Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise

by Craig Goodman

  “What’s going on?” I asked her while attempting to emerge from an incredibly sound slumber as Toni pulled into the Stamford train station.

  “We’re about to score some coke!”

  “Oh really? Who’s the dealer? Casey Fucking Jones?”

  “I already told you! I don’t know the fucking dealer!”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right…and calm the fuck down!” I said as I shook out some of the cobwebs.

  We parked, exited the car, and the three of us left the lot and crossed a narrow street which ran alongside the rows of ramshackle houses that didn’t even look like houses. Actually, from the outside they reminded me of the bunkhouses we used to report to after swim class during summer camp when I was a kid, just before we changed out of our soaking-wet suits, wiped our dirty feet on the mildew-infested floor and were sent home for the day.

  After we passed a few of the units we knocked on the door of one of the houses that was in total disrepair, and after a moment or two it was opened by a black woman whose age was difficult to discern.

  “I was just wondering when I’d see you two sluts again,” she said immediately and then looked worried when she noticed me standing off to the side. “Who the fuck is YOU, homeboy?!”

  “He’s a famous rock star from New York!” said Toni. “Don’t you just wanna fuck him?”

  “NO!” said Sarah. “YOU A COP?”

  “Yeah, me and these strung-out bitches are here to bust you.”

  Without inquiring further Sarah let us in, collected the money, left us standing there for no more than three minutes and then returned with the stash while I realized the ramshackle houses reminded me of summer camp on the inside as well.

  “Oh—thank God,” Megan jumped up to grab the bag of powder as she handed Sarah her finder’s fee. “By the way, you’re not pinching out of my shit, are you Sarah?”

  “Nah, BUT FUCK YOU IF I WAS, bitch! I ain’t into that speedy shit...I’m into the mellow fellow,” she said as she set Megan straight.

  “The what?” asked Toni.

  “The heron.”

  “The what?!?” I said as I followed-up Toni’s inquiry with one of my own.

  “The he-ron, man, the HE-RON,” she said again as she pulled a bag of dope out of her pocket and waved it in the air to help make her point.

  Point taken.

  7

  It’s so easy to turn off when I’m like this and to simply go away, or perhaps remain alive in a clinical sense and yet, in any meaningful way—just not be here anymore. But certainly, in a slightly more engaged, slightly more animated and a slightly more functional way I’ve been doing this for years.

  In and of itself—in its simplest and most basic context—it’s just a pointless purgatory. In and of itself, it’s really neither here nor there. In and of itself, regardless of the attention it may generate or perhaps even deserve, it’s merely the meaningless, medicated, middle ground of what really matters at either end. But make no mistake about it…one real step in either direction is a game changer. And one’s definitely worse than the other though at this point I’m not sure which is which but from the look of things—neither’s a winning hand.

  That’s why Option C is always so appealing.

  Right now it’s a cozy holding pattern. Right now it’s a BIG head stuck in a warm pile of sand. It’s perfect sunshine on a cloudless day aboard a schooner drifting peacefully upon the calmest sea filled with the most terrifying sea monsters imaginable…so just make sure you stay on board. Any less might make you sick, any more might kill you because it’s also a self-fulfilling prophecy of self-destruction—but if you’re really, really, careful it can be soooo noncommittal. Well, right now it may SEEM noncommittal but we know better than that—don’t we? Indeed we do. As a matter of fact, in most cases, to one degree or another, we end up committing our lives to it—but right now it doesn’t seem like that at all. It never quite seems like that until it’s a done deal. That’s really the beauty of it. It has its own survival mechanism built right into it. “Survival” is a funny word to use but you know what I mean. In fact, in a very specific way it is its own survival mechanism, and if you happen to be on the wrong side of it you know this all too well. But you, my condescending Counselor, Therapist, Doctor—you are on the right side…I mean REALLY, you treat me??? Perhaps to a bottle of Percocet. But my goodness, what makes you the expert, anyway? What makes you so knowledgeable about my plight? Weren’t you vetted before being sanctioned to tell me what to do? Didn’t they look into your background to make sure you were never chemically complicit or compromised? How many times did you overdose? What traces of illegal substances have ever been found in your piss test? Perhaps the methadone you bandy about? I doubt it. So, I ask you once more my Judge, Jury, Executioner, Legislator, Rule Maker, Office Taker, Heart Breaker, PREACHER—what makes ANY of you qualified to tell me how to deal with this??? And incidentally, if I don’t believe in your God then I’m ALREADY anonymous. By all means, round up the sinners and purge society from evil but until you do, well—you know what to do.

