Needle (41 page)

Of course, I was the only dope fiend in the group, but I would soon learn that Marie had anorexia and Jill suffered from a panic disorder which, at times, was so debilitating that she couldn’t leave her apartment. Although we didn’t share our personal issues with each other at first, it wasn’t long before the open forums began.

Jill had thrown a dinner party around the middle of December. Though at this point I seldom attended social engagements that didn’t involve heroin with individuals who weren’t junkies, that evening I broke with precedent and decided to delay the doping until afterwards. Besides, Jill’s apartment was located just a few blocks from The Laundromat which would be convenient enough when the festivities ended.

I arrived at her 10
^th
Street apartment at 11 p.m., and by that point everyone had already left except for Marie and, of course, Jill who were watching a video of Jill’s recitals. At one point during a performance, another young woman sang for a few moments and I was moved by an almost ethereal resonance in her voice.

Before the night was over, the three of us horrified each other with intimate details of our respective dysfunctions. Eventually, Jill mentioned that she desperately needed to get away from the city before she had a nervous breakdown.

“Craig, I’m going home to Virginia for a while to get my head
together,” she said. “Would you do me a favor and house-sit while I’m gone?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Oh, thank you
so
much. I would hate to have to leave my kitty with a complete stranger.”

“Oh, I mean absolutely not,” I said. “I forgot that I’m really busy.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not leaving for another week and a half.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m busy for the rest of my life,” I said as Jill looked confused by the sudden reversal. “Listen: it’s nothing personal, but I’m known far and wide for having a killer left hook and a bad track record when it comes to cats.”

“Please, Craig, I really need your help! I’m in a bad situation right now and besides, how could you
possibly
refuse me?”

“Because I’ve worked long and hard at building a reputation and I’m just not willing to throw it all away yet. I don’t care how fucked up you are.”

“Craig! Chester’s just like me,” she said, perhaps not taking me as seriously as she should have. “He hides under the bed trembling in fear, and then sneaks out once or twice-a-day to eat and take a shit. You’ll never even see him.”

Actually, that sounds like my kind of cat!

I reluctantly agreed to be a cat-sitter, and by 1 a.m. had left Jill’s apartment to score some dope at The Laundromat. Then, before heading uptown to Jeff’s, I stopped at a bodega for some water and used the bottle cap to fix the dope and load the syringe while waiting for a train at Astor Place. As soon as I booted the first bag I immediately realized the dope was much stronger than usual, and the kind that typically produced an overdose or two. Fortunately, by booting only one bag I avoided that fate. Jeff, however, wasn’t so lucky.

When I arrived at his apartment I stumbled into chaos. Brad Winslow, Alex Broderick and Jeremy Kettering—all childhood friends of Jeff’s from Queens—were there berating him and snarling at Stephen who was oblivious and nodding in a corner of the living room. I’d met all of them previously, and though Brad was aware of Jeff’s occasional dope-dabbling, he’d remained unconcerned as his nearest and dearest friend always seemed in control. But now Jeff had suddenly ventured into forbidden territory and Brad’s confidence in him was completely shaken. Earlier in the evening and for the first time in his life, Jeff had booted a bag of dope—the very
same
dope
that I was lucky enough not to have overindulged in after leaving Jill’s. He then immediately stopped breathing which required Stephen to do so on his behalf for approximately ten minutes. Eventually, Jeff was able to resume the task himself, and then in an overly-medicated condition he decided to call Brad and share the gory details. Within 20 minutes Brad and the others were at the apartment raising hell.

“I can’t believe you stuck a fucking needle in your arm!!!” Brad roared. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Are you trying to kill yourself?!”

“Calm the fuck down!!!” Jeff slurred belligerently with his eyes half open.

“Hey man, you need to make some serious changes in your life. Why don’t you give Denise a call? She really likes you and she’d be good for you,” Brad continued as Alex was visibly put off by the suggestion.

Denise Wexler, originally from Maryland, was a high-ranking administrator at New York University Medical Center and responsible for overseeing a large portion of the hospital’s organ donations. About a year earlier, she and Alex had been a fairly serious item and it was now obvious that he wasn’t too thrilled with the notion of her becoming involved with Jeff. Fortunately for Alex, Jeff was mainly attracted to
Asian
women.

