Needle (48 page)

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” she went on. “This isn’t the busiest restaurant in the city and the owner can be difficult, but we try to have fun. And each day you get $25 out of the register to help make up for things.”

That was the clincher. Any restaurant willing to enhance the standard shift pay of $2.15 an hour couldn’t be generating any significant business else they’d hardly be so generous. Obviously, the little bit extra paid under the table was intended to supplement a shortage of gratuities which are, of course, a waiter’s primary source of income. But to be quite frank, this was of little concern to me. I had plenty of cash, the CD was finished, and now it was just a matter of time before my
real
destiny unfurled itself.

By 4 p.m. my training had concluded, and based on the way I handled the restaurant’s one and only customer, Amanda was
convinced that I was ready to strike out on my own.

“So I’ll schedule you for lunches—Tuesday through Friday,” she said. “Is that OK?”

“Perfect,” I told her. “Are we done?”

“Yep. See you tomorrow.”

Then, as I turned to leave she suddenly stopped me.

“Wait a second,” she said as she peered out the window. “Here comes Stratis.”

“What’s
stratis
?”

“He’s the owner,” she said with veiled disgust. “Let’s introduce you and get it over with.”

“Now who’s this?!?” Stratis bellowed as he entered the restaurant and strutted across the dining room.

“Stratis, this is Craig,” Amanda said. “He’s gonna be helping us out on days.”

“That’s great,” he said with little interest and without stopping as he passed me on his way to the kitchen.

Stratis Morfogen had a head full of jet-black hair, was dressed in Brooks Brothers, and at around six feet tall I must admit he made a big impression—
which was that of a complete asshole
. I didn’t like him from the moment I met him, and that feeling would only intensify with each encounter.

Stratis was about 30 years old, and from a family of successful restaurateurs that had owned and operated several establishments around Manhattan and Queens. And, despite the tired old tales he told of a childhood spent working in his father’s restaurant for pennies-per-hour as he learned the value of a dollar, Stratis seemed much more like an overgrown, overindulged, spoiled-rotten brat that had grown up with a silver shovel in his mouth. But even with this I was well contented, and with all the dope and drug money awaiting me in Queens I was able to completely look away from the concerns that had erupted during the previous weeks. Yes, indeed—
everything
was going to be just fine.

I left Gotham and made connections to the #7 bound for Jackson Heights. Within a half-hour I stepped into my humble abode, booted, strapped on a set of headphones and listened to
For Now
as my nod eventually transformed itself into slumber. This would be my routine for the entire month of October while Perry remained attached to an anti-fungal drip at Lenox Hill. Unfortunately, however, though my drug use would go unabated, the earnings from Gotham were so paltry
that I was constantly dipping into the stash of stolen money.

After paying rent on the morning of November 1
^st
, I noticed that my vast fortune had suddenly dwindled down to a mere $75. I realized that once again my situation was near desperate, and a vague sense of rage and resentment began to simmer as I clearly saw the Whitehouse on the horizon. Just then, the phone rang.

“Hey, I’m out!!!”

It was Perry.

“Oh!!!” I shouted into the phone as I spotted a target to vent my wrath upon. “What are you out of
THIS TIME
, Perry?!? Drugs, money,
heart valves
? Want me to slaughter another fucking pig for you?! What else, Perry, what else can I possibly do for you?!”

“I’m
OUT OF THE HOSPITAL
, asshole!” he fired back.

“Oh yeah? For how long? A month? Two months? Maybe three?”

“Are you dopesick or something?” he asked.

“NO!!!”

“Are you fucked up?”

“NO, PERRY—I’M NOT FUCKED UP!!!
I’m just pissed off and sick and tired of all the bullshit!”

“Why don’t you boot a bag and relax…and then bring me one because I’m beginning to feel sick.”

“Where are you?” I said with a disgusted sigh.

“At the Barnes and Noble on Astor.”

“When’d you learn how to read?”

“Fuck you,” he said, and then hung up the phone.

I left the apartment and boarded the train to Manhattan. Once there, I transferred to the #6 bound for 125
^th
Street where I copped four bags of dope and two sets of works. Of course, my own personal gratification would wait for no one, so before heading downtown to meet Perry I made a stop at the Polish diner.

