Needle (47 page)

“You don’t like fucking yourself, Lawrence? Didn’t we just have a talk about you fucking yourself?”

“Listen, Craig—I don’t know what to tell you,” Perry said, ignoring the bad blood that was boiling around him. “Why don’t you stay with Jeff until you get a job and I get out of here? Then we’ll be able to afford something decent. And Lawrence: There aren’t only poor white junkies living at the Whitehouse. There’s also crackheads, pedophiles and schizophrenics, and there are almost as many blacks as whites. ”

“The last thing in the world Jeff needs right now is for me to be living with him,” I told Perry, returning to the matter at hand.

“Well, then I think you might have to deal with the Whitehouse for a few weeks. It’ll be temporary, trust me. Here’s 40 bucks; go get some dope. They’re back in business on 18
^th
Street.”

“OK. But the first thing I’m doing is finding a job. Getting high can wait until later.”

The first thing I’m doing is finding a job? Getting high can wait until later? Did I actually just say that?

“Fuck that finding a job shit!” Lawrence shouted with just enough fake enthusiasm to really piss me off. “Just wait until those welfare checks start rollin’ in. I know how you white people are.”

“Perry, I think I’m gonna kill this motherfucker.”

“Stay focused, Craig,” he told me. “You were doing really well there for a second. Go find a job and then if you want, come back here and we’ll celebrate.”

Yes. Killing Lawrence would do nothing to improve my plight as
there was already a warrant out for my arrest. Now was certainly no time for screwing around. Besides being a fugitive from justice—I was unemployed, addicted to dope, and on the brink of homelessness. I had to find a job and I had to find one fast.

I left the hospital, walked up to 96
^th
Street and then over to Second Avenue before heading south and stepping into every restaurant along the way. I was determined to find something—
anything
before nightfall. If I had to, I would walk all the way to the Village and back until I found someone willing to hire me.

In an amazing stroke of last minute luck, I managed to get hired at the Gotham City Diner which was located on the Upper East Side and not far from the hospital. It was a surprisingly fancy restaurant decked out in silver, and when I entered a woman with blond hair in her early thirties was tending bar and serving customers that were still lingering around from lunch.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the bar. “You guys wouldn’t happen to be looking for wait staff, would you?”

“HELL YES!!!!” she said as she held out her hand. “My name’s Amanda. I’m the manager. Can you work days?”

“Absolutely,” I said, and as the manager was also playing bartender I had a feeling the job was going to be a disaster. However, I also realized it was better than nothing and that regardless of the job, it would be almost impossible to avoid at least a temporary stay at the Whitehouse. Unfortunately, I had a terrible premonition that if I did end up at the Whitehouse—I might never leave.

“What’s the uniform?” I asked, though the question made my knees shake.

“Oh,” she said with some concern. “It’s kind of stuffy: black shoes, black pants and unfortunately a white, long-sleeved dress shirt. Is that gonna be alright?”

“It’ll be fine. I happen to love long-sleeved dress shirts.”

I agreed to return on the following Monday morning for training. Then, without any money to spare for the subway, I began the three mile trek downtown to score. It took me a little under an hour, and when I arrived I immediately recognized a short and scrawny dope dealer with an associate heading in my direction on 18
^th
Street.

“Hey man, I need four,” I said to the dealer as they approached.

“I don’t care what you need, junky muthafucka!! Get the fuck outta my face! The police is
everywhere
you fuckin’ bitch.”

“Alright, man—chill the fuck out!” I told him as they passed.

“Fuck you!” he said looking back at me menacingly. “You’re lucky if I don’t come back there and kick your muthafuckin ass.”

Dope dealing is—besides auto towing—perhaps the only business unencumbered by any level of customer service, or even a basic expectation of common courtesy. We’ll keep coming back for more no matter what and they know it. Even so, I was somewhat floored by the hostility of this tiny, Hispanic, dope dealer.

