“Kirk, I need you to void another special.” I said as I showed him the plate.
“First of all, you don’t need shit unless I say you do,” he informed me while ignoring the plate I was holding. “You just need to tell me where the problem is, what the problem is, and the name of the special if you think you can manage it.”
“No problem. Position three at table twelve is unhappy with the Band-Aid she found in the stuffed tuna.”
“What?!”
“And I think we should forget about reciting fish specials for the evening.”
“Thanks, but I’m not paying you to think.”
“Yeah, you couldn’t afford to. But that’s beside the point—you should take my advice anyway.”
“Now why in the world should I do that, Craig?”
“Because there are some pretty clever quips going around the restaurant right now and you might wanna start making them a memory,” I said just before he left me standing there with the ouchless tuna as he headed over to table twelve and the customer offended by it.
“I’m so sorry about the tuna ma’am. Please, please, PLEASE let me get you something else—anything you want—on me,” said Kirk as he played the groveller like a natural.
“You know, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but I really think I’d still like to have the tuna,” answered position #3. “Do you think you can rustle one up without a Curad?”
“Absolutely,” he responded before heading over to the kitchen which operated at the front of the restaurant and only a few feet away from front row guests including table twelve, as a long line of cooks stretched from one side of the dining room to the other.
“What’s wrong with these guys tonight?” Kirk asked rhetorically and quietly while addressing the expediter as he shook his head in disbelief. “Can I get another fish special for table twelve?”
“Sure thing—boss!” responded the expeditor with much more enthusiasm and volume than necessary or even appropriate given the awkwardness of the moment. “Fire up another boo-boo tuna!” he barked at the grill man.
“Hey! Stop that right now!” a horrified Kirk growled at the expeditor as he was apparently unimpressed with the witticism.
“Oh, sorry boss,” he said. “Hold the boo-boo! Do you mean a bass in a body bag, boss?”
“What!?!” screamed Kirk. “No, I don’t mean a bass in a fucking body bag!”
“Hey, I wanna bass in a body bag!” shouted position three at table twelve who was well within earshot of the exchange. “My server never mentioned anything about bass and had I known there was one in a body bag I NEVER would’ve gotten a boo-boo to begin with!”
“Ah, yes indeed, madam—the lemon-baked branzino!” I interjected triumphantly while flashing an exaggerated grin at Kirk. “It must have slipped my mind for a moment and I’m sorry about that—but you’ve nonetheless stumbled upon a magnificent item, my lady. The bass is a truly remarkable dish and one so exquisitely prepared with just a hint of citrus to counterbalance the robust flavor and aroma of the fish. And it’s not at all fishy-tasting, mind you, but oh so moist and tender—so very moist and tender. In fact, I daresay it’s the perfect plate and beautifully presented—just try not to eat the fucking bag…and don’t call me your server.”
16
At the beginning of April, when I mentioned Montauk and the Hamptons to Rick, I was really just running my mouth. It was just a lot of talk from a loud mouth New Yorker who thinks he knows everything. I certainly had no real intention of heading back up there even if it was for just the summer. That’s the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. Rick, however, was a little older than the rest of us with responsibilities and a mortgage to pay, so when I mentioned that between June and September he could clear over $500 a day on Eastern Long Island he was all about it.
“I can’t spend another summer down here,” he told me once at the Compound. “It’s hot and humid and disgusting and there’s no money to be made anywhere. Each winter things are good for three or four months and then by July I’m completely broke again.”
