Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise

by Craig Goodman

  We finally made it back to Cryder House at around 9 p.m., and though I was initially devastated by the fact that once again my mother’s bad behavior would go unpunished, she was SO fucked-up and unresponsive that at least for the time being she may as well have been in jail. As the cab pulled up to the gatehouse the security guard took a look at my mother and being not so careful not to roll his eyes, called the lobby to inform the doorman of impending disaster. The gate then lifted and the cab was permitted entry as it proceeded up a not-so-steep hill and around a circular driveway that surrounded a fountain and led to the lobby of the building.

  Bill, the doorman, came rushing out and into the storm with a HUGE umbrella to help shield the monster from the rain. I really liked Bill. He was in his mid-fifties, had gray hair and a matching mustache and from around the time I was six-years-old he’d treated me like an adopted son, often taking me to movies and baseball games and all kinds of shit. In fact, I often found myself hanging around the lobby whenever Bill was on duty just to listen to him talk about sports, music, movies and occasionally—WOMEN.

  “I think I wanna fuck your mom,” he told me a few days before the Howard Johnson’s disaster.

  “Fuck her up?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I’m not being stupid. I’m being…optimistic,” I said while at last finding a home for my newest vocabulary word.

  Of course, I never told Bill what an awful nightmare she was, but nonetheless his lustfulness seemed to dissipate when that cab delivered us to the lobby and he came face-to-face with a drunk, pilled-up, 39 year-old widow with puke-breath and an attitude from hell.

  “I don’t need your fucking help!” Mother somehow managed to snap at Bill in a slurring sort of way as she momentarily perked-up before stumbling out of the cab and slamming her forehead against the curb.

  “Oh shit!” Bill exclaimed, horrified by the sight as he quickly gathered up my mother’s drunkenness before helping her to the lobby as Celine and I followed from a safe distance. We then rode the elevator up to our apartment in complete silence while Bill looked at me and attempted to conceal his discomfort with an uneasy smile. Celine, however, was completely mortified and refused to even look at my mother or anyone else for that matter—while I just sort of stood there and gloated. Of course, had I been a little younger my reaction would have been much the same as Celine’s, but that night I was… changed. It almost seemed as if something in me had snapped and I’d finally succeeded in shedding my childhood like the skin of a snake that just couldn’t stand it anymore. For the last year I’d experienced a dramatic growth spurt in terms of height and weight, though over the last several months there’d been similar alterations made to my perspective, awareness, and opinion about my mother and that night the latter part of the metamorphosis was made complete. I’d recently grown up very quickly, and at twelve years of age my “innocence” was forever lost as I was beginning to formulate opinions I was too young to have about too many things.

  Of course, due to my rapidly increasing size my mother pretty quickly discovered I was now too big and unwilling to be hit without at least attempting to fend off the assault. Suddenly, her violent attacks were now almost always neutralized with a forearm or wrist and if I was lucky, an elbow which would virtually guarantee a wincing, bruising and stunning result to her own forearm, wrist or hand—not to mention a sensation I found so titillating that I thought I might have busted my first nut. Eventually, though, Mother finally wised-up and mostly resorted to sneak attacks during the middle of the night while I was either asleep, or during the very early stages of her fury when I wasn’t quite expecting it yet.

  Bill walked the monster out of the elevator and down the hallway to our apartment, at which point I rifled through her purse for the keys. After unlocking and opening the front door Bill mistakenly tried to help it across the threshold of our apartment, at which point it revived just long enough to sort of stand there for a moment before pushing him out of the way and falling forward face-first onto the cold, black, marble floor it was always so fond of. “Hey, do you want me to give her your number when she wakes up?” I asked Bill as I stepped over Mother and turned on the light.

  “No—that’s alright, buddy, but I’ll see you tomorrow…okay?” he responded with a sad sort of look before he stepped out of our little alcove and scurried off to the elevators.

  “Okay, then. Nighty-night, Mr. Bill.”

