Needle (31 page)

For a hundred dollars a week, Perry and I were provided a small
room equipped with a sink on the second floor, and a “private” bathroom conveniently located next door. However, the privacy of this particular bathroom was a luxury enjoyed by not only Perry and I, but about 20 crack-whores who also resided on the floor. It was cleaned once in the morning at around 6:00, but that did little to alleviate the biohazard that would eventually develop as a troop of hookers used the facility to freshen up in between assignments. Needless to say, by the end of the workday the floor, sink, toilet bowl and shower would be covered in a cumulative stew of biological debris that had at some point been expelled from a variety of different orifices and canals.

60

Living in the Midtown Hotel certainly did nothing to improve my mental outlook as I seemed to be creeping ever closer to rock-bottom. “Everything’s gonna be great and it’s just a matter of time,” I would constantly tell myself, but at the pace things were going my words were practically meaningless.

Exactly how far my life had deteriorated became clear one morning during our first week at the hotel, when Perry awoke at 5:00 to use the facility. Although I didn’t notice him leave the room, I was certainly awakened by his return.

“Don’t go in there, man, don’t ever go the fuck in there again!” he said to me as he stampeded back into the room with a nightmarish look in his eyes.

“Don’t go in where?” I asked.

“The bathroom! It’s the most awful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

That was definitely saying something.

I looked at the clock and realized it was just before the HAZMAT team typically arrived to decontaminate the second floor facility. Even so, my curiosity had gotten the better of me and I decided to investigate the matter myself.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Perry asked me.

“I wanna see.”

“Dude, you’re crazy. Don’t go in there. You’re not up to it. It might make you cry.”

“I’ll take my chances. Besides, I’ve gotta take a leak.”

“You’d be better off peeing out the window.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I said.

I left the room, and as I cautiously opened the bathroom door and turned on the light I was shocked by how Perry could mitigate the horror of it all. A whitish-yellow gelatinous goo clung to the sink and dangled from the faucet, while a mixture of feces and blood smeared the toilet bowl and floor. When I noticed a moist, bright-red, foamy-looking lump nestled in the corner of the shower stall I finally had to puke.

I ran back to the room and apparently, the expression on my face said it all.

“Told you so,” Perry said.

“That was horrible, man…just horrible!!!” I said as I tearfully peed out the window. “And what the fuck was that red thing in the corner?!?”

“I don’t know. I think it was a slice of pizza…or maybe a fetus.”

From that day forward, Perry and I pledged to never again enter the bathroom between 5 p.m. and 6 a.m., as that was when the hookers seemed most active and before the facility was sterilized. To help combat the problem, we resorted to relieving ourselves in empty beverage bottles and would soon amass a variety of different containers filled to the rim with our bright-yellow, junky urine. Notwithstanding the occasional spillage, the system actually worked out quite nicely. Unfortunately, however, the room would soon become inundated with bottles, and we’d eventually be confronted with the unenviable task of having to empty them into the sink in order to start anew. Of course, in no time at all, the piss menagerie would once again accumulate to a point that would make even a
serious
collector proud.

On a
slightly
less revolting note, I managed to secure another restaurant gig. On February 20
^th
I was hired at Ellen’s Stardust Diner which was located in midtown on Sixth Avenue, but has since relocated to Broadway. Although I was pleased with its proximity to my new residence, there was no question that it was a step down from Serendipity in terms of staff and earning potential. Ellen’s was another theme-based restaurant that attempted to replicate a
1950’s-style diner with a wait staff outfitted in baseball caps, bowling shirts, and shorts. On the self-degradation scale it was about a nine-and-a-half.

The restaurant was owned and operated by Ellen Hart, formally Ruth Ericsson, who was apparently a “Miss Subway” pageant winner from 50 years ago. This little bit of local lore was documented by old, black and white photographs of her and other pageant winners that were plastered around the dining areas. The restaurant, its décor, and menu was a shrine to an era that hadn’t been in the collective consciousness since
Happy Days
went off the air, and a tribute to a long forgotten beauty pageant that few seemed to know anything about.

