Needle (43 page)

Call me crazy, but I’ve always been a sucker for a big, sweaty, black man who could swallow me whole. And though taking a dump on the cold, metallic, bowl in front of a jail cell full of addicts was a bit unsettling, I knew what Jake was going through and decided to give it the old college try. Unfortunately, I had yet to experience the brunt of my own dopesickness and was still extremely constipated. Even so, I sat there for a while trying to summon forth something that might offer Jake the buried treasure he was looking for.

After about 20 minutes of straining I finally relinquished a rather meager-looking turd and some blood. Although I didn’t say anything, I very much doubted that this particular dump would provide Jake with anything beyond a hunk of petrified fecal matter. Regardless, I stood up and with my hands on my knees, leaned over the bowl to better assess my effort. As I did, Jake pushed me out of the way and pounced on it. He then pulled the bloody turd out of the water and gently cradled it in his hands like a baby bird that had just fallen out of a tree.

“Goodman! Craig Goodman!” roared a corrections officer who was suddenly standing right outside the cell, unlocking the gate.

As soon as the C.O. made his presence known, Jake bolted to a corner with the excrement and left me standing there—bent over—with my underwear still wrapped around my ankles.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I told the officer.

I pulled up my pants as the C.O. led me out of the cell and down a series of corridors, which brought me to a bench in a courtroom where I’d wait an hour until my name was called. Unfortunately, my own withdrawals were now beginning to intensify and after about 40 minutes I felt my bowels suddenly become liquid.

“Hey C.O.,” I said with desperation in my voice, “I
really
need to use the bathroom.”

“Relax,” he said. “You’ll be out of here before you know it.”

Shortly thereafter my name was called. I then made my way to a little podium where a public defender—whom I’d met earlier—patiently awaited my arrival. Within a few minutes the allegations were read, at which point my attorney stated that there were never any drugs found in my possession and that accordingly, the charges should be dropped.

“He swallowed them!!!” exclaimed the assistant district attorney,
somewhat peeved by the defense.

Although I appreciated my counsel’s effort, this was only dragging things out because everyone knew I was guilty. I knew it, the cops knew it, and opposing counsel knew it and if we didn’t wrap things up pretty quickly, the judge was going to find out for himself when the proof came pouring out of my ass in open court.

I managed to hold it together just long enough to be ordered to perform three days of community service in Central Park. I then befouled the courthouse facility before heading over to The Laundromat.

81

In mid-April, despite the fact that we’d managed to arrange for a few additional recording sessions the previous month, Perry had to confront Catherine and address the fact that we were
still
recording. As a result, the disc probably wouldn’t be mixed-down, mastered, manufactured, shrink-wrapped, and ready to be distributed until June or July. As far as Catherine was concerned, this was disastrous. Although she still intended to promote the band on the college radio circuit, for that to be truly effective the CD should have been available by early May—
at the latest
.

“What did she say?” I asked, before leaving our room and heading to the studio for the second to last time.

“She really didn’t say anything,” Perry told me. She sort of just frowned at me and left the restaurant. But that’s it as far as recording goes.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s not paying for any additional studio costs,” he said. “After today we have one more session.”

“Then what?”

“Then I guess we pay for it ourselves.”

Fortunately, since we scaled back the project and resigned ourselves to just nine songs, we expected recording efforts to conclude that day. However, there still remained the issue of
mixdown, at which point the many, individually-recorded tracks would be balanced and merged together to achieve a single, cohesive, and clean-sounding track for each song. This would take at least two or three more sessions, and at a hundred bucks-an-hour that was easier said than done.

In order to finish recording, and, since it was Sunday and the studio was typically empty, Perry convinced Nick to extend our session from five hours to ten. Fortunately, Nick really believed in the project and had already contributed well beyond the scope of a sound engineer, in terms of not only time and effort but in musical collaboration as well.

