Needle (32 page)

Once my face was peeled from the fence, Perry and I continued to be subjected to a very aggressive interrogation and a more thorough search right there on Houston Street. It was a tad humiliating but overall, it was definitely the most satisfying moment I’ve ever spent with the NYC Police Department. Once again, they demonstrated a shortsighted and bloodthirsty passion for busting addicts without considering the nature of the addiction—or that a junky might prioritize a bag of dope over an egg roll. Although they correctly assumed that we’d already purchased the heroin, they foolishly believed we’d still be in possession of it after leaving the establishment. Apparently, they may have overestimated a craving for Asian cuisine, which was really just a passing fancy brought on by the never-ending quest for a bathroom door that we could shut and tap a vein behind.

“Why the fuck did you assholes go into the restaurant?” asked the other cop.

Yes,
we
were the assholes, but they still couldn’t figure out why we went into the restaurant.

“It’s the egg rolls, man. It’s all about the egg rolls,” I told him.

“I’m not fucking around with you!” he said, as if the pattern of diamonds stamped on my face left any question about his level of seriousness. Actually though, by this point the cops were beyond serious; they were absolutely livid. It was bad enough that they’d already wasted an hour on a couple of dopeless junkies without an arrest warrant between them, but it was also becoming clear that the evidence they sought was now coursing through our veins.

Unfortunately, a third search of Perry did yield a used syringe, and the residual dope left in its chamber was enough to get him busted for possession. Thankfully, I had already discarded my own set of works in the bathroom at Ming’s.

I stood on the sidewalk and watched the police confiscate Perry’s fishnets, and then handcuff and load him onto a van filled with several other unfortunate souls. As a cop aggressively pushed him by the only open window facing me, he resisted for a moment—straining to rattle off one, last, desperate message:

“Craig! Call my mom. Tell her I’m not gonna be there for dinner tonight,” he shouted as the cop steadied himself, grabbed Perry by the neck, and then threw him into the back of the van.

Quite frankly, as delectable as dinner sounded, I doubt it was worth mentioning his mother in front of a van full of thugs, especially
since his fishnets had just been confiscated. Of course, I would do as he asked even though it was likely to put me in a very uncomfortable position. Perry’s mother not only hated me, but still held me responsible for her son’s health problems. Nonetheless, as soon as I found a payphone I summoned the courage and made the call. Fortunately, she wasn’t home so I left a message on her answering machine.

“Hey Felicia? Yeah, uhhh, this is Craig… How’s it going? Ummm, Perry got busted with a dirty syringe, so he won’t be making it over there for dinner tonight. But don’t worry—everything’s OK. He managed to scarf down an egg roll just before they got him. OK—talk to you later. Bye.”

63

By the end of May, Perry completed his community service just two days before he managed to get busted again, and once again the only evidence found on him was a syringe. Like before, the police had witnessed the purchase of a needle, but on this particular occasion they executed the bust before he ever had a chance to score. As a result, the only available evidence was a brand new,
sealed
syringe.

Since there was no dope, no residue in the needle, and no possible way to charge Perry with possession it was a very unglamorous arrest. So much so, in fact, that I was surprised they would even bother with the effort as paraphernalia-related arrests were becoming a thing of the past. Most junkies now belonged to the Needle Exchange Program, which was intended to control the spread of AIDS throughout the city. The organization provided heroin addicts with free access to sterile syringes, and ID that verified program membership and served as a get-out-of-jail-free card should they be caught with nothing other than unused paraphernalia.

The program’s existence obviously compromised police motivation with regard to such arrests, as Needle Exchange addicts caught with nothing beyond a sealed syringe were typically let go. It was like catch-and-release fishing for junkies. Unfortunately, Perry
wasn’t a member of the program—
so he was gonna be a keeper
.

“I can’t believe they actually busted you for that,” I told him the night he returned from jail. He had just spent a whopping 60 hours in the system, which was a personal best for Perry and now the new milestone to shoot for.

“I can’t believe it either,” he said. “Sixty hours in the system for paraphernalia.”