“Look at what your life is turning into,” Brad went on. “You’re unemployed and your best friend is Skeletor,” he said gesturing toward Stephen’s wasted body.

“Why don’t you just get the fuck out of here?” Jeff suggested to his old friend.

“You know what? Why don’t
we
just get Skeletor the fuck out of here?” Alex countered as he glanced at Brad.

Brad and Alex then approached Stephen with the intention of flinging his worthless body out the fourth-floor window. Truthfully, part of me was hoping they would, because when Jeff foolishly tapped a vein it was under Stephen’s deranged auspices. Of course, had
I
been there, Jeff’s arm would have been broken in two before he had a chance to stick it with a needle.

Brad and Alex took two menacing steps toward Stephen, but before they were able to lay a hand on him, Jeff cleaned house and ejected everyone from the apartment that wasn’t a junky. Then, without another word, he climbed up to the loft and passed out. A few minutes later, I followed to make sure he was still breathing and then
passed out beside him. When I awoke at 11 a.m., Jeff sat up and announced that it was
I
who was, in fact, the homosexual—and then went right back to sleep.

I was supposed to be at the studio by 1 p.m., so I left the apartment at noon and ventured over to Central Park for a bag of weed to get me through the day. Jeff had previously introduced me to a Rasta working out of a gazebo on a hill near the southern end of the Park, who sold the greenest, stickiest, buds I’d ever seen in my life. I climbed the hill, made the purchase, and then immediately headed back down.

As I descended and nearly reached the bottom of the hill, I was suddenly pulled aside by an undercover cop. Much to everyone’s surprise, a posse of police dressed in leisure-wear was there observing the illicit transactions; however, rather than arresting anyone they were actually handing out tickets—assembly-line style—to startled potheads as they passed.

The officer calmly confiscated my beautiful buds and gave it to one of his cronies in exchange for a bag of twigs and dirt. “Alleged marijuana,” he then said with a smile, as he placed the substituted bag in a manila envelope and issued me a ticket.

“Even a pothead wouldn’t be stupid enough to buy that shit,” I said with a make-believe smile as I turned to continue down the hill. “But a cop might be.”

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing.”

78

Toward the end of December, Perry had actually reduced his habit to just a few bags-a-day. That, combined with the fact that he was making incredibly good money at The Boulevard, stimulated a desire to again flee the Whitehouse.

“Hey, I found us a place,” he called to tell me.

Of course, I was once again more than comfortable at Jeff’s, and as I was about to begin a cat-sitting stint at Jill’s, I was reluctant to embrace another of Perry’s questionable living arrangements.

“Where?” I dared to ask.

“A hotel on the Upper West Side.”

The mere mention of the word “hotel” now instantly conjured-up horrific thoughts.

“Fuck off,” I told him.

“No really, this one’s nice!”

“Sure it is,” I humored him. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“In the hallway right outside the room,” he had the nerve to say.

“You see, Perry, that’s where you get yourself in trouble. I’m telling you, once you give up exclusive access to the bathroom you’re just asking for problems.”

“Well, I’m sick of the Whitehouse and I’m moving in there today,” he said. “When you get tired of being a freeloader, let me know.”

“Will do.”

On Christmas Eve I was supposed to begin cat-sitting duties, as Jill caught a flight to Norfolk earlier that day. After working the lunch shift at Texas Grill, I headed to 125
^th
Street to score and then stopped at Jeff’s apartment for some clothes before continuing on to Jill’s. When I arrived, Jeff was there with Denise, who he’d been spending a good deal of time with in recent weeks. Following the overdose, Jeff had taken steps to distance himself from heroin, and since I was departing and he had severed all ties with Stephen, perhaps this new relationship was intended to further change the cast of characters surrounding him. Actually, Denise seemed like a good person for him to have around. She was cute, lived a healthy lifestyle, and the only self-destructive obsession she harbored was a desire to fuck Jeff. As much as I would miss him, I knew he hardly needed his life to be influenced by the dark forces that affected my own, regardless of how in control he usually seemed.

