As I climbed the staircase leading to my mother’s apartment my legs were suddenly heavy and it became a psychosomatic struggle to get there. When I did, she was standing there in the doorway with an expression on her face that was the perfect mixture of disappointment and disgust...and she didn’t even know I was a junky. She lingered there for a moment not saying a word, and then walked toward the kitchen as I slowly and uncomfortably stepped into her home with the awkward gait of a stranger.
After a quick perusal of the apartment I detected some changes to the living room décor. Immediately I noticed the broken glass end-table and shelves had been replaced by wooden counterparts as I thought for just a moment that Mother had made an attempt to junky-proof the apartment. But if that were the case I suppose I might’ve tacitly been welcome which I clearly wasn’t, and that fact was tacitly confirmed by the addition of a brand new, extremely beautiful, extremely expensive glass coffee table sitting squarely in the middle of the living room.
“What happened to the black coffee table?” I asked referring to the Formica predecessor I didn’t recall demolishing.
“Why are you here?” she suddenly blurted out with her arms crossed while ignoring my question and glaring at me from the entrance to the kitchen.
“I need a place to stay for a few weeks,” I said with more reluctance than I can possibly convey.
“Oh, God…Again??? You know, Craig, I really thought that by now I’d finally be done with this shit. Celine doesn’t even live with her fucking mother anymore!”
“Well then fucking lucky for Celine.”
“Well then you can just get out also!”
“I’m sorry, I was just kidding. I promise it won’t be a permanent thing.”
“Oh, believe me—I wasn’t worried about that!”
“I just have some issues to sort out and I’ll be out of here before you know it,” I said as I ignored the insinuation and was about to absentmindedly sit on the couch.
“And stay the fuck off the furniture!” she screamed at me before my ass had a chance to grace that cushy black surface it had always been deprived of as a child. “You’re an expensive guest to have over, Craig, and I can’t afford to redecorate every time you visit. You can stay in Celine’s room if you want.”
“Thanks,” I said, even though she was clearly exaggerating my record of interior design.
“Yeah, whatever.”
So that was that. Mother permitted me to stay in her home, but the unsaid expiration date attached to that bit of hospitality was palpable.
By the very next day my head was finally approaching clear, and though I hadn’t had any dope in about a week I did swallow that final bottle of meth only a few days prior and was terrified I was finally about to experience the hideous methadone withdrawals I’d heard so many awful stories about. But fortunately, that never quite happened, at least to the degree I would’ve expected it to. So, as a result, aside from being very depressed and suffering some pretty severe insomnia and anxiety while staying at my mother’s apartment—which itself could have been the cause for the discomfort—for the first time in six years I was straight and clean. But to suggest I was suddenly imbued with a passion for healthy living and a future devoid of opiates would be false, as I was simply unable and unprepared to address the dependency issues. At that point my mind was being occupied by a destructive space and constantly consumed by evanescent, painful and immobilizing memories of personal failures, tragedies and ghosts from the past that I found impossible to address in the present. Due to several, short, sudden and unsavory epiphanies it had become abundantly clear that I’d wasted the last six years of my life obsessing over a musical journey to nowhere while destroying my body in the process. But what was even worse and the most painful thing to accept was that the death of Eric and Virginia Holst, along with my failure to respond accordingly, was a dagger in the heart of my own stunted and pathetic sense of family. It was this surrogate relationship that I’d not only invested a good part of my life and emotional energy in, but in many ways had defined myself by and now, at least in certain corners of it, I knew I’d never be forgiven or welcomed again. So if anything I was feeling detached and isolated as well as physically, mentally and emotionally ravaged, and in many ways I suppose perfectly positioned to become a brand new fuck-up in another city under an entirely different set of circumstances. But regardless of what type of lifestyle I would ultimately embrace, I needed to make some money and was determined to find a job. My situation on Glenbrook Road was tenuous at best, and I wasn’t sure how much goodwill was left in my mother’s tank.
Before returning to the mall and the Rock and Roll Café, I sized-up my wardrobe which consisted only of things I’d left behind in Queens six years prior when I initially moved into Manhattan with Helmer. As a result I was limited to some tee-shirts and underwear, a few pairs of faded jeans, a ripped denim jacket and the snakeskin boots I’d been wearing for years. Certainly, it wasn’t what I would’ve typically chosen to wear while applying for a job—especially one in Connecticut—but that’s all I had.
Stamford’s Rock and Roll Café was the redheaded stepchild of the smaller Manhattan location which was in the West Village on Bleecker Street, and always seemed a bit too commercial, superficial and out of place even for that area—almost like a ghetto version of the Hard Rock Café geared more toward tourists and recent transplants than natives or musicians. The newer version was really just a big bar with a restaurant attached to it, but it was still sort of an odd thing to see in the Stamford mall, and even odder to be managed by what was apparently a recruit from the West Village with earrings in both ears, spiked hair and a pair of very tight-fitting purple pants.
“Oooohhh baby, looky here! We’ve got ourselves a genuINE rock star right here at the Rock and Roll Café of Stamford, Connecticut!” he squealed with delight when he got a load of me, while his tight purple pants seemed to be getting a load of him. “What can I do for you, baby.”
