Needle (34 page)

“The fee is six dollars per week and that covers the cost of seven, daily treatments,” she said before I even had a chance to sit down.

“Fine. I’ll take 21 then
—just in case
.”

“It doesn’t quite work that way,” she told me. “First of all, we don’t dispense methadone from this office and secondly, there’s a five-day waiting period to process your Medicaid information.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I told her. “I don’t have Medicaid. I’ll just pay for it in cash.”

“Then it’s $40 per week and there’s
still
a five-day waiting period.”

“Listen, I don’t have $40 and I don’t have one day to wait let alone
five,” I said as another round of intestinal gurgling helped emphasize my point.

“I’m sorry, but if you don’t have Medicaid we require a $40 deposit for the first week of treatment,” she explained again. “But either way, we first have to schedule a blood screening and a physical examination.”

“What the fuck for?!?”

“To test for chemical dependency!” she fired back, apparently offended by my choice of words. “Who
the fuck
knows—you might not even be an addict.”

“Oh really? Well I’ve got a belly full of brown piss that begs to differ with ya…
ma’am
.”

“Look—I’m sorry, but those are the rules.”

I was stunned. Why in the world would a junky spend $40 on methadone that he couldn’t even have for a week, when he could walk to Angelina’s and score a bag of dope and a pair of fishnets for $10.99 plus tax?

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said as I was beginning to realize that there’d be no methadone for
this
rock star.

“I don’t kid, Mr. Goodman.”

“But this doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” the counselor told me. “You might just be looking to get high.”

“Oh come on!” I shouted in disbelief. “If I was looking to get high, I’d be outside copping a bag from your fucking neighbors! I’m trying to get clean!”

“Yeah, sure, I know…rules are rules.”

I left the office and the building in a blind fury, unable to see more than just a few feet in front of me. I continued down the street propelled by nothing but rage and then, in a brief moment of clarity, I realized I didn’t know where I was going or what I was going to do. So I screamed.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUUUUUUCK!!! THIS IS SUCH A BUNCH OF FUCKING
BULLSHIT!!!!!
” I bellowed as I fell to my knees and began pounding my fist on the pavement.

As I knelt on the corner of Delancey Street, panting from the outburst and the amount of energy it expended, I realized I’d finally become one of those that I used to walk in the opposite direction of.

“Fuck it all,” I said as I headed to Angelina’s.

65

After failing to convince the Delancey Street drug dealers that I was a dope fiend, I went to Angelina’s and scored two bags of heroin which left me penniless and with no choice but to make the 60-block journey back home on foot. It took me over an hour as I threw-up my breakfast bagel several times along the way—much to the disgust of passing pedestrians and about a million tourists.

By the time I made it back to our room, it was nearly lunchtime and Perry was already at Oasis in the middle of another training shift. I quickly threw my stash on the table and opened the top dresser drawer to retrieve a syringe.

“Fuck!”

The only remaining, remotely useable syringe was quite old, dirty, and had a needle that was bent. With no money to speak of, no time to spare, and my bowels ready to discharge once more I was forced to make the best out of a bad situation. I immediately prepared the dope in a spoon and without bothering to cook it up, attempted to draw the drug into a needle that had long outlived its usefulness. Somehow, I managed to finesse the reluctant syringe into service one last time as I then bent back the needle and prayed to the IV drug gods above that it didn’t snap off in my fingertips—much less my vein when I pulled the trigger. Though I was able to return the needle to a somewhat straightened position, I realized it was far too dull to penetrate a vein and instead skin-popped the loaded syringe in my shoulder. It was like getting stabbed with the prong of a rusty fork.

The dope was much better than usual, even for Angelina’s always-potent blend. Within just a few minutes—even without being able to tap a vein—I could feel the tide of intestinal fluids recede upwards while simultaneously, a wave of comfort and relief washed over me. Amazingly, I’d used only one of the bags and was not only straight, but high enough to actually catch a nod.

