Needle (52 page)

As my drug consumption continued to fly off the charts, Perry became nothing more than a familiar face. We seldom discussed anything beyond the drugs we were destroying our bodies with, and neither of us ever mentioned Sections, the CD, Catherine or the future. We became two foundering ships that would occasionally pass in the night, though sometimes we were stowaways in a single stall, getting high together but saying nothing. More often than not, however, I found myself alone—sweating profusely and sticking myself for hours.

On the evening before my scheduled surgery, I had suddenly become obsessed with the festering abscess as an orange discharge continued to seep from my arm. Without really thinking about it, I sat on my cot and began prodding and squeezing the area around the puncture wound. As I continued to knead the swollen mound like a man possessed, the oily leakage gradually dissipated until it was replaced by a dark, red, trail of blood that began to seep from the same hole. Several minutes passed before, in terms of discharge, the well
had finally begun to run dry. Then, as I ratcheted up the pressure to ensure that all infectious fluids were completely expelled, I felt something burst. Simultaneously, a stream of chunky matter—that looked like orange cottage cheese but smelled like feet—exploded out of my wound and onto the wall. Meanwhile, the puncture hole was now almost large enough to fit the tip of my pinky.

On the following afternoon, I reported to the clinic to have the abscess removed—only to learn that it was now stuck to the wall of the Whitehouse Hotel. Since I had apparently performed my own surgery the night before, any additional procedures would now be unnecessary. Unfortunately, Perry wouldn’t be so lucky. Before the end of May and after a terrible bout of night sweats, he headed to Lenox Hill where for the fourth time in two years he was diagnosed with endocarditis. This time, however, the damage to the pig valve was so extensive that Perry would require an immediate replacement, and along with it—another heart surgery.

96

As soon as Perry became aware of his condition, he requested time-off from the owner of Le Brasserie. He was such a highly appreciated and trusted employee, that after disclosing his health problems he was provided with as much time as he needed. Then, in the early morning hours of May 30
^th
—just three days before surgery—Perry broke out of the hospital and into the restaurant with a key that was given to him as some measure of that trust. And though he helped himself to most of what was in the register, he was kind enough to leave behind his co-workers’ credit card tips which left little doubt as to who the culprit was.

As far as I was concerned, my life and routine went unchanged. I woke up, went to work, got high, passed out, woke up and started the day anew. With each day I thought about nothing other than making the money I needed to remain exactly the way I was. Beyond that I remember little; then again, I doubt there was much else to recall during those terrible months. Then on July 17
^th,
1996, TWA Flight
800 en route to Paris exploded off the coast of Long Island—killing all 230 aboard.

As I was heading to work on the morning of July 18
^th
, the Whitehouse lobby was buzzing with news of the awful tragedy. Although it made an impact, it was only temporary and I continued with my day as scheduled. On the
following
day, however, more details emerged, and as my shift at the restaurant concluded I noticed a newspaper resting on an empty table. A picture of Eric and Virginia was plastered to the front page.

For a moment I stood frozen as I felt my throat close and my stomach drop to the floor. I didn’t have to read the caption to know that they were among those who’d perished. I then grabbed the newspaper, ran back to the Whitehouse and threw-up in a bathroom on the second floor. My efforts yielded little other than a long series of grueling groans as if I were trying to purge myself of the horror. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. I would need something a little stronger—
and a lot less involuntary
.

Clutching a newspaper that I didn’t have the courage to read, I descended the staircase and left the Whitehouse to score. As I headed toward my destination, I tried to suspend any thoughts until I was better equipped to come to terms with their content. Unfortunately, the rolled-up paper held tightly in my hand seemed to vibrate with the terrible news, as if it were beckoning me to unfurl it and make it official.

As I passed Avenue B, I ignored a coke spot disguised as a bodega that I normally would have stampeded into. Obviously, this was no job for cocaine. Cocaine only intensified things, sped them up and shoved them in your face. No sir, not today. Today would be exclusively devoted to heroin, as I sought comfort in the arms of my one, true, love.