The worst of the repercussions was that Perry was in police custody, withdrawing—while he was supposed to be at Dabney’s, working. Somehow, word had gotten out about the arrest and an hour after Perry returned from jail, Gabriel—Perry’s boss and the owner of Dabney’s—called to have a heart-to-heart with his favorite employee.

Initially, Gabriel was only concerned for Perry’s health and at one point actually seemed on the verge of overlooking the entire incident. However, before that happened Perry would have to answer some tough questions.

“Perry, why did you have a syringe?” Gabriel asked with a seemingly endless amount of patience. “You didn’t have any drugs in your possession, but you had a syringe. It’s OK…You can tell me the truth. Really, I’ll understand.”

Though the question was absurd, I think Gabriel was desperately trying to provide Perry with a way out of the predicament, or at least a flimsy excuse that might prevent him from having to end their relationship. Unfortunately, after 60 hours with the Department of Corrections, Perry was in no mood to humor anyone and the two bags of dope he’d just booted did little to improve his disposition.

“I don’t know,” was the eagerly anticipated but very disappointing response.

“What do you mean
you don’t know
?” Gabriel asked. “How could you
not know
? Were you planning to do drugs or not?”

“Maybe I was and maybe I wasn’t,” Perry told him and then hung up the phone.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked.

“Fuck him.”

“Now you’re
definitely
gonna get fired.”

“He won’t fire me.”

A moment later Gabriel called to tell Perry he was fired.

I couldn’t understand how Perry was so cavalier about a job that he really didn’t mind, while each day I was forced to endure the diner. Of course, I was never completely thrilled with Serendipity either, but
at least there I found some solace in my co-workers. This certainly wasn’t the case at Ellen’s, however, where I was surrounded by bitter, old, queens and arrogant artists. Management, too, had its shortcomings and prominent among them was an asshole named Vincent. He was extremely old-school, completely out of place, and bitterly disliked by the restaurant’s homosexual employees whom he’d snidely refer to as “The Fruit Loops.”

Although the staff had its imperfections they paled in comparison to those of the customers, who were lured in by relatively cheap prices for a restaurant operating in that part of town. Unfortunately, from a waiter’s perspective, the business model was less than lucrative as these patrons were hardly the big spenders that were constantly rolling into Serendipity.

In the middle of a June evening, just before the thrust of the dinner rush stampeded into Ellen’s for Elvis Melts, Be Bop a Lula Burgers and Leave it to Beefer Wraps, I discovered four elderly women sitting in my station and eagerly awaiting my arrival. However, as I approached the table and they realized I was to be their waiter, I could see excitement and anticipation transform itself into restlessness and concern.

“Hey ladies,” I said as I greeted the table with the usual degree of make-believe enthusiasm. “My name’s Craig. Can I get you something to drink while you take a look at the menu?”

“We’ll hayav four swait tays,” said one of the ladies in a deep southern accent.

“Sorry ladies, we don’t have sweet tea,” I said, trying to break the news as delicately as possible. “We do have unsweetened tea that I can bring over with some sugar and sweetener if you’d like.”

“That won’t do!” shouted the same woman as she continued to speak for the group with a twang that made Long Island accents sound sophisticated. “Oh, jes go on en git us four Sprites theyen!”

I left to “go on en git’em” their Sprites, and when I returned to the table they seemed more than ready to order dinner. Before they did, however, one of them attempted to broach an unusual subject given the nature of our relationship.

“Doncha thank yer hayer’s kina lowung?” I was asked by a truly ancient woman that had yet to utter a single word—and from the way things were sounding she still hadn’t managed to pull it off.

“What???
”

“I sayed, doncha thank yer hayer’s kina lowung?” she said again
while pointing to her head.

I was about to consult my English to Hillbilly Asshole / Hillbilly Asshole to English Dictionary, but then one of the younger women with a more discernable tongue chose to serve as the group’s interpreter.

“My mom thinks yer hayer is kina long for you to be workin’ in a restaurant,” the woman said with a smile as she seemed to be enjoying my humiliation. “It’s jes a little unappetizin’ at the moment—thas’all.”

Oh, was that all you fucking bitch?

