Needle (36 page)

Fortunately, it was Saturday, so I assumed that procuring a sealed bottle of take-home meth wouldn’t pose that much of a problem.
But it did
. After about a half-hour of pacing up and down Delancey and attempting to locate a credible program violator, all I came across was a dirt bag with an unsealed bottle.

“Where’s the seal?” I asked the “recovering” junky.

“It fell off.”

Sure it did. On Saturdays, besides peddling their sealed doses, many patients weren’t above selling their
daily
doses by somehow smuggling them out of the clinics in their mouths, and then spitting the contraband back into empty meth bottles. Unfortunately, there were also quite a few junkies who weren’t above drinking it.

“No, thanks,” I said and decided to take a pass.

“You should go up to 125
^th
,” said another of the Delancey Street Undead.

“Why, what’s up there?” I asked.

“About like ten clinics.”

That was good enough for me. I took the subway uptown to 125
^th
Street and Lexington Avenue which was as far into Harlem as I’d ever ventured. The moment I ascended the staircase I was inundated with
sales pitches for a variety of different dosages and flavors of methadone, though orange was clearly the most prevalent.

“Sealed 60,” was immediately offered, but this porridge was too small.

“Sealed 90,” was another opportunity.

“What flavor?” I asked.

“Orange.”

“Nah. I wanna try cherry.”

“I got cherry!” said another passing program violator.

“How many milligrams?”

“Seventy.”

Seventy would have been sufficient to do the trick, but I wanted to see what else was available. I headed west on 125
^th
Street toward Park Avenue which was only a block away, and realized I’d accidentally stumbled upon the Promised Land. Not only was there an enormous supply of methadone available, but dope dealers were out in such force that for a moment I thought Dinkins was back in office. It was like a flashback to the drug conventions held on 110
^th
Street back in 1992, and though police could be seen patrolling the area they seemed to do so without any real sense of purpose.

I circled the block and was bombarded by offers from both meth
and
dope dealers. I soon realized that, unlike the rest of Harlem where my whiteness was usually interpreted as police activity or at the very least,
police-chum
, here it signaled nothing other than a potential shopper with money to burn. It was as though I’d inadvertently stumbled upon a sanctuary for junkies and drug dealers alike, where on this little island of cement we could find shelter from a sea of bloodthirsty predators able to do nothing but lurk harmlessly along the street-lined shore.

It wasn’t long before I discovered the reason for my perceived safety. Upon entering Manhattan, Metro North and Amtrak trains en route to Grand Central Station at 42
^nd
Street travel along an elevation until reaching 105
^th
Street, at which point they descend beneath the city and continue on to 42
^nd
. However, commuters are provided with the option of disembarking at Grand Central, or the preceding stop which just happens to be at 125
^th
Street and Park Avenue in Harlem. Although most passengers from both rail systems detrain at Grand Central, a good number are bound for destinations too far north of 42
^nd
Street for the stop to be convenient, and instead opt for the Harlem station followed by the nearby Lexington Avenue subway
line to complete the journey. As a result—at least between the hours of 8 a.m. and 6 p.m.—police were reluctant to scour away the unsavory from this tiny transit hub as they feared accidentally ensnaring respectable commuters in the trap.

“A hundred milligrams—sealed,” I heard as I turned a corner.

What? A hundred milligrams?
I’d never before come across such a high dosage.

“What flavor?”

“Cherry.”

My search was over. I paid him $30, removed the seal, and gulped it down right there on 125
^th
Street before returning the prescription bottle to its owner. According to program policy, on the Monday following take-home Saturday, patients were required to return their empty bottles in exchange for the next treatment—which, of course, was intended to prevent them from selling their to-go dosages in the first place.

After the transaction was completed, I took two steps and descended into the subway station. Due to the incidental discovery of a new dope spot, I realized I now had an uptown location offering a similar level of security and convenience to that of the downtown boutique.

