Needle (5 page)

“But I don’t want to go among mad people.”

“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the cat. “We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

“How do you know I’m mad?”

“You must be,” said the cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

###

We were Weekend Warriors to say the least, especially during that month of September.

Helmer’s enormous dick and apparently, balls to match, had somehow gotten us through the PCP fiasco in Harlem without getting killed. Interestingly enough, the next day Perry’s description of angel dust more or less resembled what we ended up with that night, but thinking it was bogus Helmer had thrown it out of the jeep somewhere along Park Avenue.

On literally the following weekend, Alan Grier, a good friend of mine from as far back as junior high school, decided to take the train into Manhattan and surprise me with a visit. I hadn’t seen Alan for
some time and learned that he’d become a social worker in Nassau County. For about an hour he filled me in on the gory career details and I could sense he was less than thrilled with how his post-collegiate career was shaping up.

“This black fucking bitch actually spit in my face,” he told me.

“What the fuck for?!”

“She thought I was cheating her out of money.”

“That’s totally fucked up.”

“I need something else,” he lamented. “I’m only 22 and I feel like life is passing me by.”

“Well, we’re looking for a drummer,” I said with a chuckle.

“Hey! I’ve played the drums before,” he informed me, somewhat offended by my laughter.

“Really?” I asked as he eagerly nodded. “Cool. Then let’s get you a kit.”

Alan was a great guy and had I known he played the drums, I would have asked him to join the band months ago. He’d never mentioned his drumming before, so I assumed he wasn’t going to blow anyone away; however, I’ve always believed that the basic skills required to play most instruments were grossly exaggerated. I’d become a passable guitarist in about a week and was of the opinion that if you could dance—or at least keep a beat—you could learn to play almost anything. So, with Helmer, Perry, and Matt in tow we headed to Sam Ash and Alan purchased a basic drum kit to get started.

When we returned to the apartment and assembled the drums, there were problems. Apparently, Alan couldn’t dance…
or keep a beat to save his life
. So we wrapped things up, smoked a joint, and decided to spend what was left of the day in Central Park.

The afternoon wore on and eventually, Perry and Matt disappeared. A few minutes later, as I helped Alan come to terms with the death of his music career, Helmer nudged my shoulder.

“That guy said he has mescaline,” he told me while gesturing to a portly Hispanic male wearing red shorts, a white shirt, and standing by the rollerbladers.

“Right,” I said doubtfully.

Buying drugs here was risky, but not necessarily from a law enforcement standpoint as Central Park—like 42
^nd
Street—had always been a haven for drug dealers peddling fake drugs.

“He’s not straight,” I said dismissively.

“Uhhh, I beg to differ with you on that,” Helmer responded.

After several minutes I saw his point. One trait common to all bogus drug dealers is that they’re constantly on the move. You’ll seldom see them lingering in any one location for more than a few seconds, else they risk a serious beating from a victimized buyer, not to mention a legitimate dealer. This guy, however, was stationary…
and
smiling. Helmer went over to where he was standing and within a minute or two, money was changing hands. He then returned, sat down, and displayed a plastic cigarette-pack wrapper containing three orange pills. Helmer swallowed his and then handed me one of the others. Alan was offered the remaining pill but declined, and as he was bombarded with vaginal references for not participating, I placed mine under my tongue. Slowly, it became the consistency of wet bread and then dissolved completely as we waited to feel the effects.

Within a half-hour, I wasn’t quite tripping but had noticed the clouds above the skyline seemed richer and thicker. The grass beneath me seemed greener. In fact, everything seemed infinitely grander and more colorful than it was previously—including the drug dealer, who remained in virtually the same position he was when Helmer made the purchase. However, he was now not only smiling—but looking directly at me. As I stared back I could hear him thinking:

“I know you’re fucked up. I know
you
know you’re fucked up. And I know you know
I
know you’re fucked up. ”

We returned to the apartment while we still had some idea of what was going on. Alan sat on the bed and amused himself while Helmer and I became transfixed by nothing. Although I had never tried mescaline before, it was already my preferred brand of hallucinogen. Everything around me appeared more vivid, and my thoughts were much less chaotic than what I remembered experiencing with similar drugs.

