Needle (4 page)

This moment also marked Matt’s virgin experience with heroin. Matt, however, was hardly a novice to the world of illicit drugs, and asking him if he’d be interested in a snort of dope was like asking Popeye about a spoonful of spinach. He showed no hesitation whatsoever, snorting not only his allotted line but
accidentally
inhaling most of what was left for us. It never mattered what the drug was; if it was going to fuck him up, Matt wanted as much as he could get his hands on without getting his ass kicked.

Prior to this point, shared drug experiences with Matt were limited to beer and pot. But in reality Matt was a multi-drug abuser, even as a teen living under the despotic rule of his father—Detective Ernie Anson—who had been a member of the NYPD for close to 30 years. As a result, a significant portion of his life had revolved around doing drugs, getting caught by his father, and then getting the shit beaten out of him…over and over again, and it never really changed until he finally left for Bethany. Until then, no matter how many times the man pounded him, Matt would always live another day to do another drug. It was a standoff: Matt wouldn’t stop doing drugs, and The Good Detective wouldn’t stop kicking his ass. So yeah, Matt was OK with giving dope a shot, especially with his father safely tucked away in the Bronx.

Though I am less certain of Matt, at this juncture neither Perry nor I was addicted to anything. Heroin was still, at best, only a once-a-month diversion. But from almost the very beginning I found myself rationalizing it’s occasional,
controlled
use in what is sometimes known as the “honeymoon period.” During this preliminary stage of my addiction, a psychological component of the dependency began to take root as the opiate seemed to market itself as—like alcohol—just another drug and perhaps even a victim of bad press. As a matter of fact, in
comparison
to alcohol, a dope-fueled inebriation actually seemed preferable. It was certainly cheaper. For ten bucks I was good to go all night with no hangover and nothing to complain about beyond a little bit of nausea. Ultimately though, even this discomfort would dissipate as my body became more accustomed to the heroin.

I’d finally found my drug of choice and the only drawback I
noticed was sleep deprivation. However, it wasn’t a miserable, cocaine or acid-like alertness where one remains wired and awake solely due to the subsiding effects of the drug. Instead, a sleepless slumber seemed almost self-inflicted as a necessary component to fully enjoying the high, regardless of the phase of intoxication. Of course, to the casual observer, an addict under the influence of heroin may—in fact—appear to be asleep, passed-out, or dead. But in reality, he is likely lingering somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness in what junkies refer to as a “nod.” There, while his ears halfheartedly monitor the land of the living—his mind, body and spirit have already embarked upon a journey to another side.

8

As I’ve already mentioned, during the early days while I was still living with Helmer on 80
^th
Street—no one was addicted to anything.
Real
heroin addiction doesn’t come that easily, and it’s far too sneaky and seductive to pinpoint when dependency actually begins. As a matter of fact, you’re never totally sure about it until your addiction has gone full throttle and certain body fluids begin flowing from completely unauthorized areas.

Personally, it took at least a year of increasing abuse before I realized I might be in trouble. During that first year, however, as far as I was concerned we were all just Weekend Warriors, perhaps of a more extreme variety. But after trying and welcoming heroin into my life there was really nothing left to be shocked by. As a result cocaine, marijuana, PCP, acid, mescaline, mushrooms and pharmaceuticals would all eventually be in play and potential catalysts for a good time. In fact, I would end up trying most of those drugs for the first time in September of 1990, and one afternoon that reckless month of experimentation ventured in yet another direction as Perry and Matt appeared at my apartment with not only heroin, but
crack
-cocaine as well.

Thinking ahead, Perry suggested that we first snort the dope in order to fend off the inevitable coke crash and I couldn’t have agreed
more. This would be my second exposure to cocaine as Matt had recently introduced me to the powdered variety, and though I was mostly ambivalent about that first experience I definitely hated the crash. Along with a sleepless night, I could recall a vague sense of depression that engulfed me as the drug exited my bloodstream, and obsessively grinding and clenching my teeth in response to what felt like a billion nicotine fits at once. As a result, I immediately decided that if I was ever to indulge in cocaine again, the sedating effects of a bag of heroin would also be required to offset its less appealing aspects. Of course, to truly appreciate the combined effects of the drugs, one must administer them simultaneously
and
intravenously; however, I was years away from this revelation and the thought of using a needle was still out of the question. I simply drew the line.