Fifteen minutes after swallowing the methadone I began to feel the effects as I boarded a train. Given the size of my habit, 100 milligrams was roughly quadruple the dose that I would have been prescribed had I been on the program. Needless to say, I was completely wasted; however, even at such an extraordinarily large dosage the inebriation was controllable, and in this way the drug differs significantly from heroin. Although I could have easily nodded off, it was just as easy to remain fairly alert and aware of my surroundings—
regardless of how I may have appeared
.

Now that I was “clean,” I returned to the Midtown for one final evening.

70

Upon awakening at 8 a.m. to the splendor of the Midtown for one last time, I felt entirely refreshed. It was, without a doubt, the most restful night I’d had in years, as methadone is more conducive to sleep than heroin.

I packed a bag, left the hotel, and rather than walk eight blocks and catch the train to Connecticut from Grand Central, I opted to depart from the 125
^th
Street Station which was 80 blocks away. Of course, there was absolutely no need for me to be going to Harlem. A hundred milligrams was quite a bit of methadone for me to have consumed, and the high was so powerful that I was feeling almost the same degree of intensity I’d experienced the previous day. Furthermore, since the half-life of methadone is about 48 hours, I could look forward to the buzz maintaining itself until at least the following afternoon. But even though I knew I would remain inebriated for some time and completely free from the threat of physical withdrawals, there was no question about it: I chose to use the Harlem station because I intended to buy heroin before boarding the train.

It must have been that altered brain chemistry thing again. I rationalized that after three days of methadone-fueled abstinence, I would break the physical addiction to heroin and could therefore justify an afternoon nodding off somewhere in the city of Stamford, without becoming physically re-addicted to the drug.

Obviously, even at this point I never intended to permanently eliminate heroin from my life. Just as Perry’s ultimate goal was a prolonged retirement involving a dope-laden IV, a room full of books, and an assistant—mine was much the same,
minus the books and the assistant
. Hence, in reality, the methadone was merely a safety precaution designed to temporarily curtail my habit as money was scarce and I was terrified at the prospect of being broke and dopesick in Stamford.

After scoring the dope, I climbed the stairs to the station’s platform and waited for the train to Connecticut. Fortunately, an express quickly appeared and I arrived in Stamford within 45 minutes.

As the train entered downtown Stamford a few tall buildings rose up in the distance. They were very new, very shiny, and wholly uninspiring—and from the most prominent, a greenish emanation
returned a gesture from the sun which blazed across windows tinted a similar hue. When I stepped off the train and took in the sad little skyline, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the Emerald City from
The Wizard of Oz
.

I absolutely despised Stamford. It was yuppie nirvana; a place where Wall Street wizards and corporate conquerors eagerly ascended to after years of raping and pillaging their respective ways to the top. When they finally did arrive, they would openly champion their new and improved quality of life at the expense of the very city that provided it. What was once a shining testament to the magnificence of their own accomplishments was now a place to be loathed, condescended to, and criticized for its moral decay and tendency to broadcast the seamier side of life, which is—of course—best kept behind rural ranch-house doors.

As far as my mother was concerned, I would manage to mostly avoid her even though I was sleeping in the living room of a small, two-bedroom version of the same, spiritless, condo-style apartment she was always drawn to. Ironically, my sister, who’s return home from school was the first reason cited to help justify my visit, had just left again to embark upon an extended cruise to the Caribbean.