As the apartment grew darker with the setting sun, we continued to remain within ourselves. Then at some point the phone rang:

It was Troy calling from Paris.

He and Helmer spoke for a moment or two as I suddenly felt the need to be alone. Given the dimensions of the studio apartment I was left with no option other than to retire to my closet.

I entered the closet and sat atop a dirty pile of laundry in almost complete darkness. With the door shut, the little alcove was restricted to only residual light emanating from the kitchen, and the dull glow made my winter jacket barely perceptible as it hung ten inches from
my nose.

I stared at the sleeve of the jacket and heard Helmer drone on in the background. As he continued his conversation with Troy, a metamorphosis began to take place in the tiny closet. The jacket’s left sleeve was rather quickly transforming itself into what appeared to be the profile of a cow. She was a beautiful cow, perhaps the most beautiful I’d ever seen. She had a sad little eye that looked around as if she was confused, suddenly finding herself alone in the closet with me.

The beautiful bovine then turned into something vaguely sinister, as her head became a platform of eyes that were each independently searching for something. For what seemed like hours the eyes scanned the darkness in angry desperation, and then slowly dissolved into the black background until just two remained. Suddenly, the greater part of a face began to materialize around the two intense eyes until it finally formed the countenance of a crazed monkey. It stared at me, angrily snapping its jaws in mechanical repetition like one of those symbol-clanging, toy simians.

As this appeared to be the onset of a bad trip, I left the closet. I then grabbed Helmer, interrupted his conversation with Troy and whispered, “Enter the darkness of the closet, my brother. Escape the artificial light and become one of the
truly enlightened
.”

I knew there’d be no way he could refuse an invitation like that. He immediately dropped the phone and entered the closet seeking divine truth and understanding amidst my dirty socks and underwear.

I carried on the conversation with Troy for some time discussing the monkey, until Helmer finally exited the closet mentioning something about The Cheshire Cat. Meanwhile, Alan was growing a bit restless and suggested that we head out for some munchies. I had absolutely no interest in eating, but decided to accompany him since Helmer was determined to remain indoors and wax philosophical about the cat.

We ended up at a bodega on 79
^th
Street and Lexington Avenue. Once inside, Alan stumbled upon a large bag of Cool Ranch Doritos but reacted as if he’d just uncovered the Dead Sea Scrolls.

“Dude! They’ve got Cool Ranch!
CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!!!”
he bellowed.

Now, by nature Alan was a little odd, but then again—we all were. However, his reaction to the bag of chips was a bit troubling, especially since he was supposed to be the one who
wasn’t
tripping.

“I can’t
believe
they have Cool Ranch,” he continued. “Cool Fucking Ranch! Unbelievable!!! There is only one true chip and its name is Cool Ranch. All praises be to the Cool Ranch.”

The store’s Asian proprietor was clearly becoming uncomfortable, and I once again saw all the signs of a bad trip developing. Then, as Alan stood in the middle of the store looking for Cool Ranch disciples to lead to the Promised Land, I noticed the blue bag of Doritos was beginning to undulate. Unfortunately, Alan seemed not to notice and instead went on extolling the virtues of this noble snack chip.

“Craig—you know Cool Ranch rules, right?!?”

I couldn’t answer him. I was transfixed by the bag of chips which continued to bend with successive waves in alternate patterns and directions. However, as Alan patiently awaited my response, I realized that the bag of Doritos was now not only undulating—but also growing in dimension. Suddenly, the printed words, “Cool Ranch” sprung toward me in a menacing, holographic fashion—and then completely detached themselves from the bag. They lingered in the air for a moment and soon began encircling Alan, almost as if they were laying claim to him.