Incidentally, I have simply drawn the line on several occasions:

June, 1986: “Well, maybe I drink, but at least I don’t smoke pot.”

In November of 1986 I took a hit off a joint during a freshmen mixer at Bethany
.

December, 1987: “OK. So I drink and smoke pot…but that’s it.”

In March of 1988 while studying in London, I smoked hash with a guy from Iowa
.

November, 1988: “I party a little bit here and there, but I’ll never touch anything like acid, mushrooms or mescaline.

Touched acid, mushrooms
and
mescaline in September of 1990
.

May, 1989: “Don’t worry about pot-smoking. Trust me. It’s those fucking cigarettes that’ll kill you.”

Developed a taste for Camel Lights by July of 1990
.

June, 1989: “You know…It’s all a bunch of crap. Pot, hash, and even some of the hallucinogens are OK as long as you know the source. But you should definitely avoid cocaine and heroin.”

Consistently failed to avoid cocaine and heroin throughout most of the
1990’s.

February, 1998: “All right,
FINE!
I completely fucked up my life and wasted a lot of time. But at least I never got anyone pregnant.”

Savannah Nicole, born November 27
^th,
1998
.

Matt was the first to smoke crack that evening. Perry, who had evidently torched a few rocks in the past, loaded a tubular glass crackpipe—known as a “stem”—with a soft, almost soapy-white substance. Then, after a few directions Matt went at it. With Perry controlling the lighter, he took a long, patient drag.
The stem crackled
. Then, as Matt withdrew slowly and exhaled, his eyes lit up and his bottom jaw dropped as though he was suddenly aboard a roller coaster in the midst of its final, climactic, descent.

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” he uttered in rapid-fire repetition. Then, after about 30 seconds he slumped down on the futon.

It was my turn. With some hesitation I grabbed a freshly loaded stem and again, Perry manipulated the flame. I inhaled, held my smoke, and immediately knew I was putting my body through some really awful shit. The very next moment I felt as though I’d been pushed out of an airplane.

I was immediately addicted.

A minute after the pipe left my lips I wanted another blast, and the intense yearning continued until well after I finished my share. Even with the heroin racing through my system and battling against the wretched craving, I wanted more crack and would’ve sucked a dick to get it had the dope not fully begun to settle into my brain. Once again, I realized the importance of having a bag of heroin at the ready before delighting in any cocaine-related products.

That month of September in 1990 was rife with several examples of poor decision making which would only worsen in time. In fact, the next would occur only three days after my introduction to crack cocaine, while Perry, Matt, and I were working on a crude demo tape at the apartment. With the intoxicating assistance of some weed and whiskey, work progressed at a fair pace until Helmer returned from The Chess Shop. Somehow, a conversation then erupted about angel dust—the street name for PCP—and that was all it took. Without hesitation we jumped into Helmer’s jeep and headed to Harlem on a blind quest for the drug without the assistance of Perry, who suddenly felt a stiff penis and the need to convene with Shannon.

As darkness fell, we combed the avenues looking for angel dust and were eventually directed to the corner of 122
^nd
Street and Third
Avenue, where Helmer was certain a group of black guys would only be too happy to help us exploit their shithole-neighborhood for drugs. However, he no sooner stepped out of the jeep, from across the avenue the oldest of the bunch shouted, “Whatchoo white boys want?!” in not exactly the most hospitable tone, and failing to notice Helmer’s deep tan and South American lineage.

Without wanting to openly expose the true nature of our mission, Helmer acknowledged the man’s inquiry with a subtle wave and continued silently in his direction.

“Hey bro,” he said as he got within a few feet. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find some PCP?”