A couple of days after arriving in Stamford, and three full days after swallowing the meth, I booted the dope purchased on 125
^th
Street. As predicted, even though only four days had passed since I’d last tapped a vein, the meth-sponsored respite prevented the rekindling of any physical re-addiction to heroin. However, two days after this last indiscretion, the psychological withdrawals that were lying in wait had finally made their presence known, and were much worse than anticipated. I began to experience a severe state of depression that would continue unabated until my brain finally decided to again produce the endorphins that the dope had long since banished. Unfortunately, from what I understood by way of the experts roaming Methadonia, due to the number of years I’d spent as a hardcore dope fiend it could take anywhere from six months to as much as a year before these naturally occurring hormones felt safe enough to return. Of course, I was unwilling to think logically or recognize the importance of riding out the discomfort, resisting temptation, and trying to stay clean. Instead, I was able to strip away any tangential concerns and cast aside the potential consequences. It didn’t matter that I was 26 years-old and living with my mommy. It didn’t matter that the CD was languishing, half-finished now for
almost a year. It didn’t even matter that I was squandering an opportunity that any other musician would have killed for. None of it mattered because I knew that if I could just get loaded—everything would be fine. I could then escape not only depression, but the blandness that sobriety had come to represent. I even concocted a justification for the addiction, providing it functionality as a buffer zone between me and the pain of being, I daresay—
a starving artist
. And though the drug may have contributed to the starving, I felt it was also an essential component to the artist. Hence, I would do everything in my power to mitigate any suffering in the short term and worry about the long term later, as I somehow convinced myself of the wisdom in remaining fucked up.

I still had about $50 left over from the last electronics sale that Perry and I had staged in Harlem before closing our doors to the public forever. Unfortunately, a round-trip ticket to Manhattan from Stamford was about $17, which would leave just enough money for two bags of dope, a set of works, and a couple of packs of cigarettes. What I would do after the money ran out was again, something to consider later. With that in mind, and after only four days in Stamford, I set out for Manhattan to score and to check in on Perry.

My mother’s apartment was only a five minute walk to the Stamford train station, where I proceeded to catch the 12:53 p.m. express to the city. At about 1:30 it arrived at 125
^th
Street, where I disembarked and copped two bags of dope and a syringe without breaking stride to the subway station.

In order to get off as quickly and as safely as possible, I took the #6 downtown to 86
^th
Street and walked four blocks north to my favorite Polish diner. There were other restaurants closer to the score, but I was drawn to the quaintness of this particular establishment as it offered a tastefully decorated, single-occupancy bathroom affording one the luxury of shooting-up in complete privacy—
if one so desired
. Once inside I ordered a cup of coffee and then immediately snuck off to the bathroom with the spoon. After getting high I left the bathroom, paid the tab, and walked thirteen blocks to Lenox Hill Hospital to see if Perry was still alive. He was.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asked the moment I stepped into his semi-private room.

“Stamford.”

“Well, it would’ve been nice of you to call,” he lectured me. “You have to get back in the studio next week and finish up some vocals
before Catherine flips the fuck out.”

“I thought she liked ‘The Wish?’”

“She does, but she doesn’t think it should’ve taken eight months to record.”

“Whatever,” I said. “You can’t rush genius.”

Perry got out of bed and ventured over to the closet with his IV in tow. He then reached inside a jacket pocket for his wallet and pulled out two, crisp, hundred dollar bills.

“Go to Angelina’s and get us each a bundle,” he said as he handed me the cash, which I took without mentioning the fact that I’d already scored some dope…
for myself
.

“Where’d you get the money?” I inquired.

“I told Catherine we needed strings.”

“Two hundred dollars for fucking guitar strings?” I asked as they typically sold for about seven dollars a set.

“The best strings money can buy,” he said. Then he handed me a little orange pill.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Forty milligrams of meth.”

Perry’s doctors were now actually providing him methadone with the foolish hope that it might discourage him from having dope delivered to the hospital or even worse, sneaking out to get it himself. Of course, Perry didn’t care for methadone.

I left the hospital and took the subway downtown to Angelina’s to get the dope. Although 125
^th
Street was closer in proximity to Lenox Hill, I felt more comfortable purchasing 20 bags of heroin in the secure and friendly confines of a ladies boutique. Later, when I returned to the hospital to give Perry his half of the stash, he informed me that he’d scheduled a session on the following Tuesday evening, during which I was expected to record two more vocal tracks.