“I’ll pay you to give-it-a-go you little prick,” I told him as he kept walking and I crossed over to the other side of the street. Normally, I wouldn’t have been as bold to a drug dealer, let alone
two
drug dealers, but this guy was so nasty, aggressive, and
little
that I almost felt I had to beat him up just to save face. But obviously, his fears were well founded as a police car came cruising by at a speed that suggested its occupants knew exactly what was going on around them. I was then immediately reminded of my own legal issues and kept right on walking. Before leaving the area, however, my curiosity had gotten the better of me as I peered over my right shoulder hoping to catch a glimpse of them busting the little fucker. Then, just as I was turning my head, I noticed the dealer inconspicuously toss a paper bag containing his stash onto the curb next to a parked car.

As soon as the police made a left turn at First Avenue to attempt another pass I spun around, lowered myself, and then crept back across the street toward the parked car using it to shield myself from the dealer, who was by now a little further down the block. I then crawled under the rear bumper and, without revealing anything other than an outstretched arm, grabbed the bag.

Obviously, I expected to find several bundles of dope. However, after taking a peak inside, rather than several bundles of dope I found several bundles of cash. In fact, I would later discover that there was $1,760 to be exact.

As I crawled out from beneath the car and planned a quick escape, I giggled uncontrollably at the sight of the paper bag bursting with the drug dealer’s money. Now, I simply needed to get across Second Avenue and out of the area without running into the cops
or
criminals. With that in mind I cautiously stood up, sprinted into the street and unfortunately, although I was able to completely avoid the drug dealers and police
officers
—I was mowed down by the police vehicle. Thankfully, the impact from this collision paled in comparison to the thrashing I took from that taxi on Broadway, and to be quite honest I wasn’t even sure if the cops drove into me or I ran into them. All I
knew was that for a variety of reasons I needed to get the fuck out of there.

After bouncing off the police car I hit the ground and immediately sprung to my feet. Then, without looking back I sprinted across Second Avenue with a swiftness I didn’t think I was capable of. My pace remained constant as I crossed Third Avenue and then Irving Place where I was almost struck down again, this time by a truck. Finally, by the time I reached Park I was completely winded and flagged a cab heading north.

“Uptown, please,” I told the cabbie in between breaths.

“Who you runnin’ from?” he asked.

“I’m not exactly sure. Could be a few people.”

As I gradually caught my breath I began to feel the exhilaration of the moment. I managed to fuck up not only the drug dealer, but the police as well by stealing his money and their evidence. In the process, I also evaded what would’ve been a motherfucker of an arrest, as I not only had an outstanding warrant—but had come dangerously close to getting busted for stealing the dope dealer’s cash. Wouldn’t that have been a hoot? Instead, I escaped with over $1700. It was like a gift from heaven. There would be no Whitehouse Hotel for me, by God, and as far as the dope dealer was concerned—well
fuck him
. If he gets his ass kicked for losing the money, so be it. He was just another asshole drug dealer and it comes with the territory. Besides, this was just a small, symbolic payback for helping me fuck up my life so badly.

Wait a minute. Did I just admit something I shouldn’t?

Fortunately, I had over $1700 to help me look the other way and besides… I was
still
going to be famous.

88

“Hey, I’m coming into the city,” I told Perry from a payphone. “You’re not gonna believe this shit!!!”

“It’s chicken salad or baked ham,” he responded. “That’s funny. You don’t like chicken salad
or
baked ham, do you?”

“I don’t need your fucking lunch. Listen to this: Yesterday—”

“There you go again,” Perry interrupted. “Just like Lawrence said—acting all uppity and shit.”

“Would you shut up for a second?”

“OK, what?”

“I stole over $1700 from the dope dealers yesterday.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I sure as fuck did.”

“That was a fucking retarded thing to do and you’re gonna be a dead man,” said the police informant. “I can’t believe you’re not dead already.”

“It’s not like I held them up or anything, stupid! I just swiped it while they weren’t looking.”

“Do they know it was you who took it?”

“Probably.”