At noon I’d begin the session alone with Nick and then after working the lunch shift at The Boulevard, Perry would arrive at around 5 p.m. to finish any remaining guitar tracks. Although I had no need or intention to get high until much later, Perry would be dopesick in a matter of hours and due to the hectic schedule, he asked me to score and have the dope ready by the time he arrived at Fast Trax.

Ever since getting busted the previous month, I’d been trying to avoid downtown operations during daytime hours and was again scoring on 125
^th
Street. But unfortunately, Giuliani’s war on drugs had suddenly expanded to include the little Harlem oasis I once thought impenetrable due to its constant throng of respectable commuters. Although I hadn’t yet personally seen anyone get busted, there’d been a rash of recent arrests—and the dealers who once flocked to me on sight were now missing in action and likely sitting in jail. Of course, an entirely new crop of dealers immediately emerged, but I was completely unknown to them and they were far too paranoid to even consider serving me. As a result, I had to adapt by taking advantage of a few liaisons, all of whom were black or Latino junkies that blended into the landscape much more indigenously than my pastiness would permit. For the price of a bag, any one of them would make the purchase while I waited at a bus stop for them to return. Among them, Arnold was my favorite. He was a black, 60 year-old junky, and though not as fleet of foot as he may’ve once been, he was extremely trustworthy and always had his ear to the ground. That morning, I had no difficulty finding him lurking around the bus stop. After he purchased a bundle for me, I descended to the subway and headed to Fast Trax. There, I would try to complete any remaining vocal work in order to allow the one, final, session to be exclusively reserved for mixdown.

After arriving and sharing a joint with Nick, we listened to all nine tracks and surprisingly, very little needed to be completed. However, although Nick thought it was fine, I noticed that a three-part harmony I’d developed on “Valentines” was lacking in some way, and the solution to the problem didn’t immediately occur to me. But this was a minor concern, and I knew that I could devote the first few minutes of the final session to figuring things out. In the meantime, however, I was inspired to completely alter the lyrical content of the CD’s final song, and what was once a tribute to a James Joyce story became a confession of my own addiction. Hence, the title of the song was changed from “Araby,” to “Living in the Land of the Lilies.”

At just before 5 p.m. Perry arrived at the studio and like a baton, I passed him a loaded syringe to finish the final leg of the session. And, since I had no plans for the evening that required any particular level of sobriety, I tapped my own vein.

“I’ll catch you later at home,” I then told him as he tuned his guitar and I staggered out of the studio.

As I stumbled in the direction of the subway, I strapped on a set of headphones to isolate the harmony issue with “Valentines,” but I was puzzled. I must have rewound that tape five or six times until finally, just as I was crossing Broadway—it hit me…a cab, that is.

As I bounced off the hood, the momentum of the moving vehicle caused me to tumble backwards until I collided with the edge of the taxi’s windshield. Had I landed any nearer to the center, I would have gone straight through it—
assways
first. However, as things turned out I landed unceremoniously enough on the street, bringing rush-hour traffic to a standstill.

“Oh shit, man!!! Are you OK?!?!” asked the distraught taxi driver as he jumped out of his cab.

“Yeah, no problem,” I said, a little dazed as I rose to my feet. Just then, two women came rushing out into the street.

“Don’t get up so fast, honey, you might’ve hurt yourself,” said one of the women.

“I’m fine,” I said again, now becoming a little agitated and embarrassed by all the attention.

“There’s an ambulance right over there. Why don’t you let them take a look at you before you leave?” someone else suggested as traffic began to build but patiently wait for me to recover.

“Don’t worry about it!” I said as I finally made my way out of the street and on to the sidewalk. Just as I did, however, I was descended
upon by two emergency medical technicians who were apparently watching from the nearby ambulance.

“Hey buddy,” said one of them. “Why don’t you let us check you out? The ambulance is right over there.”

Yes, in fact, the ambulance was “right over there.” However, there was also a police car sitting beside it and since I still had a set of works and four bags of dope on my broken body, the last thing I needed was to draw any
additional
attention from any
other
municipal employees.