“Hey Jeff,” I said. “After I finish the cat-sitting gig, I’m gonna be moving into some place on the west side with Perry.”

“Good. It’s about time you got the fuck out.”

“Is it alright if I leave some of my shit here?” I asked as I was about to hit the road. “I’ll drop by in a few days to pick up the rest of it.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. You’re not leaving right now are you?”

“I most certainly am.”

“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow?” he asked. “Hang out for a while with Denise and me. We have some big plans for tonight.”

“Yeah—we’re gonna drink until we puke, and then we’re gonna get all fucked up on some skunky weed,” confirmed the healthcare professional.

“I think it’s better if I head downtown,” I said. “You know, I’ve got a kitty to tend to.”

“You can punch it in the face tomorrow,” Jeff pointed out. “Right now you should hang.”

“Come on, Craig,” Denise piped-up again. “You’re really gonna dig this weed.”

“Yeah,” Jeff chimed in with a smile. “Maybe you can figure out a way to boot it.”

The evening went on as advertised, with Denise and Jeff drinking it up and smoking in style. However, since I’d already tapped a vein, I knew it would be fairly pointless to indulge in any of the party favors so I mostly abstained.

By around 3 a.m. I felt fatigue and heroin join forces to produce a deep nod. Sprawled out in the bottom bunk-bed, I was then suddenly jolted out of my reverie by a burst of activity coming from just above, which was unusual because Jeff typically slept in the loft. Then, within a few seconds I recognized the unmistakable sounds of a healthcare professional getting the shit fucked out of her. It wasn’t long before I realized that Jeff had deliberately staged the event on the top bunk for my very own benefit. I suppose he hoped it might in some way be frustrating for me to listen to while he brandished his heterosexuality, especially since
I
hadn’t in years. But more importantly, his behavior demonstrated that Jeff was never truly in touch with the value system of a junky, because even though a piece of ass sounded pretty good—
a piece of cake sounded even better
.

While they remained in the throws of drunken passion, I roused myself to make the craving for cake a reality. I also decided that since I was up and dressed and heading out to satisfy the sudden urge, I might as well kill two birds with one stone and continue onward to Jill’s. I quietly placed a few essentials in a backpack and then made my way to the front door.

“By the way,” I said before leaving the darkened apartment. “Nothing’s changed. Everybody
still
thinks you’re gay.” I then headed downtown to Jill’s apartment where I immediately returned to my nod and eventually fell asleep on her couch, but not before throwing up two Suzy-Q’s and a Twinkie.

For some time now—in one form or another—I’d remained a
houseguest and as a result was prevented from ever feeling truly comfortable and self-destructive. Though I was still
technically
a guest, for the first time in months I could finally enjoy the pleasures of being entirely left alone.

I woke up at about 5:30 p.m. on Christmas Day, and though I was excited about the prospect of complete solitude, the gift-giving ritual I’d experienced for most of my life sparked-up a bit of holiday melancholy. So at about 6:30 when I headed out to score my daily dope, I also picked-up some Christmas crack as a present to myself. I then bought a set of works from a homeless junky dressed as Santa, and a crack pipe from a head shop with a Nativity Scene in the window.

I sprinted back to Jill’s apartment and as soon as I got inside, I laid all the drugs out on a kitchen table along with their respective paraphernalia. Unfortunately, just as I was about to dive into the dope the intercom rang and I was forced to tear myself away from the Christmas celebration.

“WHO THE FUCK IS IT?!?” I demanded.

“Merry Christmas, Craig—
YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!
”

It was Marie.

Apparently, homesickness had begun to affect her as she recalled a lifetime of Christmas memories with her family back in Ireland, celebrating the birth of our Blessed Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

“Hey—you wanna get drunk?” she asked.

“Come up,” I said as I buzzed her in and then rushed back into the kitchen to hide the drugs. Marie knew I was a dope fiend, so I didn’t want her to see the crack and lose respect for me.

“Merry Christmas!” she said as she barged in through an unlocked door and almost caught me red-handed, stashing the drugs in a cabinet. She then opened the refrigerator and grabbed each of us a beer, which was about the
last
thing I wanted.