After returning to my stall, I immediately opened half the stash and got loaded. I then slowly unrolled the newspaper. There they were: Eric and Virginia—smiling, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. They looked so happy. They were beautiful. The photograph was the very same that I’d carried around for years, though by now my own copy had been lost in the wake of an addiction that, one way or another, ultimately ended up claiming everything.

By this point, all four New York dailies were focusing on the lives of the victims while investigators tried to determine the cause of the accident. With some difficulty I read about how Eric had worked so
diligently to establish a thriving dental practice in Manorville, and that Virginia had recently launched a home-based business while battling thyroid cancer. The story then went on to explain how they were flying to Paris to attend Troy’s wedding.

Virginia had cancer? Troy was getting married? Where the fuck was I when all of this was going on? Had I become so completely…unavailable?

I began to sob, but then quickly tried to look the other way as I booted what was left of my stash. Unfortunately, my selfish attempt to remove myself from a tragedy that I had no business removing myself from was met with a vengeance on the following day.

On July 20
^th
more intimate details about the victims had surfaced, and it seemed as though the plight of Eric and Virginia Holst took center stage. Once again, I found myself at work surrounded by newspapers with front page pictures and headlines about my dead friends. According to one of the papers, most of the family had departed for Paris on July 16
^th
but due to Eric’s busy schedule, the couple decided to leave on the following day which is how they ended up on the ill-fated flight. The story also went on to report that while Eric’s body was found almost immediately, Virginia’s had yet to be recovered.

“Why the fuck don’t they crucify another family?” I asked aloud, not expecting or wanting a response but getting one anyway.

“Because it has all the elements of a great story,” said a young woman looking over my shoulder, who happened to have been a photo editor for
Newsday
. “And a great story always sells a lot of newspapers, tragedy or not.”

On behalf of my beloved friends, I decided that if I were to allow this commentary to endure for even a moment longer, it would be incumbent upon me to choke the shit out of the photo editor. Troy and Helmer would eventually hear of the incident and know that I loved them, missed them, and felt their pain and now—
so would this fucking bitch
. Instead of resorting to violence, however, I walked away from the woman and out of the restaurant, mid-shift.

Without considering the consequences of essentially quitting my job, I scored and then made my way back to the Whitehouse. As I entered the hotel lobby, my jaw dropped to the floor as I saw Helmer’s face on television. He was beseeching the government to intensify recovery efforts as Virginia was still missing. Seeing him there, trying to hold it together while bravely assuming the role of family
spokesman, sent me reeling. Of all the media exposure they received, this—by far—hit home the hardest. I should have been there for him. I should have been there for Troy. I should have been
there
. As the news segment concluded, a reporter mentioned that a service would be held at Kennedy Airport for friends and families of the victims on the following day. It all seemed like a grand performance staged to emphasize what a complete piece of shit I was.

That may be so, but you’ll still have to attend the service. You grew up with these people
.

“Yeah, but I’m a junky.”

But Helmer and Troy are your oldest and closest friends!

“Yeah, I know. But I just can’t face them right now… I’m a junky.”

But what about the big brother bullshit and the surrogate family crap that you used to drone on about you arrogant, unappreciative, hypocrite!!!

“TRUST ME!!! They wouldn’t want me there. They didn’t even invite me to their wedding because
I’M A FUCKING JUNKY!!!”

That was about all I could handle. I immediately sprinted upstairs to stall #38.

As I drew half my stash into a syringe, I realized the tragedy was already three days old and it still felt like a bad dream, like it couldn’t really be happening. How
could
something like this happen to Eric and Virginia, when such self-absorbed and unappreciative miscreants like Perry and I lived so recklessly, taking everything and everyone around us for granted?

The dope was exceptionally strong, and I thought that with any luck it might kill me. Unfortunately, it only served to banish thoughts of Eric, Virginia, Troy, and Helmer to the area of my brain exclusively reserved for things I didn’t want to deal with.