“I need a job,” I said cutting right to the chase.
“Why? Is money too tight to mention?”
“Absolutely,” I told him while somehow missing the redheaded rocker reference.
“You don’t recognize me, sweetie, do you?”
“No,” I said as I hadn’t a clue who she was...I mean—who he was.
“Oh baby pa-lease don’t tell me that or I do declare—you’ll hurt my fragile little feelings,” he said while suddenly doing his best southern belle.
“Hey, tone it down there, Dorothy—you’re not in Kansas anymore,” said someone with a very familiar-sounding voice that I hadn’t noticed standing behind the bar.
“Randy!” I shouted with real happiness the moment I saw him and then reached out to once again shake that big, gay, hand from California that I’d first encountered at Serendipity so many years before. “I can’t fucking believe it! How’s everything going?”
“Not bad, man, not bad.”
“What the hell are you doing in Stamford?”
“I don’t know—taking a breath?” he said as if he wasn’t entirely sure. “Things were getting a little crazy back there with the partying and shit and I had to get out of the city. So, a few months ago when I got the opportunity to come out here and open this place I figured what-the-fuck? What about you?”
“WHAT ABOUT ME?!?” squealed purple pants. “You still don’t remember me?”
“I’m sorry, brother,” I said. “Did you work at Serendipity as well?”
“No I did not work at fucking Serendipity!”
“Craig, this is Jack—come on, man, you remember him—don’t you?”
“Hanging out and getting high at the apartment while you were listening to Concrete Blonde and playing the synthesizer like a fucking psycho,” Jack said as he successfully refreshed my memory.
“Oh yeah, man, of course—how could I fucking forget?” I said. “I’m sorry. But you guys know I was really fucked-up then—which is why I also ended up in Stamford…sor
t of.”
“Oh, come now!” Jack said as he dismissed my flimsy excuse and preferred to remain offended. “I’ll have you know this face is entirely unforgettable!”
“It most certainly is…except when it’s covered by Randy’s nuts—so cut me some fucking slack, alright?”
“Hey, you know, we have to kinda keep that talk to a minimum around here,” Randy told me.
“What? No fucking F-bombs?”
“That would be fucking impossible,” Jack pointed out.
“No gay chatter or overly homosexual behavior in the restaurant,” explained Randy.
“Why not? Are you guys suddenly stuck in the closet?”
“Oh pa-lease!” Jack squealed. “The only thing stuck in my closet is a big black dong with a sloppy suction cup.”
“Actually,” said Randy who bravely attempted to ignore the commentary, “the boss already knows we’re queer. Jack and I’ve been running the Bleecker Street bar for years.”
“But this isn’t Bleecker Street,” I said.
“Exactly, so we just have to try not to broadcast everything,” Randy said while briefly looking at Jack. “It really doesn’t even matter anymore because most of the staff and customers are pretty perceptive and it wasn’t too long before they basically realized we’re gay.”
“Yes, Craig,” agreed Jack. “Just like it won’t be too long before they realize you’re gay.”
“That’s until they see me bangin’ your mom on the bar.”
“Oh wow…I am just so offended by my erection,” Jack said after a moment before scurrying away.
So at least I had a job, and it was great to have a couple of old friends around as well. But this would be my first employment of any kind outside of New York, and although it was clear that Randy was making a concerted effort to put the serious partying aside, it would prove easier said than done…for both of us.
4
I am in no way scarred by the uniform I was forced to wear at the Rock and Roll Café of Stamford, Connecticut—which leads me to believe it couldn’t have been too traumatizing. In fact, generally speaking, of all the restaurant jobs I’ve had this was clearly the most enjoyable as I shared a unique bond with the managers that could have only been forged from working in the trenches together, surviving Serendipity, and watching them suck each other off while I smoked crack and played the synthesizer.
As a result, the depth of my relationship with Randy and Jack was reflected in my performance as I was the model employee and always on time and never drunk or fucked up at work—which was more than a lot of the staff could say. And I really liked working there. There’s something about being treated with even just a modicum of respect by managers who, incidentally, not only expected the staff to pass that respect along to the customers, but that the customers reciprocate the same degree of courtesy to the staff. And though my stint at the Rock and Roll Café would be relatively short, there was more than one occasion during that period when Randy and Jack felt obliged to escort guests out of the dining room for having less than stellar attitudes with their employees. And if a customer should follow-up his rudeness with aggression over suddenly being asked to vacate the premises, management would almost always ask me to help facilitate the expulsion as they knew there wasn’t anything in the world I wouldn’t do for them.
“Hey Craig—give me a blow job.”
Except that.
“Nope,” I told Jack on several occasions.
“Why the fuck not?!”
“Do you actually have to ask?”
“Oh, yes.”
“For the same reason you don’t wanna lick Paula’s pussy,” I told him.
“So then is this your way of implying that you wanna lick Paula’s pussy? Because if you do—I think I can make that happen.”
“I think I’d rather lick your pussy.”
“Well, you see then! We’re sort of on the same page!”
