’s unreliability somewhat less of an issue. At last, one of our songs was almost completely recorded. Of course, it was just a small step, but at least a step in the right direction.

59

In early February we learned from Katrina that Matt had finally lost his teaching job. Interestingly enough, however, he lost the job not long after moving in with me and had just managed to keep it a secret. Apparently, his poor attendance record and proclivity for ending up in the emergency room had finally taken its toll on somebody’s patience.

By the middle of the month, Perry was once again ousted by Gina who had become disgusted with his inability to comply with the medical advice intended to save his life. Within a week, however, he found a new living arrangement and then called to share the news.

“Hey, I found us a place to live.”

“Where?” I asked.

“On 51
^st
Street between Eighth and Ninth.”

That
couldn’t be good.

“How much?”

“A hundred bucks a week,” he told me.

“That sounds like a very hotelish-sounding price to me, Perry, and I can’t be living in a hotel. My life is fucked-up enough. It’s not good for my self-esteem.”

“Then tell your self-esteem to come up with some fucking money.”

“Listen—I’m not living in a crackhead hotel and sharing a bathroom with 200 homeless drug addicts.”

“It’s not like the Whitehouse,” he tried to reassure me. “They have private bathrooms.”

Within a few days I would agree to join Perry at the Midtown Hotel, but not before successfully ejecting Elliot from Jeff’s apartment by simply leaving a bloody syringe next to his toothbrush.
Mission accomplished;
however, I was still reluctant to abandon my rent-free arrangement with Jeff, for what I knew was going to be a less than savory situation with Perry. Unfortunately, Perry needed a roommate and the CD had to be completed, so if moving into the hotel would bring our ultimate goal to fruition more quickly, then I would do whatever was required…as long as the room came equipped with one thing.

“Perry, you
are
sure about the bathroom—right?” I asked once more before officially giving in.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” he said.

But I
was
worried. I was worried about everything. I was also getting depressed as work on the CD was advancing at a snail’s pace and I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. We’d already been recording for two months and there was so much left to do, not the least of which was recruiting a second drummer as we’d discovered a few more chinks in Chris’ musical armor. But perhaps worst of all, I noticed a pattern developing as each new living arrangement was less desirable than the previous, and the one looming ahead sounded about a step above the Whitehouse. It ended up being exactly that, but in some ways it was actually
worse
.

The Whitehouse Hotel, though its guests were mostly homeless men and drug addicts, in some ways seemed like a halfway-house of sorts where behaviors and visitors were at least
partially
monitored. The Midtown, however, had a completely different energy about it. In fact, this shithole was
the wild fucking west
. Although many of its guests were drug dealers and users, most were hookers and pimps with clients in tow and nobody ever said a word about it.