  I shut and locked the front door and then turned to assess the fully-illuminated nightmare lying before me.

  “We should get her up,” Celine said and we helped it to its feet before it began to stumble and mumble shit as we slowly made our way through the winding corridors en route to its bedroom. I then pulled her over to her bed as she collapsed onto it before I disgustedly walked out and left Celine to deal with whatever she wanted to. As far I was concerned my work was done and I was going to my room. I was tired and wanted to put the awful evening to bed as well, so after brushing my teeth I headed into my bedroom, closed the door, and stared at the television for about an hour until I fell asleep….

  And now it’s 3:08 a.m., I’m wide awake, the past several hours have suddenly snuck-up on me and I’m nervous because it’s nervous-time. She could be out there…semi-conscious, conscious, drunk, angry, scary…But, thank God, I’m BIGGER now. As a matter of fact…I have pubic hair. That’s right. Actually, I’ve had it for like six months but just haven’t told anyone yet. But the proof is in the fucking pudding and now there can be no doubt—this little kid thing is FINALLY coming to an end. But I’m soooo tired and she could still take a poke at me if I nod off—I mean nod out—and there’s really no getting used to that. A burning smash to the face when you’re a kid and you’re asleep is….a really tough thing to get used to. So I mull my options…

  I realize I should (A) completely eliminate the possibility of an early morning sneak attack by investigating her precise whereabouts or (B) resign myself to staying awake for the next several hours and (C) be really, really, thankful I haven’t developed a twitch.

  I sit up in bed and turn on my nightlight. Even though I’m definitely getting bigger I’m still terrified of things that explode out of the darkness. So I stare at the framed and autographed picture of Johnny Bench that hangs on my wall because I find comfort in that—even though Bill told me he’s a really nasty asshole. I don’t care…he’s still a Yankee killer.

  After a few minutes I sit up in bed and turn on the lamp. I’m not nervous or scared any more—just thirsty. I open the door to my room and step to the left where the bathroom’s just a few feet away and then WHACK!! I’m suddenly blindsided by a blow to the back of my head.

  Grandma always says to look both ways before crossing the threshold.

  I reach into the bathroom to flip on the light but of course, I already know the identity of my attacker because it tripped and is now lying on its belly laughing, half-naked, and sprawled-out on the black marble tile next to a statue of the Baby Buddha it chose as its weapon for the evening. And though she may be laughing now, Lord knows she’s gonna be sorry in the morning because she broke the fucking Buddha. Unfortunately, my head didn’t escape undamaged either, and though I feel moistness collecting on the back of my neck I refuse to acknowledge it while she’s lying there laughing because I refuse to give her any more satisfaction than she’s already getting. What I would like to do is gently place my foot against the back of her head before exerting the entire weight of my puny person down upon that pea brain until her teeth crush against the black tile she’s so fond of and the inside of her skull begins to seep outside her mouth. But I won’t do that. Nope, I refuse to give in to my most cherished childhood desire because if I do, the upcoming decades will likely be as bad as the one that just expired.

  Suddenly, she gets to her feet and stampers (stumbles while attempting to scamper) into the darkness of the living room while I step into the bathroom to quench the pesky thirst that was my undoing. I turn on the
cold water, cup my hands beneath the faucet and lean forward for a slurp as I notice blood dripping down the side of my neck, into the sink, and down the drain. I am mostly unfazed by the injury. I know it’s well-concealed beneath my curly red hair, and that no one will notice it in the morning. That’s the most important thing. The only important thing.

  With a wad of toilet paper pressed firmly against the back of my head I venture out of the bathroom and down the corridor as my eyes adjust to a mostly darkened living room illuminated only by the bright lights of the Throgs Neck Bridge. And within a few moments my eyes adjust to the indirect lighting as I notice the darkness has manufactured the illusion of a human being sitting indian-style in front of the antique credenza my father had purchased and shipped from Hong Kong not long before he died.

  “Ma—what’re you doing?”