As I drifted in and out, I realized that registering for the meth program would have been tantamount to a death sentence. Of course, I was high at the time of this chemically-concocted conclusion, but it was still more qualified than earlier decisions egged-on by the panic-stricken fear of dopesickness. I realized that if I genuinely wanted to quit using heroin, the meth program was definitely the
wrong way to go about it. I mean, things weren’t that bad…
were they?
Besides, I reasoned, if I was going to be addicted to a drug, it may as well be one of my own choosing. Fuck the city, fuck the police and perhaps most of all—fuck the methadone clinic.

With the fear of dopesickness eliminated, I was able to recognize the fact that I wasn’t at all sure about ending my relationship with heroin. Like writing music, shooting dope had become a fundamental component to my daily life, and the two routines were so closely intertwined that I wasn’t even sure one could exist without the other. As a matter of fact, whereas before we would use drugs to make music and secure our future as contented, working musicians—we were now trying to use music to make money and secure our future as contented, functioning drug addicts. Heroin had become such a vital part of our lives that the thought of doing without it was almost inconceivable.

Of course, somewhere deep inside—perhaps without actually acknowledging it—I knew my longstanding philosophies about drug use were flawed. Just like Nancy Reagan and the Just Say No To Drugs Choir, I too was guilty of over generalizing. However,
my
drug policy was centered on reckless experimentation—and I was now clearly suffering the consequences. Unfortunately, so many years were spent forging this path to self-destruction that I didn’t want to admit I was wrong, as Perry and I now began to take perverse pleasure in unapologetically defining ourselves as junky musicians. Out of what can be described as nothing other than spiteful stubbornness, I relished the thought of remaining exactly as I was and somehow making it work to our benefit. Somewhere along the line, adolescent passion and a rebellious sense of adventure had crossed wires with a very grown-up fear of wasting time and being proven wrong.

For the past few weeks, I’d been meaning to write the acknowledgments for the CD’s insert, and in the heat of the moment I began by first giving credit to my own arrogance and combativeness:

“Additional thanks go to the Delancey Street Clinic for convincing me to bypass methadone and remain faithfully addicted to heroin, New York City’s Legal Aid Society for keeping us out of jail and in the studio—most of the time, Dr. Wendel for keeping Perry’s drug-ravaged heart beating long enough to see the completion of the disc and last, but not least, the former members of Sections for calling it quits so we could get a real band.”

I went on unrepentant, and after selecting each word based on its ability to offend the intended target, I decided that the inclusion of
some additional imagery might better emphasize the point.

One afternoon several months earlier, Jason Fontana—who was responsible for designing the CD cover—had stopped by the apartment with a camera to, as he put it,
capture our purest essence
. For about an hour he quietly snapped a myriad of pictures and within a few weeks we received a proof. It was a hand-sketched depiction of a few packs of Marlboros, an ashtray filled with butts, and a bottle of booze overlooking the terrain of slop that continuously blanketed our dirty, little, Hell’s Kitchen dwelling. As unflattering as that may sound, it was actually quite a good rendering and very symbolic of the mess that cluttered our lives. Unfortunately, however, though the cover was pleasingly unconventional, I suddenly decided it was missing something. I picked up the phone and called Jason to share my vision.

“Hey Jason—this is Craig from Sections,” I said after he answered.

“What do
you
want?”

I’m not sure Jason was ever a big fan of the band.

“I want you to add something to the CD cover,” I told him now, about six months after I’d already signed-off on it.

“Ah, man—come on!”

“No—really, Jason. I think something needs to be added to truly
capture our purest essence,”
I said, repeating his own words back to him with hopes they might stir up a little inspiration.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve already spent an hour capturing your essence and I still haven’t been able to disinfect my camera.”

“Trust me,” I told him. “There’s something you can include that’ll really show the world who we are and what we’re about.”

“And what’s that?”

“A syringe!”

“Wow…You really are fucked up, aren’t you?” he asked without really asking.

“No, man—seriously,” I pleaded. “A syringe with just a drop of residual blood left
tastefully
dangling from the needle. What do you think?”

“I think not,” he said and then hung up.