61

“Hey, I think I found us another drummer,” Perry told me.

“Well it’s about time you got something constructive accomplished,” I said as I withdrew the needle from my arm.

It was already well into March, we hadn’t set foot in the studio in almost seven weeks, and Perry was beginning to feel the heat from Catherine.

“Who’d you get?” I managed to ask before the dope had its way with me.

“Marc…from Sound Advice.”

Marc Jordan was not only a great drummer, but he was also calling the shots for what I felt was one of the best bands in the city. His status in Sound Advice was the result of him being the most gifted musician in the band, and even with a relatively weak bassist they were still impressive enough to be well regarded. Certainly, his involvement with Sections was very good news for the moment, and it provided me with a respite from the depression I’d been experiencing.

“How’d you get him to agree to it,” I asked Perry.

“It wasn’t difficult. He knows we’re great. Besides, I think he’s really into the idea of working with Justin.”

“Yes. We
are
great,” I said as I drifted away.

A few minutes, or perhaps, a few hours had passed before another word was spoken.

“Hey! The light’s on in my toe, but I’m stuck in the elevator.”

What? Did I just say that?
I wasn’t sure.

“My watch hurts. Hey Perry!!! Are you gonna wake up or am I gonna have to stand on the roof again? Perry…Answer me you fucking asshole!”

“Would you shut the fuck up?!?” Perry shouted. “You’re talking shit again.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not,” I insisted. “Hey Perry!”

“WHAT?!?”

“Isn’t spinach brave?”

Oh shit, that was definitely me
.

Actually, I had a long history of talking shit whenever seriously fucked up, which—unfortunately for Perry—was every night.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m never getting high with you again,” he said.

Empty threat
.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?!” Perry yelled from his bed, further agitated by yet another slumber interruption.

“Yo, man—there’s a fire! You better get outta there!” shouted a stranger from the hallway.

“Don’t worry about it and just go away!” Perry shouted back.

“Seriously man,” the stranger went on. “You guys better hurry up and get out.”

Perry, who was seriously fucked-up himself, stumbled out of bed and opened the door to assess the threat, not to mention the source from which it was revealed. A skinny, black, crackhead appeared in the doorway and continued to urge us into flight mode.

“Let’s go guys. The smoke is getting thick,” the crackhead said.

Perry stepped out into the hallway and took a look at the commotion going on around us. In a sober state of recollection, I’m not sure if it was the fact that Perry had little faith in crackheads, or he was just too fucked-up to notice smoke billowing into the room.

“Fuck it. We’re staying,” he said with a surprising amount of conviction.

“Are you crazy?” responded the crackhead in disbelief.

“Fuck it all,” Perry told him. “Now please go away.”

“You guys are gonna die if you don’t leave.”

“Don’t worry about it and just get the fuck outta here!” Perry shouted as he slammed the door shut and the frightened crackhead fled the building.

62

As much as I didn’t care for certain aspects of his personality, Marc seemed to be the missing link. Remarkably, during his first session he was able to add drums to several guitar tracks that Matt had recorded previously, and though forced to adapt to such an unorthodox recording methodology—he was flawless and his rhythms were electrifying. In fact, the only interruption in progress occurred when Justin was unable to develop a proper bass line around Marc’s performance on “The Wish.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” I said, interrupting Justin who was only about 30 seconds into his initial effort.

“What’s wrong?” Justin asked with a smile, probably because this was the first and only time I’d ever questioned his playing. But then again, this was the first time I’d ever heard him play anything that wasn’t perfect. In a tactful manner I attempted to explain the error of his ways. Unfortunately, my ability to question or communicate musical direction was compromised by an extremely limited command of the proper terminologies.

“You’re coming in on the wrong beat or measure or time signature or something,” I stated plainly.

“Sorry. I must have lost my mind,” Justin admitted.