  The moment I first laid eyes on the area around the Stamford train station I thought it might be a drug spot but I never expected to find heroin there, especially after Toni mentioned it in connection to cocaine because generally, it was pretty unusual to find both drugs peddled by the same operation. As a matter fact, over the course of six years in New York, I can only recall one or two instances where that was the case. But strange things that never happen anywhere else happen every day in the Emerald City, where buildings glow a sickly shade green, heroin sells for twenty bucks a bag, and I’m a thoroughly appreciated and respected employee—especially when I happen not to be having drug-fueled sex with strippers. Unfortunately, however, the discovery of dope in Stamford about a half-mile away from my mother’s apartment would eventually put an end to my status in the restaurant, not to mention the late-night carnal activities outside of it.

  To be honest, the moment I realized dope was in Stamford I had no clear intention of doing it. But even at this point and for many years to come, heroin would in some way at least occur to me on a daily, if not an hourly basis regardless of whether I was aware of its proximity or not. And now a very sexy seed had been planted deep within my frontal lobe, and though I rarely watered it with any attention it began to germinate and then before I knew it—I was thinking about scoring in New England. At first, it was only brain candy. At first, it was mindless musing. But eventually those thoughts began to grow teeth and take root. And soon enough I indirectly acknowledged and even accepted the possibility that at some point I might fuck up, especially since those rows of ramshackle houses were so nearby. Indeed, I knew there was always a chance I could exercise some poor decision-making—but I decided to shelve the potential consequences. Mind you, I wasn’t ignoring the potential consequences; I was simply postponing their consideration for a little later when it would be too late to do anything about. And that day was coming hard and fast and all it took was some booze at Calloway’s, a good mood and a bout of the flu that kept Edgar and the strippers in bed for the evening…sick in bed for the evening…kept Edgar and the strippers sick in bed for the evening.

  So, after a month-long intermission I finally paid a visit to Sarah and officially brought the travelling show to Stamford, and by mid-September had picked up right where I left off with three performances a day, sans the needle sticking out of my arm; however, I was definitely traveling down that path as the dope was expensive and pretty poor quality. In fact, it was about half as potent as the strains typically found in the city and though I’m sure Sarah was taxing the merchandise in some way, it even ended up being twice as expensive as the bullshit being sold to suckers in Hell’s Kitchen for 15 bucks a bag and at least that dope was decent. No pun intended, but this Stamford shit was cut so many times I could literally taste the baby laxative.

  Each night after my shift concluded I’d make a pit stop at Sarah’s for a quick snort and end up sp
ending about half the money I made on dope that would mostly be saved for later, while everyone else was at the café loading up on free liquor. And thanks to a month of opiate abstention and a slightly decreased tolerance, by the time I returned to my coworkers I was pretty high from just a short snort of subpar dope but no one seemed to notice—though that may have been due to the decoy drink I never drank but always held in order to help maintain the…performance. Of course, it would’ve been wiser to bypass Calloway’s and not risk nodding off and blowing my cover, but I absolutely had to kill time and stay out of my mother’s apartment if there was any chance of her being awake and alert—especially while I was high. But regardless, due to time constraints, I would have no choice but to relinquish my After Hours Club membership in exchange for several hours spent nodding in my sister’s bedroom—and though I faced a harsh rebuke from the strippers, like any other dope fiend I had my priorities. After all, steamy sex with exotic dancers was a sad substitute for true love and companionship and unfortunately, that was the only time I could get high without getting caught. And of course, it was absolutely imperative that I keep my secret safe from Randy and Jack as well, who—unlike my mother—were fully aware of why I was in Stamford to begin with. I knew for certain that if they even got an inkling of what I was up to I’d be fired immediately out of nothing other than concern—and then you know what that would mean: I wouldn’t be able to get high.