I was not to be deterred. Although I might not have my way on the CD cover, I still had one more card to play: a kid named Adam who was responsible for the artwork, liner notes and font selections in the booklet. He was only sixteen years old, and I thought I stood a good
chance of exploiting his innocence. I decided to give him a call.

“Hello?”

“Hey Adam, this is Craig.”

“What’s up, Craig? How’s everything?”

I cut right to the chase.

“I want you to draw a picture of a bloody syringe.”

“For the booklet?”

“Yeah.”

“Ummmm…OK,” he said. “I already have a few good sketches but I could definitely use some more. You know, I’d love for you to drop by and take a look at them.”

“Cool, I’ll stop by next week.”

As I disengaged with Adam, Perry returned from his training shift and threw $80 on the night stand.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked.

Apparently, the waitress charged with training Perry had a sudden audition that surprisingly took precedence over the fine Mediterranean fare she was doling out. Consequently, the restaurant had no choice other than to prematurely put Perry on the floor.

With $80 now burning a hole on the nightstand, any lingering notions I may have had about cleaning up my act were entirely squelched as I booted the other bag.

66

Although it wasn’t easy I did eventually find a daytime waiting job at La Trattoria, a little Italian restaurant in the West Village, while Perry continued on miserably at Oasis. Each day he seemed on the verge of quitting but was always held in check by a habit that was now approaching four bags-a-day. My own remained at about two, and that was fortunate because any more would have been difficult to afford while working at La Trattoria.

Finally, in early July we managed to get back in the studio. The rhythm sections for three more songs were recorded and I was able to complete vocals for two of them. Things finally seemed to be getting
back on track, albeit precariously, until the end of the month when Perry was fired from Oasis.

Apparently, an unhappy customer made a scene over a sub par dining experience and as a result, the restaurant’s manager made Perry the sacrificial lamb by publicly firing him. To add insult to injury, he then presented the unhappy gentleman with a gift certificate to compensate him for his troubles.

“I got fired because the fucker didn’t like his couscous,” Perry explained.

“So what are you gonna do?” I asked.

“Borrow this for a while,” he said as he handed me an American Express gold card.

“Who’s Michael Bonomo?” I asked, as I read the card member’s name.

“The dickhead that got me fired.”

Apparently, before Mr. Bonomo left Oasis, he forgot to retrieve his card. I could only imagine the brand of poetic justice now awaiting the gentleman and his credit limit.

Each day for the next few weeks Perry would meet me at 4 p.m. in the West Village with a big bag of cameras, radios and other electronic devices purchased with the “borrowed” line of credit. We would then make our way up to Harlem for a spontaneous liquidation sale and unload the entire stash of merchandise. It became such a regular routine, that at around 4:30 people began assembling right outside the 110
^th
Street subway station to welcome our arrival. Within a matter of minutes, the inventory was cleared and we’d immediately score. It was all very convenient. In fact, one of the more regular shoppers was a dope dealer who gave us a few bags for any item he wanted and as a result, we were often able to kill two birds with one camera.

Throughout August the reckless use of Mr. Bonomo’s credit card went unabated; however, purchases were hardly limited to electronics. We charged everything from snakeskin boots to expensive dinners in some of the city’s more exclusive restaurants, each time tipping the waiter or waitress a great deal more than Mr. Bonomo would have thought necessary.

Although I considered myself a law abiding junky, I was able to rationalize the fraudulent use of a stolen credit card. To my way of thinking, stealing from a greedy and powerful financial institution was much like rebelling against a corrupt and oppressive government
and equally permissible. Of course, the fact that our actions might have a negative impact on the interest rates of innocent card holders was never considered, nor was the plight of Mr. Bonomo, who—as far as we were concerned—was only getting what he deserved.

Eventually, our cluttered hotel room began to take on an almost surreal appearance. With dirty syringes strewn about and bottles of piss on display everywhere, ten pairs of new boots lined the closet and a stack of stereo equipment stood in the corner. Unfortunately, however, at the end of August the gravy train would finally stop running. It happened when Perry attempted to buy—of all things—a pack of cigarettes at a pharmacy near the Midtown and the cashier was provided with a security alert.