“It’s probably my fault,” Marc interjected as though he felt his limited exposure to the song might have somehow contributed to the miscue.

“No, it’s not,” I said.

“But what you said doesn’t make any sense,” he replied.

“He means the
progression
,” Perry clarified, who by now had an advanced degree in my musical doublespeak. “He wants you to play
basically the same thing you’re playing, but try coming in on the first progression instead of the third.”

With that one correction Justin nailed it in a single take, and I thought it was the most beautiful bass line I’d ever heard. That session had proven to be the most productive to date, and with the music to four songs now virtually completed, Perry and I decided to celebrate in the usual way. We bid Justin and Marc farewell and flagged a cab to Clinton Street.

“What time is it?” Perry asked me as we exited the cab.

“Just after six.”

“I have to be at my mother’s in Brooklyn by 7:30,” he said.

“What the fuck for?”

“She’s making pot roast.”

“So?”

“She’s been at it all day.”

“And?”

“I fucking want some, alright?!?”

Ever since Winston introduced us to Angelina’s we had become frequent shoppers at the dainty, little, lady’s boutique—owned and operated by Colombian dope peddlers. It was, without question, the most extravagant and successful drug front I’ve ever seen, and had come into existence as dealers found it increasingly difficult to safely do business in the street—especially around Greenwich Village.

The secret behind the boutique’s success was its attention to detail. The store was filled with racks of women’s clothing and accessories, which, although a complete ruse were actually for sale to customers unaware of the core product. There were even women inside, arranging merchandise and posing as sales associates. It was a remarkably well thought-out operation; everything in the store had a price tag and junkies were required to purchase a legitimate item in order to help maintain the facade. For that very reason a basket of twenty-five cent hairclips sat on a desk in front of the cash register—which was located just above a hidden garbage pail filled with dope. After transactions were completed the boutique even provided its junky clientele with a receipt…for
the hairclip
, that is. Unfortunately, on this particular afternoon they were fresh out of hairclips, so Perry selected a cheap pair of fishnets that were
very
slutty.

We left the store, purchased syringes from a homeless junky, and then headed toward Houston in search of an appropriate place to get
off.

“There’s a Chinese restaurant,” Perry said as he spotted Ming’s Dynasty on the corner of Houston and First Avenue. “Besides, I could go for an egg roll, anyway.”

“Me too,” I said. “Especially since I don’t have your fucked-up mother’s pot roast to look forward to.” Obviously, I knew I wouldn’t be invited to the home-cooked extravaganza because if there was one person who hated me more than Gina—it was Perry’s mother, Felicia.

We entered the restaurant and made our way to a back table strategically located near the bathrooms. As Perry headed to the facility, I placed an order for an appetizer portion of egg rolls and two cokes. Shortly thereafter he returned.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Two semi-private, well-equipped stalls with fully functioning toilets,” he told me.

“I mean the dope.”

“Dope’s fine.”

About fifteen minutes after I booted and returned from the bathroom the egg rolls had arrived and were rapidly consumed. We then lingered for a half-hour, paid the tab, left Ming’s and were almost immediately descended upon by police.

The moment Perry caught sight of the cops he knew we were busted. He dropped his fishnets on the floor and then instinctively threw himself against the nearest wall, which happened to be a fence. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite as quick on the take.

“Get against the wall, dickhead!” said the first little piggy to arrive.

“You mean the fence?” I clarified.

Apparently, that was exactly what he meant, evidenced by the fence-like indentations that were then immediately imprinted on my forehead.

“Where’s your fucking dope?” the cop demanded, as he continued to press my face against the fence with one hand while patting me down with the other.

“What dope?” I asked, and then he pressed a little harder.

“We saw you scumbags buy the fucking works!” he screamed into my ear.

Ducking into Ming’s Dynasty after we secured the works, but before the cops had a chance to grab us, not only delayed—but had apparently compromised their poorly thought-out operation.