I remained in a vegetative nod for several hours as darkness descended upon the Whitehouse Hotel. At some point I fell asleep and had a dream that I’d died from an overdose. I then awoke with the sheets drenched in sweat before falling back to sleep and being revisited by the same nightmare that had been plaguing me for years. In it, I once again failed to graduate and would be forced to remain at Binghamton for the rest of my life. However, in what was clearly the most perverse rendition of the dream so far, Binghamton had assumed the appearance of the Whitehouse Hotel while Crackhead Jim played the role of my advisor. Then suddenly, at about 3 a.m., I awoke and
saw Perry hovering over me.

“Holy shit,” I said, unsure if this was yet another nightmare. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

“They never even knew I left,” he whispered.

I suddenly realized that Perry had been in the hospital for two months. I couldn’t understand how I’d so completely lost track of time, or how I hadn’t given him or his surgery a thought in weeks.

“So I suppose the surgery went well,” I said.

“Perfectly well…but you don’t look so good. We gotta get you outta here.”

“No… I think I’ll stay a while.”

“You don’t have a choice. We’re going to Florida.”

Florida? Fuck that shit! He must be fucking high
.

“Are you fucking high?”

“Nope. I quit,” he said.

“Yeah, right.”

“No, seriously. I’ve been clean since the surgery.”

“That’s great, Perry. That’s fucking great.”

“I’m gonna come back and get you tomorrow.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes.”

“Eric and Virginia are dead,” I suddenly blurted out. It was the first time I’d said those words aloud
—and they scared the fucking shit out of me
. I began to weep.

“I know,” Perry said.

He then immediately changed the subject but I wasn’t really listening, and was too fucked up to understand anyway. He mentioned something about Catherine, something about Bob Donnelly, and something about going to Florida to recover from surgery—before hitting the road to promote the CD.

Oh yeah, there goes that music thing again
.

I drew up what was left of my stash.

“Do you really think you need that?” Perry asked as I booted.

“No. I need much, much, more.”

“Well when you’re finished, you might as well get started on these,” he said as he produced two bottles of orange methadone from out of nowhere. “They’re each a hundred milligrams, so don’t be stupid and drink both at once. I’ll pick up some more before we leave.”

“Where’re we going?”

“To Florida,” he reminded me.

“I’m not going to fucking Florida,” I reminded
him
.

“Yes you are. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? There is no tomorrow. There is only here and now, indefinitely. Nothing came before and nothingness will come after, but I won’t worry about that. Just cover up and detach, cover up and detach, cover up and detach and then maybe deal with it later…but probably not
.

At some point Perry left my stall as the dope eliminated any perceptions beyond that of a sluggish heartbeat. Then, as the sun rose and once again illuminated the gloom and doom around me, I chugged a bottle of meth. It probably should’ve killed me, especially since a hundred milligrams was about three times as much as my habit warranted, and I was still completely fucked from the dope. A few minutes later I passed out and had another dream that I’d died, only this time at the hands of a murderous Catherine who, like Perry, I hadn’t given a thought about in weeks.

At around 11 a.m. I awoke to the sounds of my own sobbing, though I was mentally and physically immobilized by the heroin and methadone cocktail. Somehow, I was aware enough to realize it was July 21
^st
, and that the service at Kennedy Airport was already underway. As I lay there on the dirty cot in my dirty stall, I again made every attempt to rationalize why I shouldn’t attend, and that if I did my arrival would be greeted by nothing short of repugnance. Furthermore, I was now being overwhelmed by the effects of two drugs which made it impossible for me to stand—let alone make a dignified appearance at such a somber gathering. If I did manage to somehow get there in one piece, I’d surely humiliate those who I should be there to comfort.

Of course, in reality, the logic behind my rationale was self-serving. I didn’t want to go to the service because I didn’t have the courage to directly confront what had happened, nor did I have the courage to be confronted. So, instead of heading to the airport like I should have, I selfishly dove into the other bottle of meth. I’d now pushed myself well beyond the brink of consciousness, and according to a few healthcare professionals I probably should’ve died—though I’m still not entirely sure what they meant by that.