Although the dope was fine it did little to improve my disposition, and as I boarded the downtown train my life seemed to be teetering on the brink of disaster. I should have gotten another job the moment I realized Gotham City was a dead end, but with my pockets full of stolen drug money it was too easy to look the other way. Now I was almost completely broke. Even if I were to immediately find another restaurant job it would be at least a week before I’d be making any money and I’d never survive until then.

As I ascended from the subway at Astor Place, Perry was there to greet me.

“Where’s my dope?” he immediately asked.

I openly handed him the drugs and a set of works without worrying about the prying eyes of passersby. He then headed into the store and darted into a bathroom while I waited by the magazine racks. Within two minutes he returned.

“The Boulevard fucked me over,” he said.

“How?”

“They gave away my job.”

“So you’re homeless
and
jobless.”

“Just jobless,” he said. “Oh yeah, that reminds me. I need ten bucks.”

“I just gave you two bags of dope!”

“Not for dope—for the hotel.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re staying at the Whitehouse.”

“Fuck no! I’m staying at The Sunshine. It’s way nicer.”

Imagine that,
nicer
—and all for the same ten dollars-a-day. Of course, The Sunshine Hotel was also in the Bowery, and it was about as sunshiny as the Whitehouse was presidential.

Since he wasn’t working I gave him $20 which left me with ten.

“Have you heard from Catherine?” I asked.

“Not since I went back into the hospital.”

“Well, have you tried to call her?”

“She hasn’t been taking my calls,” he said.

That set me off again.

“WELL WHAT THE FUCK HAS SHE BEEN DOING?!?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well then,
FUCK HER!
The CD’s recorded and everything else will take care of itself,” I said as that false sense of well being reared its ugly head again. “We don’t need her anymore.”

“Yes we do.”

“Maybe you do, asshole, but I sure as fuck don’t!” I said, not exactly sure what I meant but trying to sound as convincing as possible.

“Catherine owns the rights to the CD until the end of 2003,” he pointed out.

“So?”

“So?! Craig, let me explain something to you. Catherine’s totally in control unless
she
decides otherwise. She has all the copies of the disc, she’s the only one with the money or the rights to print anymore, and 2003 isn’t quite over yet. Trust me;
you
need her as much as
anyone else does. Next time try reading the fucking fine print.”

I was absolutely beside myself.

“I DON’T NEED HER! I DON’T NEED YOU! I DON’T NEED ANYONE!!!”
I actually screamed out loud.

“Yes, Craig—I know. You are truly a self-sustaining organism and I step back in awe of you. Unfortunately, you signed a contract.”

“Wow! How about that, Perry?
A self-sustaining organism
…
Nine consecutive syllables and not even a grunt. Very impressive! But let’s not forget that
I’m
the hot commodity here, and for giving you a chance at something beyond your own miserable existence you turned me into a worthless fucking junky!” I shouted, noting my own remarkable ability to claim both sides of the spectrum, and all within the span of a single sentence.

Now it was clearly time to go home and I did just that.

On the following morning I left my apartment and headed to Gotham City. When I arrived at 10 a.m. I was confronted by a dark and empty restaurant as Amanda met me at the door.

“Hey Craig,” she said with a big smile. “I have some great news for you!”

“What’s that?”

“The power’s out and you get to have the day off.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic!” I said with feigned enthusiasm. “So in other words, you’re telling me that I’ll be spending the day
at home
and not be making any money—as opposed to spending the day
in here
and not be making any money.”

“Exactly!” she said with a giggle, apparently misinterpreting the sentiment behind my sarcasm.

“That’s fucking great, Amanda,” I said and then left the restaurant. Of course, I would’ve been concerned that the smartass response might garner my immediate dismissal, had I not recognized the extreme unlikelihood of them finding another loser desperate enough to fill the void.

As I wandered toward the subway with four dollars in my pocket, I experienced the sudden, often short-lived realization that most addicts awaken to when they’re truly out of options:

I’ve got to kick. I have no money, no prospect of having any money, no heroin, no meth, and no choice
.