  Obviously, I was once again already overcome by the functioning-addict mentality, but this time I was unencumbered by any musical aspirations. And of course, I wasn’t even addressing the fact that I was living with my mother on borrowed time but certainly, I had a history of looking the other way until it was too late. So, in order to avoid my coworker’s suspicions and my mother’s waking hours, I’d usually hang-out halfway high with a drink prop at Calloway’s until 2 or 3 a.m. when Jack and Randy called it a night and transported me back home—where I’d finish the rest of my stash and remain in a pretty potent nod until my mother left for work and I fell asleep.

  I was able to maintain the façade through the end of the summer and into the fall, though I was clearly becoming an entirely different breed of junky. Gone was the junky of old, the who-gives-a-fuck-about-what-anyone-thinks junky. I was a brand new and improved junky—a redesigned and reengineered junky. I was a sneaky junky and a lying junky and a manipulative junky but nonetheless, a painstakingly careful, meticulous and detail-oriented junky that closely monitored his behavior and surroundings, always avoided dopesickness, never got arrested, controlled his costs and kept his secret hidden from everyone—without exception. In fact, every other week I now invented a reason to organize a Rock and Roll Staff Field Trip to the city which was just a ruse for a free ride and a chance to sneak away from the group and replenish my stash with dope that was much less expensive, much more potent, and when you factored in the cost effectiveness of the needle—a mere fraction of the price of Stamford’s product. Oh yeah, that’s right. I also started booting again. Clearly, though the vehicle was no longer an artistic or glamorous one, the career destination was suddenly the same as I became nothing other than an aspiring professional junky subconsciously devising a brand new road map to success.

  8

  Uh oh—I think I’m missing something. Where’s all that noise coming from? I think I know but I can’t remember. And I know I remembered a second ago but I forgot again. It’s so hard to remember anything unless I make a conscious effort to dwell on it. But then I forget to do that. And if I don’t focus continually on it it’ll probably be lost to the ages. It will most likely be lost to the ages. It always has been…down through the ages…there are many, many things that have been lost…irretrievably lost.

  “Happy birthday to…”

  And there’s people singing but I can’t remember who they are and why they’re singing but I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be out there with them and not in here, but it’s sooo comfy in here. It’s warm, it’s cozy and there’s only room for me. And I’m so far down…down, down, down…deep into it. Deep into a dark, warm, humid, chasm where I feel safe and secure. This must be what the womb feels like…and past experience dictates that it’s much safer in here than out there, so I think I’m just gonna sit tight until I get squeezed out. But then there’s that goddamned singing…

  “Happy birthday to you…”

  If I keep ignoring it it’ll probably go away, but deep down inside I know it won’t and for some reason I don’t even care and I’ve already forgotten what I’m trying to ignore.

  “Happy birthday dear Toni—happy birthday to you.”

  Oh yeah—that’s right! It’s Toni’s birthday. They’re singing Happy Birthday to Toni because it’s Toni’s birthday party and I’m supposed to be out there singing with them…because it’s a party…for Toni…but I’m sooo fucked up…and why the fuck are they singing?

  “CRAIG!” Megan screamed at me as she was suddenly standing by the door wearing a shocked and somewhat horrified expression.

  “WHAT?!” I screamed back while my heart was pounding in my chest just as Recollection, Realization and Consequence finally came waltzing in WAY PAST CURFEW.

  “Whaddaya mean, ‘What?’ What the hell’s going on?! We’re all out there celebrating and you’re all fucked-up in here! Now get up and get the fuck out of there before I kick your ass you stupid douche!”

  “Nice, Megan! Is this how you treat your fucking guests?!”