“Yo dude, what’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“I can’t talk right now.”

The bag of Doritos was clearly attempting to exploit my friend’s complete and utter devotion to it by stealing away his very life force to accomplish its own evil agenda. Yes…that sounded about right, but it was just too much for me to deal with. I dropped my juice box and ran out into the street.

I headed back in the direction of the apartment, and as a calm began to settle over me I thought it might be nice to finish up the trip in Central Park. Within minutes I arrived at the park and sat myself down on one of the benches that lined its perimeter. It was close to 11 p.m., so foot traffic was limited. I stared out into the darkness for a moment and could tell my trip was winding down.

After a few minutes passed, a well dressed older man approached me and introduced himself. Without much delay, and after about 30 seconds of small talk he said, “Hey, buddy—my wife’s on a business trip. Not for nothin’ but uhhh…You wouldn’t be interested in giving me a blowjob—would ya?”

Not for nothin’?
What the fuck does
that
mean?! And what an incredible buzz-kill.

Personally, I have nothing against homosexuals. People have no control over their sexual orientations and I’m a steadfast supporter of the ‘live and let live’ sentiment. I truly believe what goes on amongst two consenting adults is nobody else’s business, and I have many gay friends that are near and dear to me. As a matter of fact and somewhat surprisingly, I often find I have a great deal more in common with gay men than straight. That said, I wouldn’t even put
my own
penis in my mouth—so when confronted with the question I simply raised a hand and looked away as if to shield myself from the very notion. He must have sensed my discomfort:

“You know,” he said. “I
am
married and I do love my wife. But every now and then I need a little something else. Trust me, in the long run—it’s makes for a healthier relationship.”

This kept getting better. He now seemed to think that my disgust with his request stemmed solely from the adulterous nature of his yearnings. Apparently, the whole part about his dick being in my mouth was a nonissue. The important thing to consider was that by sucking him off,
I’d be helping his marriage
.

I thought I was going to retch. Certainly, I’m not gay—but that’s beside the point. I was still feeling the mescaline and if ever there was a surefire recipe for a bad trip, this was it. Without saying a word, I stood up and started back in the direction of my apartment, disappointed that the experience had to end on such a disturbing note. Then, as I left the park I heard in the distance, “Hey!!! My wife cheats on me too, you know!!”

10

I would say that between 1990 and 1996, I worked for no less than twelve New York City employers. Among those twelve fortunate employers, ten were restaurants and about half of them would ultimately end our respective relationships. Regarding the other half, I would be the one to sever ties. Either way, this is obviously not a very good track record; however, contrary to the most popular and educated guess—my inability to remain employed by a single
restaurant for any length of time
rarely
had anything to do with drugs.

Generally speaking, no one ever knew I was a junky unless I decided to share that information and I rarely did. Of course, my policy of nondisclosure was certainly extended to the workplace as I didn’t discuss my extracurricular activities with co-workers, nor did I ever list them as hobbies or interests on any job application. Therefore, although I really hate to disappoint the JUST SAY NO contingent, the cause of my employment woes had less to do with drugs, and more to do with a unique dynamic that exists within New York City restaurants:

There…I said it.

Some of the wretched are even former actor/waiters who, no longer able to endure the seemingly endless parade of bitter disappointments, have decided to give up on their dreams. However, rather than seek out a new and perhaps more attainable career path, they remain stationary—languishing over what
could
have been. And, if they languish long enough, they’ll get a chance to sell their souls to the devil in exchange for a management position, a few benefits, and a bit of authority. At this point a downward spiral ensues as they begin to observe life on the periphery. Eventually, with the taunting assistance of schedule requests that prioritize auditions and callbacks over hotdogs and hamburgers these souls can become lost and embittered, and after realizing they’re stuck in a dead-end job earning less than the waiters they’ve been terrorizing they’re almost unsalvageable.