“You muthafuckin white boys!” the black man shouted with pointed agitation while once again ignoring the fairly obvious. “You got some fuckin’ nerve comin’ all up in here with your nice car and shit askin’ niggas for drugs. I don’t know nothin’ about no fuckin’ PCP! You muthafuckin crackas better go back downtown before somebody fucks ya’ll up.”

From the very beginning this seemed like an ill-advised method by which a “white boy” should go about procuring drugs in Harlem, and I was seriously wishing that Perry could’ve ignored his raging hard-on long enough to have handled things differently. But to my amazement, in no time at all a black kid in a denim jacket appeared with a piece of folded tinfoil in his hand. Helmer gave him $40 in exchange for the packet and then returned to the car.

After repositioning himself in the driver’s seat, Helmer opened the foil and exposed a little pocket of crushed green leaves.

“What the fuck is this shit!” he bellowed.

Although none of us had any idea what angel dust looked like—Helmer was certain that this wasn’t it. Without saying a word to anyone he jumped out of the jeep and proceeded to strike fear in the hearts of its passengers. But first, a little bit about Helmer:

Hands down and no question about it, Helmer was and still is the single greatest bullshitter I’ve ever known. In fact, I’ve seen him talk his way in and out of situations with the greatest of ease, on far too many occasions to mention here. However, at about 5 foot 8 Helmer was never an aggressive bullshitter and always knew his limitations. So I don’t know whether it was his Colombian heritage that made him think he had street creds, or the enormous penis he dragged around that made him feel somehow in league with the brothas, but whatever it was—when he jumped out of the jeep and started screaming,
“WHERE’S THE LITTLE BITCH THAT SOLD ME THE FUCKING BULLSHIT!!!”
I thought we were dead already.

Matt and I sat there in the jeep watching in horror and disbelief. No one moved.
No one even breathed
. Yes, Helmer may have been King Of All Bullshitters—but this here was
Russian Roulette
bullshitting.

“You gotta muthafuckin problem there,
whitey
?!” the old black man bellowed at Helmer, though by now I was beginning to think that the racial misnomer was intended.

Helmer regained his composure, displayed an exaggerated grin, and after taking a few steps toward the street corner where the infraction occurred, went on to loudly disclose his recent findings with the community at large:

“You know…you can never trust a filthy fucking nigger.”

That time I actually wet my pants.

“Especially not in the middle of fucking, stink-ass Harlem,” he actually went on.

“Whatchoo say, cracka muthafucka?!” asked one of the other brothas as he menacingly walked toward the jeep with a brick in his hand.

Yes, Helmer!!! What
did
you say? What the fuck did you just say!?!?!!

We knew better than
that
. We’d been weaned on the civil rights era and the sanctity of Martin Luther King, spoon-fed the horrors of slavery as well as a distant sense of accountability, and didn’t even use the “N-Word” in
private
, let alone in the midst of a drug deal gone haywire in Harlem.

“Time to go, Helmer!!!” I pointed out while inconspicuously taking the driver’s seat.

With trembling limbs I managed to release the brake and engage the clutch as Helmer headed back to the jeep where now—two, terrified, teenage girls desperately awaited his return.

“Where’s my fucking gun?!” he suddenly shouted while holding out his hand as if we were supposed to play along.

“I don’t know!” Matt wept.

Without another word Helmer suddenly dove into the backseat, and though I think I had the tires squealing before he even landed, I noticed a brick come sailing past the windshield.

As the jeep began fishtailing up Third Avenue all three of us remained silent, and with the exception of pounding hearts and a
groaning engine not a sound was heard. At 125
^th
Street we then made a left turn and eventually headed south on Park Avenue as I slowly came to terms with what had just happened.

While replaying the incident in my mind I peered into the rearview mirror and noticed Matt with his head in his hands, though I think the sobbing had finally subsided. Helmer, however, seemed to be captured by the exhilaration of the moment, and as he sat there panting with an almost euphorically-relieved expression on his face, he reminded me of a man who’d just cheated death.

9

“What sort of people live about here?”

“In that direction,” the cat said waving its right paw around, “lives a Hatter; and in that direction,” waving the other paw, “lives a March Hare. Visit either one you want: they’re both mad.”