Needle (9 page)

“Detective Ernie Anson! Detective Ernie Anson! Detective Ernie Anson!” Matt wailed again and again as they threw him onto the pavement. It was all terribly undignified.

“Who the fuck is Detective Ernie Anson?!” asked the cop with the baton.

“He’s my dad,” said the poorest excuse that anyone had ever seen for a 24 year-old man.

“
Your
father’s in the department?” asked the other officer in semi-disbelief.

“Yes sir,” Matt said as he then cleared his throat to continue. “He works out of the 45
^th
Precinct in the Bronx and was—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF PISS!!! YOU’RE A FUCKING DISGRACE!! DOES YOUR FATHER KNOW YOU’RE A FUCKED UP JUNKY?!?”

“And a pussy?” I added.

“No,” he answered both of us.

“Where’d you get that shit?” the cop with the club asked me.

“Over there,” I said, vaguely pointing toward Tenth Avenue.

“Who gave it to you?”

“The Spanish guy over there,” I said, gesturing toward a street teeming with nothing other than “Spanish” guys.

Of course, I was being less than cooperative and the cops knew it. But these two were donut-dunkers and weren’t the least bit interested in launching a drug investigation. Of course, they could have arrested us anyway, but I had a feeling that Matt’s relationship to the Big Blue Wall of Silence would save us.

The cops took a few steps away, reconvened, and then the one with the baton pointed it in Matt’s face and said, “The only reason
I’m not locking you assholes up is because your father’s a cop, and I feel sorry that he has a piece-of-shit-junky for a son. But if I see either of you fucks again you’re going to jail.”

We got back in the car and I told Matt to wait until the police left the area. Initially, I thought we might try to score again as I was now consumed with the thought of getting high. Obviously, my very first run-in with New York’s Finest didn’t quite affect me in the way that it should have. But then again, by this point I looked at the whole experience as if it was just a game—the object of which was to not get busted. As far as I was concerned it was much more
James Bond
than
Law and Order
, and I didn’t acknowledge the seriousness of it all. I simply thought of it as
us
versus
them
and nothing more. No hard feelings, really, because to me this wasn’t about crime, it was about my right to do what I wanted—and what I wanted to do was drugs.

Though I still had heroin on the brain, Matt was overcome by the thought of incarceration. Apparently, the close call and potential implications involving his father were just too much for him to handle and he decided to call it a night. He then put the car in drive, and took me back to the east side saying not a word along the way.

16

I had been at Barry’s for about four months. I’d settled nicely into my new routine, and was beginning to wear my starving artist label like a badge of honor. I’d also been dating Venus, and though I carelessly misplaced her phone number the same day she gave it to me, in a strange twist of fate she lived only a few blocks away from Barry’s. As a result, good fortune suddenly smiled upon me during a sweltering afternoon in July when she strolled into the store for an iced tea and to punch me in the face. Fortunately, at the last minute she decided to cut me some slack and resist resorting to violence, but only because the chance encounter made her reluctant to risk altering what she thought might be some sort of a mystical, predetermined destiny.

Venus Bellini was unlike anyone I’d ever met. She was beautiful,
bold and sometimes brash, and though she occasionally came across an unwilling but necessary component to getting what she wanted, her extreme confidence and flawless beauty were usually enough to overcome any obstacle or objection to her having her way. Venus had grown up in Forrest Hills, and after recently graduating from Princeton University with a degree in biology, she immediately landed a job as a sales rep for a medical equipment manufacturer.

As far as the band was concerned, most of that summer was spent searching long and hard for a rhythm section. We first looked for a drummer by placing ads in the Village Voice and The Daily News but initially came up empty. Of course, there were auditions, but the applicants were either short on chops or just a bit too drunk and stoned to be taken seriously—even by
our
standards. Then, at the very end of September, Danny Lapidus scheduled an audition for a drummer by the name of Pat Sullivan at a rehearsal studio on 23
^rd
Street.