  Though not very practical given its enormous size and limited utility, the 15 foot long, four foot tall and three foot wide credenza is, though I suppose aesthetically pleasing on some level, a bit of a waste of space. Actually, it’s a HUGE waste of space. Containing nothing and seemingly purposeless, it does feature a series of very intricately hand-carved, lattice-like wooden grates each depicting—due to a unique design and pattern of perforations—a natural setting in a Far Eastern motif. As a result, each of the four, individually-illustrated grates is one-of-a-kind as they collectively span the length of the credenza’s front side. Beyond each of these grates, however, is nothing but the seemingly vast, pitch-black, hollowed-out innards of emptiness. And aside from the grates, and other than taking-up an enormous amount of space, the credenza functions only as a monstrous mount for a mounted boat made of ivory, an antique clock and four beautifully-detailed porcelain statues of the Baby Buddha. Oh, wait a minute: make that three beautifully-detailed porcelain statues of the Baby Buddha.

  I turn on the living room light and notice Mother scantily clad in a very short and revealing bathrobe that she shouldn’t be wearing outside the privacy of her own bedroom. And in her hand—rather than around her waist—is the belt of that bathrobe which, like a fishing line, she’s threaded through a perforation in one of the grates. Strangely, though, she either doesn’t hear my question or is simply ignoring me as she stares intensely into the pitch-black darkness engulfing the other side of the grate. I decide to try once more as I get down on my knees beside her.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

  “BE QUIET! I’m trying to catch him!” she suddenly turns and blurts out in a freaky way with eyes bulging out of her head while she dangles the fishing belt through the grate. “Oh, GOD—DONTCHA SEE?! Just look at what that fucker did to me!”

  Much to my own horror, I get my first gander at what’s left of her breasts and the wreckage of her cancer surgery as she turns and without warning, tears open the front of her bathrobe. I am suddenly confronted with a couple of scarred, nippleless, wrinkled and deflated flesh-colored balloons.

  These are the first pair of titties I get to see.

  Of course, I try to look the other way, but she’s so fast and it was so unexpected that I can’t prevent myself from getting an awful eyeful. And you wanna know something? Not even for the briefest moment do I feel even the slightest pang of sympathy or concern for her. In fact, I feel nothing other than disgust as I glance up at the remaining Baby Buddhas and consider that perhaps for once—she’s finally reaping some of her karmic comeuppance.

  “Who are you tryin’ to catch, Ma?” I ask as I attempt to wipe away an image that might also scar me for life.

  “The Devil,” she says quickly and quietly as she gets right back down to business.

  “The what?!”

  “THE DEVIL!”

  Un-Fucking-Believable…

  No, actually—it’s more than that. IT’S MORE THAN I COULD EVER HOPE FOR. In fact, if it was 25 years later I’d already have the shit up on YouTube. Even so, I must admit I’m truly grateful that Celine is safely tucked away in bed because I know for a fact she’d be unable to appreciate the moment—and then I’d be up all night regardless of my mother’s ability to mount a proper assault. You see, earlier that evening CBS had aired The Exorcist for the first time in television history and though I watched about an hour before dozing off, I remembered that Celine clearly wanted no part of it. Apparently, however, some nook and cranny of my mother’s consciousness must have absorbed some of the storyline as it unfolded in my bedroom.

  “But are you sure it’s actually Satan?” I inquire, attempting to brandish some of my newly acquired knowledge of the subject matter. “You know, it might just be a lesser demon parading around as Satan.”

  “No…It’s definitely Satan,” says the self-proclaimed atheist. “I’m absolutely positive.”

  “No fucking shit!” I exclaim.

  Just then, offended by my choice of language, Mother attempts to slap me. Of course, she’s too fucked-up to actually connect, but it’s worth noting that even when faced with the might of Satan himself—Mother can still find time to take a whack at me.

  I am suddenly distracted by a hallway light which marks the arrival of another of Hell’s inhabitants—or my eight-year-old sister. Unfortunately, it is indeed the latter as Celine enters the living room half awake, while I return my mother’s bathrobe to a more respectable position.