Although I wasn’t feeling sick just yet, I knew the onset of withdrawals was only hours away and determined that the best course of action was to try to sleep through as much of it as possible. With
that in mind I headed back to Jackson Heights, and after exiting the subway station I stepped into the nearest convenience store to buy a newspaper—and to steal a bottle of Tylenol PM.

At just after 11 a.m., as I crossed the threshold of my apartment, I could already begin to feel the sweats erupting. That was enough for me. I popped open the bottle of Tylenol and swallowed ten capsules. As I lay there praying for sleep to overwhelm me, I began to feel my throat swell which I attributed to the massive dose of medication. Then, I passed out…
for almost twelve hours
.

At around 11 p.m., I sat up in bed and vomited in complete darkness. I took a deep breath, tried to clear my head, and then several convulsive heaves followed until my clothes were saturated, and my mattress was nothing short of a sponge soaked in stomach fluid.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said panting, as the deluge appeared to have subsided.

Unfortunately, I knew things were just getting underway as another vulgar discharge began to assemble itself within. I immediately jumped up, ran into the little bathroom located just outside my room, and then lowered my head over the toilet bowl. Within seconds I again began heaving uncontrollably, but nothing came forth other than a series of guttural groans. My body was clearly calling the shots now, and the fruitless purge continued until I felt something become unstuck in my bowels. Without a second to spare, I flipped sides and the same sickness began pouring out of my ass. I took another deep breath and tried to collect myself.

“God, it’s fucking hot in here,” I said aloud as a syrupy perspiration seemed to exude from every pore.

I rose to my feet, ripped off the vomit-laden clothes still clinging to my body, and then stepped into the bedroom to look at the thermostat. It read 68 degrees but my body was on fire. Beyond that my legs had cramps and my skin was becoming super-sensitive, as each time I tried to rub away the soreness it felt like daggers were digging into my flesh.

After swallowing another handful of pills I returned to the bathroom, stepped in the shower, sat down and pulled my knees to my chest as cool water trickled down over my burning body. I then turned on my side and eventually passed out in the fetal position. Sometime later I awoke in much the same way, except for the fact that I was now
freezing
.

With cramps now overwhelming my lower half, I crawled out of
the shower and into the bedroom where I wrapped myself in the last vestiges of a laundered wardrobe. Then, without thinking, I returned to my vomit-drenched mattress. It took about ten minutes for a wool sweater to fully absorb the puke and for me to realize what I just did to myself.

I started to cry.

“I’m not gonna make it,” I sobbed, overcome by my own degradation. “There’s just no way I’m ever gonna make it through this.”

As I lay there soaking up vomit and freezing, I tried to calculate how long it would be before the dopesickness ran its course. Since it was just beginning to brighten-up outside, I assumed it was around 6 a.m. which meant there were at least another 24 hours of this to look forward to. I then rose from the bed, undressed, and dragged myself to the laundry basket for a vomit-free ensemble. Unfortunately, before I made the wardrobe change I felt another explosion about to ignite—though I had no idea from which orifice it would come. I ran back into the bathroom and just to be on the safe side, jumped in the shower to eventually vomit. I then sat on the tiled floor, shivering, and watched my fluids disappear down the drain. I wanted to follow them.

I was amazed at the volume of liquid my body had expelled and was exhausted and dehydrated by the effort, but didn’t dare take a sip of water for fear of beginning the sequence anew. After some time I rose and then slowly emerged from the shower once more.

I dressed myself in dirty laundry, staked-out a spot on the bedroom floor, and returned to the fetal position while trying to ignore the cramps that were slowly consuming me. At some point I began staring at my old, acoustic beater like it was a bag of dope, and soon decided that I’d had enough of the agony. Who was I trying to kid anyway? Besides, I realized that if I was ever going to quit, I’d have to do it with something other than cold turkey.

I’ll go into the city and sell my guitar
.

Although I could have mustered up enough strength to jump the subway turnstiles, I doubted my broken body would survive the landing. Furthermore, with the arrest warrant still looming, I realized I couldn’t risk an encounter with law enforcement—especially in light of my sad physical shape and inability to flee the scene.