With each passing month Danny played an increasingly greater role in the band’s development, as he was fairly well-connected throughout the city’s independent music scene and that was a
major
asset. However, his musical contributions to Sections were mostly limited to a few notes on the sax, some backing vocals, a tap or two on the tambourine and a technically discerning ear.

Danny was also a guitarist and songwriter, but there was simply no room for another guitar player in the band, and though his songs were worthy—they were never quite right for Sections. These were hardly my own arbitrary rulings, however, and though I could be tyrannical during rehearsals, decisions with regard to songs and set lists were always made on a consensus basis. As things turned out, I was responsible for 80% of the material, but everyone had the same opportunity to contribute. In fact, Matt wrote two songs and even Perry co-wrote a few, but Danny’s material never quite made the grade and though he had yet to mention it, I could tell the limited role was beginning to frustrate him. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter was that musically—Sections didn’t really need a saxophone player and ultimately, Sections wouldn’t need Danny. But I knew that if we could find a place for him, even if it was just temporary, it would only be to our benefit.

On September 30
^th
at 7:45, Perry and I arrived at the studio for the drummer’s audition. Danny appeared shortly thereafter along with the hopeful candidate. We introduced ourselves to Pat and discovered that he considered himself mainly a jazz musician, though he claimed to
be equally proficient in all styles of music. He was also from Nebraska and about as green as they come.

Incidentally, the last thing I wanted to hear from a potential drummer was a fondness for jazz because—quite frankly—I’ve never been a fan. Although I can certainly appreciate the technical virtuosity behind much of the music, the music itself never fails to leave me feeling completely uninspired.
I’d rather listen to country
.

Frank Cotto stood in on bass to help facilitate the audition. He was an extremely skillful player on loan from The Authority, perhaps best known for being mentioned in the liner notes of the Spin Doctors’
Pocket Full of Kryptonite
album. They were a funk band with a hard-rock edge that I found only slightly more alluring than jazz, but like the Spin Doctors they were being represented by David Graham’s management company. David, incidentally, was the son Bill Graham—the iconic music promoter—and had also helped launch the career of Blues Traveler. According to those in the know, The Authority was to be the next big thing. As things turned out, however, those in the know knew not—but at the time they were a pretty big deal locally. Each weekend they would sell out The Wetlands, and even Ice Cube was rumored to have been interested in taking them on as his band.

As expected, I was less than thrilled with Pat’s drumming but decided to shut my mouth because things were moving slowly enough as it was. Danny and Perry offered Pat the slot and without too much fanfare, he accepted and then immediately left the studio.

While gathering his equipment together, Frank invited us to see The Authority play later that evening at the Nightingale Lounge, as he had several times throughout the summer. He and Danny had been childhood friends, and I usually felt compelled to attend the gigs out of politeness, if not politics. Tonight, however, would be different. I had a big date planned with a hot bag of dope that would wait for no one. I politely declined Frank’s invitation as did Perry, but we promised to be in attendance three weeks from Friday as The Authority was being given a showcase at Limelight. Just then, Matt showed up.

He walked in with his guitar as if he
wasn’t
two hours late. To be honest, I had completely forgotten that he was coming at all. His attendance at even important sessions was becoming iffy at best, especially if he didn’t need help scoring. But regardless of the motive, if he did make an appearance he would usually be wasted and worth
little and today was no exception.

“Hey guys…Guess what?” Matt slurred as he made his grand entrance.

Nobody hazarded a guess.

With a big, ridiculous, grin that reeked of someone trying to convince himself of something, he made the joyous announcement.

“Cynthia and I just got engaged!”

“Hey, that’s great,” Danny congratulated. “When’s the big day?”

“Oh, we’re not sure yet. Probably sometime next summer.”

“You should try not to be two hours late,” I pointed out as I left the studio.

I hopped in a cab and headed over to Hell’s Kitchen. The same slippery looking Colombian with bad skin was stationed at the same building stoop and we made the same exchange. I immediately tore into the bag, inserted a rolled-up dollar bill, and inhaled deeply. As I slowly exhaled and started on a northeasterly trek towards home, I was certain that even with all of our shortcomings the band would soon be well on its way.