“Then you’re
probably
gonna be a dead man. But before they find you I need you to go to 125
^th
Street and visit your friend for me. Winston was just here, and he said there’s some crazy shit going around that’s been killing junkies in Harlem.”

“What’s it called?”

“911.”

“That’s almost funny. Did you try any?” I asked.

“I didn’t get a chance. A minute after Winston got here my nurse took a look at him and threw him in a wheelchair. But he told me the dealer warned him to cut his dosage in half because two junkies had already OD’d.”

“Well, did
he
?”

“No, but you know Winston, he’s fearless—
and
stupid. Trust me. He said the shit was so strong he almost drove his cab into the river.”

“Winston drove his cab into the river last month,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but this time he said it wouldn’t have been his fault.”

Ignoring that bit of junky reasoning, I immediately disengaged with Perry and headed directly to 125
^th
Street to investigate the matter. But apparently, all preliminary reports regarding the dope’s potency were accurate. The moment Arnold noticed me climbing out of the subway he started jumping up and down, and with his fists held high in the air he triumphantly shouted,
“THE SHIT IS KILLIN’ NIGGAS!!!”
I could actually see tears of joy streaming down his face.

Now, for those still unsure about the guiding principles and value
system embraced by this particular subset of the drug culture:

There is no product endorsement quite like that of a dead junky
.

Within minutes, Arnold was able to locate the source of the incredibly deadly dope. I then jumped in a cab and headed to my little Polish diner to tap a vein.

I must say that 911 lived-up to the hype. However, having the wisdom and forethought acquired by tracing the steps of the
truly
courageous, Ponce De Leon-type junkies, I cut my usual dosage in half so I could live long enough to enjoy the buzz.

After I paid the check and stumbled out of the diner it hit me: that damned, false sense of well being. I suddenly decided that now would be the perfect time to deal with my legal issues. After all, things were going so well. We were getting airplay in Pittsburgh, and I’d found a job and even had some money in my pocket. My worries were clearly behind me. Feeling on top of the world, I headed to the criminal courthouse determined to confront the trespassing charge, as well as the resulting arrest warrant for failing to appear in court. I was impassioned, driven, and on a journey to absolution through accountability that could only be embarked upon by the truly high.

When I arrived at the venerable old building—a bastion of virtue, blind justice, and one overflowing with cops—I ditched my works and hid any remaining dope in a shoe. I then entered and made my way to a reception area. After showing ID, I was provided a copy of the relevant paperwork and directed to a courtroom on the third floor.

Though oblivious at the time, I had created a potentially explosive situation by simply being there in that condition. And, unlike the circumstances surrounding my arrest, I was now actually in possession of heroin and stumbling around a building filled with cops. I definitely should’ve realized I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But I was really, really, high
.

I went upstairs to the assigned courtroom and was greeted by a police officer, who, after glancing over the paperwork, said the dockets were jammed and that I should come back at another time. Actually, he said, “We don’t have time for this bullshit right now” and to “get the fuck out and come back later.”

Later? What the fuck does that mean?

Given the existing arrest warrant, I pointed out that I may have already exhausted the “later” option. He then told me that if I didn’t get out of his sight immediately he would arrest me.

Might it be for trespassing?

I left the building before the irony of it all just killed me.

89

On September 30
^th
I vacated Gina’s apartment, and used a portion of the stolen drug money to secure a tiny, one-room studio being rented out of a basement in Jackson Heights for $500 per month. I then went into Manhattan and purchased four long-sleeved dress shirts and four bundles of that deadly dope, one of which I brought to Perry in the hospital.

On the very next day I reported to Gotham City at 10 a.m. to begin training for the lunch shift. Although I was expecting at least another waiter, none were present and I was immediately greeted by Amanda who was apparently managing the restaurant, tending bar,
and
waiting tables.

“Glad you showed up,” she said with a strange smile.

“Why wouldn’t I show up?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But for some reason people just don’t show up.”

This place might be even worse than I thought
.