Needle (7 page)

Nice.

Hence, an obvious lack of job interest combined with Judy’s animosity contributed to not only my dismissal from the agency, but also the dissolution of my relationship with Gail which I was made aware of the very same day. As a result, I suddenly found myself jobless
and
single on an afternoon in April that officially marked the end of my advertising career, and the beginning of a serious commitment to the band. And though I was mostly indifferent about getting dumped, I was still a bit unsettled by the notion of embarking on such a shameless and conspicuous quest for glory. I realized, however, that if we were ever going to be truly successful, I would now have to bravely align myself with the legions of city dwellers that were there solely to become famous. Actually, the mere thought of it made me a little sick. On a more positive note, I decided that since my experience within the ad industry turned out to be dismal, I was now completely free to fuck up my life without having to feel as though I sacrificed anything of value to do it.

On the evening of my dismissal from Archer, Perry and I got high together and as far as he was concerned—the demise of my professional career was cause for celebration.

“None of this matters,” he said matter-of-factly after preparing the dope. “Advertising jobs, restaurant jobs…none of it’s real.”

With that he handed me a rolled-up dollar bill, offering the first snort as though in recognition of some sort of achievement. I accepted the tribute, snorted deeply, and exhaled slowly.

“Someday you’re gonna be famous, Craigie,” he went on.

The heroin was beginning to help me see his point.

Since I’d suddenly found myself with a little extra time on my hands, that night we decided to begin to focus less on song writing and more on performing. Of course, in order to commence with this next step it was first necessary to round out the band by securing a rhythm section.

Clearly, here would be a perfect segue for me to mention the original lineup. Unfortunately, though not surprisingly, much of the decade is a blur and I remember few details regarding this very early and extremely brief period of the band’s development. In fact, as far as the first Sections drummer is concerned, I can recall nothing beyond the fact that he was overweight and had difficulty remembering the songs. I do remember a bit more about our first bassist, however. His name was Simon Coulter, he was 22, and though he played a variety of different instruments he sucked the same at every one.

Our very first performance was at Kenny’s Castaways in Greenwich Village on Wednesday, May 22
^nd
at 7 p.m. The gig was a disaster. Regarding the band’s reputation, the poor showing wasn’t that big of an issue. We were playing the beginner’s slot at one of the city’s less prestigious venues, in front of an audience of mostly friends. It was still, nonetheless, an extremely discouraging experience.

I wish I could blame excessive drug use for the shoddy performance; however, none of us were high that evening except for Matt. But by this point Matt was almost always high, especially when he was playing guitar. Though it would soon become a problem, on this evening his chemically induced stupor played only second fiddle to Simon’s sober ineptitude. Ironically it was Matt, slurring with eyes half-open, who continuously stumbled across the stage to correct Simon’s miscues, all while looking as though he was about to puke and pass out himself. It was the blind leading the irretrievably retarded, and from the very first note it was clear that a different rhythm section would be required before we attempted another
performance.

Sections didn’t truly begin to take shape until I ran into Danny at Ricochet which occurred, conveniently enough, on the Monday evening after our ill-fated first performance. Ricochet was a southwestern-style restaurant that Perry and I had been frequenting because he was obsessed with the bartender.

Although Perry rarely had a problem getting laid, I recall the two women he most doggedly pursued remained completely disinterested in him…at least sexually. Amy, the bartender at Ricochet, was the first. She was very beautiful and smart, and like many beautiful and smart women she wasn’t the least bit interested in Perry. Of course, Perry wasn’t easily discouraged and this time he had a plan. Each afternoon at 4 p.m. for most of that month of May, he would leave Oscar’s and jump in a cab heading directly to Ricochet, where he’d execute a meticulous strategy intended to win Amy’s affections. That is, he would attach himself to a stool, gaze at her, and order drink after drink. Unfortunately, he failed to consider one major flaw in the plan that would prove his undoing:

Perry’s tolerance for alcohol was roughly that of an underdeveloped child
.

Although he seemed unable to appreciate the profundity of his inebriation, after only three or four rounds Perry was
completely
finished. Then usually, after making a minor spectacle of himself, he would immediately leave Ricochet and head back to the apartment. But on more than one occasion he would end up totally trashed and passed-out on the subway. This was troubling. There was absolutely no reason for Perry to be on the subway in that condition…especially during rush hour…and especially when we lived about a block away from the restaurant.

After a few weeks and a few subterranean tours of the city, Perry finally realized his love for Amy would remain unrequited. Reality came crashing down around him on that fateful Monday evening when Helmer met us at Ricochet for drinks, about an hour before Danny happened to wander into the restaurant.

As I previously mentioned, Helmer was not at all a large man. In fact, he was kind of
frail
. At first glance, Helmer’s appeal to women lay mostly in his charm and charisma as you could literally watch him talk a girl right out of her panties. Besides his gift of gab, however, Helmer had one other asset which I’ve also already mentioned:
Helmer Pelaez had a penis that was gargantuan
. Although I swear
I never went looking for it, we first ran into each other during our stay at the 80
^th
Street apartment.

It happened one evening while I was watching television and Helmer stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. As he headed toward the kitchen and passed directly in front of me, the towel suddenly got snagged on the jagged edge of a wooden desk and broke free from his waist. As it fell to the floor I gasped out loud.

Although the television rambled on, an unnatural silence seemed to smother everything and you could have cut the tension in the room with a knife. There we were…all alone…just the
three
of us: I sat there dumfounded, Helmer was both terrified and embarrassed, and his shaft just sort of hung there in a contented way, like a once-exiled king at last returning to the throne.

After an awkward moment I tried to say something to delicately break the icy and uncomfortable silence.

“Helmer! Your dick is fucking huge!!!” I roared.