  “Hi Mommy,” she says while rubbing her tired eyes and curious if not wary about the reason for the late-night family get-together. “What are you doing?”

  I once read about a victim of post-traumatic stress disorder who suffered from nightmarish flashbacks during certain situations and moments of high anxiety. When I had my flashback I was in a London fog and wearing a raincoat—while staring at my mother’s bedroom window through the pouring rain. The next thing I remembered was sitting on the front steps of her building as the skies began to clear and the sun rose up over the Emerald City.

  I suppose those hours spent in the rain reliving my childhood were driven by the combined effects of the methadone, sleep deprivation, my physical and mental condition and perhaps the sounds of the storm. But after years of self-analysis, I believe a secondary cause for the flashback—if that is indeed what it was—was at least partially due to my colossal failure as a musician, the very nature of my visit to Stamford and the fact that I no longer had a game plan, strategy or aspiration to help fuel and define my future. Ever since graduating from college and receiving that blank check that would prevent me from fucking up my life, seeking refuge under my mother’s roof was always just a desperate, temporary measure and part of a contingency plan implemented only in the event of some completely unavoidable set of circumstances—like if I spent all my money on drugs. But regardless of how bleak things looked or actually were, there was always something tangible (or at least something in parenthesis) to hang on to, look forward to or believe in; Bob Donnelly, David Graham, Atlantic Records, Catherine, CBGB’s or whatever—there was almost always something to be hopeful of, something to be positive about and of course—something to help me look the other way. But right now—really for the first time in my adult life—there was none of that, and any hopes for a career in music and a life of opiated complacency seemed about a million miles away; now there was only a sense of failure and wasted potential drowning in a reservoir of bereavement that I needed to drain but refused to drink from.

  It was Saturday morning and therefore too early to ring the apartment buzzer and awaken her, especially since she hadn’t heard a word from me in two years, so I decided to walk around Stamford for a few hours and dry off while I tried to assess things and decide how to proceed. Unfortunately, I was so tired and my head was still so full of methadone that I couldn’t quite think straight. Obviously, though, I had nowhere else to go, and I knew that once the haze lifted I’d have to find a job somewhere in the city of Stamford and as quickly as possible—assuming, of course, that my mother would be willing to provide me with temporary refuge.

  By around 10 a.m. I wandered into the Stamford Town Cent
er Mall, which was only a few blocks from my mother’s apartment, and noticed a restaurant on the fifth floor getting prepped for the day ahead. Though it hardly bears repeating, this was hardly my ideal employment option but it was, unquestionably, my only option. I was 28 years old, and even if I wanted to begin to forge something of a professional career, I had only six months of Archer Advertising and career-oriented work experience to put on a resume. Hence, I already knew the only thing I had to fall back on in Stamford was my New York City restaurant experience which is always a big hit with the wider hospitality crowd.

  Although I passed several other restaurants in other parts of the mall, the fifth-floor eatery was the only one I thought I stood a chance of getting hired at. So as I stood there peering through the windows of the establishment and sizing-up my chances while shielding my eyes from the pink neon lights that lit up the Rock and Roll Café—I’d finally become a parody of myself.

  After a few moments spent coming to terms with some harsh realities, I departed the mall and wandered around Stamford until noon, when I decided it was finally late enough to chug back up the hill to Glenbrook Road and get it over with. When I arrived at the entrance to the condo I buzzed my mother’s apartment and within less than a minute she answered the intercom.

  “Yes? Who’s there?”

  “It’s Craig,” I said after taking a deep, jittery, breath.

  “Who???”

  “Your son!”

  “Oh,” she said after taking a deep, jittery, breath.

  A grueling and seemingly endless five seconds had elapsed before I actually heard a heavy sigh followed by a buzzer unlocking the door. I felt so incredibly uncomfortable I almost headed back to the train station, even though I had nowhere else to go and no money to get there with.