“Listen,” said the other EMT. “You took a really hard hit and you’re gonna feel it later. Most people wouldn’t have gotten up from that.”

This was true; however, most people also wouldn’t have been fucked on three bags of dope and besides,
later
was all I was looking for. If I could just manage to make it down the street before a kidney fell out of my ass—
later
would be perfect.

I ignored all offers of assistance and kept walking towards the subway. As I descended the staircase, I felt a sudden pain in my lower back which would remain until I was able to return to the hotel and stretch out in bed. By around 7 p.m. I’d made it back to the West Side Inn, and after a few hours I fell into a deep sleep that went undisturbed even after Perry returned from the studio.

By the very next morning the heroin had completely worn off and I became one with the pain. It was so intense that before heading off to work I booted, which was a first as I always considered shooting dope to be an
after
school activity. But Mondays were typically slow and since I took half my usual dosage, I was certain I’d make it through the shift without incident.

I arrived at Texas Grill at 10 a.m. to commence with opening sidework. Then at noon, just after the first customer of the day was seated in my station, Denise walked into the restaurant. She looked bad. I hadn’t seen her in four months and she’d gone from cute, slim, and sexy—to chubby, oily, and blemished and it looked as if she could’ve fallen victim to Jeff’s darker side. Even though most addicts tended to
lose
weight, it wasn’t unheard of to occasionally encounter a chunky-junky who, like Jake from jail, had gotten hooked on Milky Ways as well.

“Hey Craig,” she said as she came over to the bar where I was awaiting my customer’s Heineken. “How’ve you been?”

She seemed nervous and distracted.

“Fine,” I said. “How’s it going with you?”

“I’m pretty good,” she said while looking at me with a strange expression. “Hey…are you high?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’m not stupid, you know,” she said. “Christ! I have a nursing degree. I can tell you’re fucked up. I need you to score for me.”

“Are you fucking crazy? Forget about it.”

“Please, Craig!”

No way. I’m not gonna do it. Shit, people’s lives are depending on her! And besides, I already dodged one bullet of responsibility with Katrina, and now that she’s safely tucked away in Georgia there’s just no way in hell I’m gonna be responsible for this bitch’s fate
.

“I’m not copping for you, Denise,” I told her. “I’m not high, and when I get a hold of Jeff I’m gonna kick him in his ass.”

“How can you say you’re not high when you’re standing there with your eyes closed?!” she said as her voice grew louder. “You’re a liar—just like Jeff! A fucking liar!”

“Would you please shut up and get out of here before you get me fired?” I asked. I then tried the,
I quit using and can’t risk putting myself in that kind of environment again
, excuse.

“YOU ARE SUCH A MOTHERFUCKING LIAR!!!”
she once again announced to the restaurant.

“Denise, I swear to God, I’m not high. Don’t you think they would fire me if I came into work all fucked up?”

Without answering the question, she stormed out of the restaurant—and about 20 seconds later I was fired for nodding off at the service bar.

82

Looking back at the final years of my addiction I remember that, in many ways, life was simpler. It was either black or white. I was either scoring or had scored. Everything else was barely on the periphery, if at all. Of course, there were isolated moments when the
horror of it all had crept into my consciousness, but by that point my ability to look the other way had become the stuff of legends. If such thoughts occurred during a sober moment, I simply postponed them for reconsideration later because I knew they would fade away with the help of another fix. And if at some point I felt uncertain about carrying on like a stone-cold junky, then all I had to do was tap into a reservoir of ego that was specifically maintained for just such an occasion.

“Hey, I listened to that tape you gave Jeff. You guys are really good…No, I’m fucking serious! I don’t usually like demo tapes but I mean it—you guys are really, really good.”

Honestly, if I heard something like that once—I heard it a thousand times. Now, however, the CD was practically finished, and I was sure I was about to have my cake and eat it too.

But you’re a junky
.

“It doesn’t matter, we’re gonna be famous.”