17

By October Pat had settled in as our regular drummer, but we were still unable to close the deal on a bassist. We simply couldn’t find anyone that sounded right, at least to the degree to which they’d be offered a permanent spot in the band. A bassist and drummer must work within a dynamic that is almost entirely their own, and neither can get too clever without the other musically reacting. This special relationship never developed during any of the auditions, and as far as I was concerned it was all Pat’s fault—but I wasn’t about to pick
that
fight. Danny loved Pat, and even Perry seemed to like him. Actually, he
was
a really nice guy. So at least for the short term, rather than make a fuss I decided to let things continue on as they were.

In the meantime, we decided to use Casey the Cop on bass. Casey the Cop was a friend of Pat’s—and Lord knows if he wasn’t a cop he would’ve been a criminal. He was an impulsive, 28 year-old,
Asian-American kickboxing champion with an untamable wild streak and though he wasn’t a thug, he was a reckless and renowned alcoholic who for the past ten years had continuously transitioned his focus between martial arts and crime fighting arenas. As far as his bass playing was concerned, he was no more in sync with Pat than any of the others, but he was temporary and he knew it. We could use Casey to rehearse and perhaps for a gig or two, but eventually the search for a more permanent replacement would have to be resumed.

By the middle of the month, Danny managed to land us a gig at The Speakeasy on Bleecker Street. This was easier said than done, especially since we were still without a decent demo, but Danny happened to have been friends with a black guy named Big Al who operated the club’s sound system. The gig was on a Monday night and considering the fact that it was only our second as a band, and first with the existing lineup, it went well. It went so well that the club’s manager offered us 200 bucks to play the 11 o’clock slot a week from Saturday. Believe it or not, this wasn’t a bad arrangement because Saturday night shows were coveted, and 200 bucks was exactly $200 more than he was presently paying us.

Although most of the city’s venues do pay something, there’s such a continuous influx of new bands that it’s not uncommon to find bars and clubs that compensate with nothing beyond draft beer, but still manage to stay flush with reasonably decent talent. As a matter of fact, after purchasing its legendary sound system in the late eighties, CBGB’s actually made local acts
pay
to play on their hallowed stage. By providing bands with a recording of their performance in exchange for a mandatory fee of $60, the club found a state-of-the-art way to pay off its state-of-the-art sound system.

By the time we made it to CB’s, they’d done away with the controversial practice and I had heard two distinctly different stories regarding the change in policy. The first was that the city’s local bands—realizing they were responsible for at least 80% of the club’s shows—organized themselves and boycotted CBGB’s in protest. The second and more plausible version was that at the end of a particular show, when the sound engineer presented the band with a recording of their performance and a bill for services rendered, the band presented the sound engineer with a trip to the hospital and a recording of him getting his ass kicked.

We scheduled two rehearsals during the week prior to the big Speakeasy gig. Matt completely missed the first, but made it to the
second with his brains barely intact. Once again he was worthless. While everyone else worked tirelessly to make the songs tighter, Matt, with his mouth opened and eyes closed, only
pretended
to play his guitar—which given the alternative of him fucking-up was certainly the lesser of two evils. As usual, I was annoyed with him, but everything else was going quite well and at this point he simply wasn’t worth interrupting progress over. Everyone seemed to know the set, and the band had worked out a funky rap/rock hybrid that erupted out of nowhere. Then, for no reason at all, Matt attempted to play something. What it was exactly we’ll never know, as his guitar was so far out of tune that everyone immediately stopped what they were doing—dead in their tracks. I finally decided to lose control.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!!” I screamed at him. “Don’t answer! If you’re too fucked up to actually play—just keep pretending, or leave, or do whatever the fuck you want but stop screwing everybody up!”

“Craig, relax!” said Danny as he put in his two cents.

“Fuck that!” I said and continued. “You’re a fucking disaster, Matt, and if you can’t hold it together for a couple of hours a week, then why even bother to show up at all? In fact, why don’t you just get the fuck out right now?!”