I wanted to give her a look at the bloody trail of injection wounds dotting my left arm and ruin her appetite for
life
.

“Sorry about the
unappetizin’ hayer
ladies, but what are you eating?” I asked, trying to mask my rage.

They ordered three Dean Martins and a Frank Sinatra.

Unfortunately, upon placing the order, I learned that the kitchen was out of mozzarella cheese and therefore unable to capture the delicate mingling of flavors synonymous with The Frank Sinatra (a cheeseburger with marinara sauce). With no other option, I returned to the table as the bearer of bad news.

“Weyel, you shoulda tollus dat ta begin wit,” said the fossil.

“I’m sorry. I was just made aware of it myself.”

“Relax mom,” interjected the interpreter. “After all, he is some poor ole’ woman’s son.”

“Weyel.…den I guess I’ll jes hayav the Dean Martin (spaghetti with meatballs and marinara sauce) too,” the old lady said with a good deal of disappointment.

I re-placed the order and as their meals appeared in the window, the restaurant was slammed by the dinner rush and my station was filled within minutes.

As I hastily ran around and greeted my new tables, the lady rednecks wolfed down their Dean Martins like they’d never seen a bowl of pasta named after a guinea singer before. The moment I noticed that all four had finished, I returned to the table to absorb the next round of abuse.

“Where ya been?” the relic asked.

“Gettin’ a
hayer
cut.”

“Weyel. We want dessert!”

“OK. What do you want?”

“We wanna shayer a Chubby Checker Sundae (Oreo Cookies,
vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate sauce and a cherry).”

I placed the order with Pedro, the dessert guy, and the moment it was put in the window I rushed it over to the table.

As luck would have it, just as I was about to set the dessert before the women I noticed a baby roach doing the backstroke in a sea of chocolate sauce. Although I’d already had my fair share of revolting restaurant experiences, one of this magnitude was exceptionally rare and I decided that it couldn’t have happened to a bigger bunch of bitches.

“Oops!” I said as I became aware of the tiny invader, and without ever actually placing the dessert on the table I whisked it away and returned it to Pedro for another. Then, after I delivered a freshly made, roach-free, Chubby Checker Sundae to the ladies they ravenously consumed it, paid the $60 check with four credit cards, stiffed the waiter, and left the restaurant.

I was able to forget about the unpleasant experience until the following morning, when I went to the computer to clock in and Vincent put his hand against my chest.

“Don’t worry about it, asshole,” he said to me. “You don’t work here anymore. Ellen fired you yesterday.”

“What the fuck for?!?”

“Because you served a cheesecake with a roach in it…
AND YOU DIDN’T RING IT UP!!!”

“Ring up what? The fucking roach?!?!”

“No, the fucking cheesecake!”

“First of all,” I said, “it wasn’t a cheesecake. It was a Chubby Fucking Checker Sundae and amazingly, I
did
ring it up!”

“Oh,” said Vincent, looking at the actual check. “Lemme look into this.”

After he corroborated the story with Pedro and established the fact that there was never a cheesecake involved, I followed him to the register where Larry Mills—the general manager—was in the midst of a discussion with his assistant manager, Jessica.

“I think there’s a mistake here,” Vincent said to the GM.

As they backtracked through the chain of events leading to my dismissal, it became apparent that Ellen was more concerned with the potential threat of internal theft than any posed by the Health Department.

“I don’t think I served a piece of fucking cheesecake all night,” I said with indignation.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Craig,” Jessica tried to comfort me. “It’s obviously a mistake.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Larry remarked.

“Oh—you know Ellen,” Jessica said to the G.M. “She probably just got confused.”

Larry told me to take the morning off and he would iron everything out with Ellen by the end of the work day.

“Just give me a call tomorrow morning before you come in.”

Assuming all was well, I went back to the Midtown and got wasted. Then, on the following morning I called Larry to make sure everything was kosher before heading in to work.

“Sorry, Craig—Ellen said she doesn’t want you back.”

“Didn’t you tell her I rang up the fucking dessert?!”

“Yeah, but she didn’t wanna hear about it.”

“That’s fucked up.”