Not only was it massive, its girth somehow seemed to provide it with its own identity. In fact, its presence was so profound that one might be confused as to
who
was Helmer and who was the penis.

I stared with fear and amazement as I was both terrified and intrigued at the same time. It was like suddenly stumbling upon a very large, previously unknown species which had somehow managed to survive for years, undiscovered—
right in your very own bedroom
. At first it might seem tame enough, but you didn’t dare touch it or get too close because you knew it could probably hurt you if it wanted.

If there was anyone even more consumed by the notion of Helmer’s penis—it was Perry, and when Helmer strolled into Ricochet that evening and introduced himself to Amy he knew the game was over.

Of course, Perry had been intimidated by Helmer’s penis ever since they first caught sight of each other in—of all places—an extremely busy pizza shop on 57
^th
Street. At the time I’d been discussing the size of Helmer’s shaft on a regular basis but Perry would have none of it, as I suppose my estimation seemed a bit too outlandish for him to accept. That was until he actually saw the beast for himself.

We’d finished eating our pizza, and just as we were clearing the table it happened. Why exactly Helmer chose this moment and setting to unsheathe I will probably never know, for he still has yet to provide
a satisfactory answer. Perhaps somewhere he sensed a subtle challenge to his position as the dominant male in the pizza place, or maybe he was just sick and tired of hearing Perry dismiss my account of his member’s immensity. Whatever it was, in a flash Helmer not only whipped the fucker out—but slammed it against the top of the rickety old table. As it came crashing down its image was burned into my retina, and the thunderous sound it made still echoes in my head to this day.

The impact rang out, reverberated down the legs of the metal table, lingered in the air for several moments and then strangely made me sick to my stomach. In an effort to locate the cause of the mysterious sound, startled customers scanned the dining area as the ringing slowly faded away. Its source, fortunately for them, remained a mystery.

Perry’s initial reaction to Helmer’s penis was a mixture of both awe and dismay, but he eventually grew to accept and appreciate it along with the other mysteries of the universe. Regardless, that evening when Helmer stepped into Ricochet, Perry quietly ended his courtship of Amy as failure now seemed inevitable. Amy was at once smitten with Helmer and though he would have nothing to do with her, the mere thought of her atop that monstrous penis was enough to help Perry come to terms with the loss. However, most pivotal that evening was not the plight of Perry but rather, accidentally bumping into Danny.

Danny Lapidus was a short, very talented, and rapidly balding saxophone player who hailed from Brooklyn, though I’d first met him at Binghamton. We were both English majors and had shared some of the same classes, but that night at Ricochet I’d gotten to know him better than I had during the years we’d spent together at school. After a few drinks he came back to our apartment to hear some material and by the end of the evening it was unanimous: Danny would be our sax player and whenever needed, help out on vocals.

Although it went unsaid, we knew that we really didn’t need a saxophone player in the band, but we also knew that we had absolutely no discipline as musicians. Danny was a technically solid player, and we felt his involvement would not only help improve the band as a whole—but also enhance our credibility as performing musicians. But ultimately, Danny’s greatest asset was his charisma, which, though difficult to describe, would translate into a tremendous stage presence. Eventually, I realized that part of the secret to his
success revolved around the fact that Danny was always smiling, regardless of the occasion. He would later tell me that Matt had more talent in the tip of his little finger than I did in my entire body—but as always, behind every venomous word was a warm and wonderful smile.

14

Not long after getting canned at Archer, I’d picked up a newspaper and scoured the classifieds for something that I stood a chance at being able to endure. Though it had been seven months since I’d ended my torment at Oscar’s, the awful memories still lingered and I was determined to avoid another restaurant job. This was quite a challenge because the field of viable opportunities was smaller than you might expect. Although I had received a BA in literature the year before, it would not factor into my present search for employment as any career-oriented position would likely interfere with the musical commitments I now made to myself and those around me.

After about a month of job hunting, a Sunday edition of the New York Times yielded a vacancy at Barry’s Bagels. They had several locations and the one for which they were recruiting was located on Second Avenue, approximately eight blocks from our apartment.

I made my way to the hiring location and was met by Gina Turner, the store manager. Gina was black, a little older than I, and very attractive. She hired me almost immediately and I was to report to work on the following Monday morning at 8 a.m.

The evening after I was hired at Barry’s I had the first of what would become a long series of nightmares which have, periodically, plagued me to this day. In the dream, I am a senior again at Binghamton revisiting commencement, or some other event signifying the end of my college career. Then suddenly, I learn that I don’t quite have the requirements to graduate.

This very first rendition of the dream took place during graduation ceremonies. While at Binghamton, Dr. William Spanos was not only
my academic advisor but also a highly respected scholar. In the dream he stood on a stage conducting the ceremony, and at some point began announcing the name of each graduating student. As the students heard their names, they each took the stage and accepted a symbolic scroll noting their achievement. When my name was called I also went to receive the credential; however, rather than bestowing it to me the professor gently placed his hand on my shoulder like a disappointed father.

With very serious eyes and in the most distinguished way, he addressed me personally but before the entire commencement hall:

“Binghamton University strives to provide its students with a comprehensive view of the world. Hopefully, it is one that results in professional success and personal enrichment, as our graduating class will soon be faced with important decisions likely to affect them for the rest of their lives. In order to continue this longstanding tradition of excellence, it is of the utmost importance that all graduates possess attributes that subscribe to our cherished, educational standard. These attributes, mind you, are developed through one means and one means alone: The successful completion of all coursework mandated by the declared concentration, as well as the required disciplines.”

“Didn’t I successfully complete the requirements, sir?” I sheepishly asked.

“Much to the disappointment of myself, my fellow academics, and
your
fellow graduates I’m afraid to say that no, shithead, you did not.”