  “NO—but my guests don’t usually decide to take a bath in the middle of Happy Fucking Birthday! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Are you high or something? God—I thought you OD’d!”

  “I just drank too much,” I said as I rose to my feet with all of my dripping wet nakedness and shut the running water while battling to keep my eyes open.

  “Oh, well that’s odd because I didn’t see you drink a fucking thing all night!”

  “WELL THEN YOU WEREN’T LOOKING CLOSELY ENOUGH!!!” I absolutely bellowed at her. But it was so much more than that. It was a straight-up but partially incoherent roar from a dark voice in a dark place—that same, infinitely selfish, desperate and tainted voice that knows no wrong, owes nothing to anyone, and when exposed or even threatened with exposure will become a disingenuous, scornful and belligerent voice to mislead and frighten away the light. Technically, though, I suppose I did OD but as far as I was concerned, getting fucked-up without losing consciousness and calling it an overdose was like taking your cousin to the prom and calling it a date. So as far as I was concerned, I didn’t overdose—I simply overdid, and although it was foolish to get high in the bathroom during Toni’s birthday party I really had no choice in the matter because I simply refused to be dopesick. Earlier that evening, after my last table paid the check but before I had a chance to take a preemptive snort, Megan dragged me out of the restaurant and over to Calloway’s along with Toni as a smokescreen before we headed over to her apartment for a very well-planned and well-attended surprise party. And given the fact that my mother had a proclivity for snooping, I now carried my stash and works on my person along with an ever impending dopesickness that was actually getting the better of me by 3 a.m. when I finally decided to throw caution to the wind and boot a bag in the bathroom.

  Of course, being in front of my coworkers while obviously under an opiated influence was a seriously bad idea as word could eventually get back to Randy and Jack though thankfully, they’d come down with mutual throat infections and as a result were absent from the party. But to be honest, after booting a single bag of heroin, a two-bag-a-day dope fiend wouldn’t typically expect to find himself in crazy-town talking shit while taking a bath in the midst of a stripper celebration. The fact of the matter is that this particular bag of dope was an anomaly of sorts and about twice as potent as the rest of my stash. How it happened to get into the mix I haven’t a clue, but junkies have been known to occasionally check-out after booting bags of unexpectedly potent product. Nonetheless, not long after Toni’s part
y, the majority of my coworkers—whether they were present for the spontaneous bit of bathing or not—began looking at and addressing me in a slightly different way, often with a head tilted slightly askew as if they were trying to figure me out, or trying to get to the bottom of something unseen or unsaid. Certainly, the After Hours Club figured it out, but every member down to the last stripper had a serious drug problem of their own to contend with and besides, I was able to brush it off as just a momentary slip-up and careful not to ever let it happen again…I mean in front of anyone, of course.

  9

  “I knew I’d find you’d living with your mother by now. Wanna know why?”

  “Not particularly,” I said a little sloppily as he happened to have caught me in my special place.

  “Because you’re a pathetic fucking junky with absolutely nothing left in your life other than a drug habit and a bunch of broken dreams—and only a completely desperate, brain-dead dipshit of a cowardly dope fiend would be homeless AND hopeless enough to sacrifice what’s left of his self-respect to move in with his fucking mother!”

  “YEAH…especially my mother.”

  “YOU HAVE TO CUT THIS SHIT OUT!” Alan screamed at me over the phone. “This fucked-up shit’s gonna kill you!”

  “Don’t worry about it, man—I’ve got it under control,” I told him.

  “You’re not in control of anything! You need to quit using and get yourself into rehab! What the fuck is wrong with you?! It’s been years now, Craig, years! It’s not cute anymore! Time to grow the fuck up!”

  “Trust me, Alan. I can control it. I am a functioning addict.”

  “You’re a functioning asshole and besides, that’s absolutely crazy.”

  “Yeah, but it feels so good.”

  “Listen, I’m coming out there soon and when I do you better be in rehab or it’s gonna be a bloody fucking day for you!”