Clearly, I had an unusual history and relationship with my direct superiors, and though they carried on in front of me in a manner that was seldom if ever seen by any of the other employees, every staff member absolutely adored and appreciated them for the respectful and mild-mannered way in which they treated their subordinates, which is largely unheard of in the industry. The interesting irony of the fact is that while a large percentage of restaurant managers, chefs and owners regularly mistreat, disrespect and violate the most basic rights of their underlings, many simultaneously drone on about a shortage of workers in the industry that take pride in their work. Thus, by making what can already be a distasteful job truly distressing, this upper echelon of service industry professionals have unwittingly created a self-fulfilling prophecy, as they make a practice out of treating their service staffs like shit and then seem surprised when their employees have no respect for themselves, their jobs or where they work. Consequently, when hiring time rolls around many restaurants are ultimately forced to bypass the labor pool for the cesspool because anyone with anything even remotely close to self-respect is likely to bolt by the end of their second week. So it’s not at all surprising why many restaurant staffs are often selected from a field of largely subpar, unsavory characters that at best have little to no experience, education or work ethic and at worst—some pretty serious drug habits, criminal records and questionable characters. Now, of course, that’s not to suggest that while you’re wolfing down your Rooty Tooties at three in the morning—blue-haired Betty’s back in the kitchen doing lines with her panties wrapped around her ankles. I’m just trying to point out the fact that a lot of these restaurateurs are getting just what they ordered and exactly what they deserve.
Obviously, Jack and Randy’s attitude was extraordinarily refreshing to a group of seasoned employees accustomed to checking their self-respect at the door, and this only encouraged Rock and Roll staff members to linger at the bar after their shifts concluded. Certainly, this is something typically forbidden by proprietors always on the lookout for barkeeps treating coworkers to the occasional drink. However, this was never a concern at the café where staff was actually permitted a free shift drink as ownership was a little more evolved, a little less cost-conscious, and always absent and unaware of the open bar that would begin raging each night as the final customer left the establishment. Unfortunately, though, Connecticut bars and restaurants are required to stop serving alcohol at 1 a.m. during the week and 2 a.m. on the weekend, which would usually require Rock and Roll staff members to race against the clock and do some pretty serious consuming, as it wasn’t at all uncommon for Stamford police to wander by the restaurant after curfew to ensure liquor laws were being upheld. As a result, in order to avoid any unpleasant police encounters we had to devise a safer alternative, so after about 25 minutes of binge drinking we’d drive 20 drunk miles to a bar in New York where the fun didn’t stop until four in the morning.
Each night the group of reckless revelers was essentially the same, and though I would catch a ride with Randy and Jack there was usually a total of about twelve of us making the pilgrimage to Port Chester and a little dive called Calloway’s.
“Craig, you really should’ve shaved today,” Jack pointed out during my very first afterhours outing in Port Chester, from the same seat he always took at the head of a long, wooden, table in the corner of the bar.
“Yeah, I know, man—I’m sorry. I definitely shouldn’t have come into work looking like this.”
“Fuck work! I don’t want that prickly shit rubbing against my nut sack. Do me a favor and take a razor to it before you end up scratching my fruit bowl.”
“Why don’t you take a razor to your fruit bowl?”
“I already shaved and conditioned it this morning.”
“Really? You actually shave your nuts?!?”
“Every third day and believe me—the shit is smooth…like a baby’s behind.”
“This is a disturbing set of images.”
“Or a lady’s vagina.”
“And yet they keep on coming
.”
“You’d love it.”
“I actually prefer my vaginas to be a little on the hairy side.”
“Why in the world would anyone wanna face full of frizz?” Jack said with an undisguisable degree of disgust.
“Oh—come now, Jack,” Randy decided to chime in. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right—Pubic Head over there,” said Jack in what I thought might be a disparaging reference to my ringlets.
“The Red Pubic Head which is really disgusting,” said Randy as I was now certain of it.
“Maybe I’m a grown man and I like knowing I’m with a grown woman you fucking freaks!” I suddenly shouted in what was obviously a desperate, flawed, and ineffective retort that would’ve typically fallen well short of my standards—but I had to say something because it felt like I was losing.
“Hey, Craig—you sick motherfucker—what’s the worst thing about eating bald pussy?” Randy suddenly asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Putting the diaper back on!”
“That’s sort of disturbing—don’t you think?”
“I think you’ll be telling that joke for the next 10 years,” said Randy as he finally fired off his own flawed retort because it’s already been much closer to twenty.
“What’s more disturbing is your fondness for a hairy snatch,” said Jack as he just couldn’t seem to let it go.
“Yep! Nothing like a warm, moist slice of furry fish pie to get me all FIRED-UP IN THE MORNING, JACK!!”
“EEEEWW!!” he squealed. “That makes me wanna cry and throw up at the same time!”
“GOOD...why?”
“Why?” Jack repeated back to me in a mocking sort of way.
“Because an unmanicured snatch is a horrifying thing.”
“Well I think you’re probably biased.”
“I’m fucking scarred!”
“Oh, that’s right!” Randy blurted out as if he was suddenly struck by a lightning bolt of recollection. “You know, Craig—you’d love Paula’s hairy pussy.”
Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise Page 4