Unfortunately, that week when he actually started getting the ball rolling by making arrangements with a seasonal restaurant in Southampton, my drug monkey finally opened its eyes, yawned and had a good stretch for the first time in four months. And when I realized Perry and I would indeed be heading up north for the summer I knew at the very bottom and most desolate, far-flung corner of my heart that somehow, someway I’d be doing dope again. Of course, I absolutely refused to acknowledge it in any way, shape, or form but it was still vaguely there for the taking. It was kind of like carrying around a deep, dark, mostly repressed childhood memory that was too self-destructive to consciously consider. Or, perhaps, it was more like desperately wishing and waiting for something fantastic to happen but refusing to mention it or even think about for fear of jinxing it away. But regardless, and to confuse things even further, on some equally obscure level I absolutely knew that dope was something I truly didn’t want in my life, something I knew I couldn’t want. However, I can assure you I never considered the absurdity of it all—finally fleeing New York to get clean and enduring that arduous and grueling bus ride to Florida only to turn around and head back for a few months before returning to Florida once again. Of course, I also refused to consider the obvious pitfalls of going back to the belly of the beast because of course—that would be a waste of time.
My own mental gymnastics aside, our new Floridian friends knew little to nothing about our drug history or inclinations. As far as they were concerned, the decision—both mine and Perry’s—to spend the summer in Montauk was at worst motivated by personal greed, and at best inspired by compassion for some cash-strapped coworkers.
In a matter of days, Rick had secured summer jobs for a group of us at a restaurant in Southampton along with housing in Montauk, and by the end of April the sun and the ever increasing humidity started heating things up and I was looking forward to getting away from Florida for a while. Besides, Kirk was absolutely pissing me the fuck off, and the endgame would finally play itself out one morning when Kristen arrived a few minutes late to pick me up at the Compound before heading in to work.
“Sorry,” she said as I took the passenger seat. “I already called Kirk and told him we’d be a few minutes late so don’t worry.”
However, as soon as we stepped into the restaurant Kirk called me into the office and flipped the fuck out in a way that was not only totally over-the-top, but partially incoherent and completely irrational. He knew precisely why I was late, which was the same reason Kristen was late and while he said not a word to her, he was literally foaming at the mouth at me. I’d never seen anything like it. His fury seemed pent up, like he’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to let it combust before unleashing it all. And as he ranted and raved incoherently about everything he never liked about me and chunks of spittle came flying out of his mouth in all directions—I thought he might’ve been a little out of his head. Of course, this was purely speculation as I never saw any evidence other than a few periods of extraordinarily absurd behavior but then again—that might’ve been enough. So anyway, toward the end of April in 1997 Kirk fired me because Kristen was late, and for some reason I was totally cool with that. Besides, immediately afterwards I was able to secure work for the month of May at Jalapenos. In fact, from what I understood, the job was practically waiting there for me from the moment the last chunk of spittle landed thanks to recommendations from the staff at Bistro 41—but not so much the management.
Jalapenos was a Mexican restaurant, and though like Bistro 41 it was also located on Route 41 near the Bell Tower, it was much closer in caliber and proximity to Taco Bell and Crime Manor. Nonetheless, the month I spent at Jalapenos is notable only because it was there where I met Amy—Savannah’s mother—and because I developed something of a friendship with Rob Moore and Jamie Sharkey, two members of the wait staff who were also something of a couple. Both were 22-years old and Jamie
, coincidentally, harbored very serious ambitions to become an actress. Hence, predictably enough, within a week the New Yorker Who Knows Everything started running his mouth about the city and before I knew it—I’d extended both of them invitations to join us in Long Island for the summer. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me, Rick had already secured housing for the group that would be insufficient to accommodate any additional members.
I cannot begin to describe how overcome with disappointment Rob and especially Jamie were at the prospect of suddenly not going to Long Island for the summer. As a matter of fact, as far as Jamie was concerned, the whole Southampton gig was just a convenient and timely excuse for laying down more permanent roots in the city and doing the starving artist thing for a while.
“Well then you know what?” I said to them as I think I saw a teardrop forming in the left eye of the little girl. “Let’s just spend the summer in the city instead. It won’t be Southampton money but it’ll still be way better than anything happening down here for a while.”
Well now it was on. Now it was in my head. Certainly, not in my head like it was before in an unaddressed, obscure and intangible way, but now it was out in the open in my head. Yes, indeed, now the picture was finally forming as the colors were being added and the details were emerging. The script was written. The characters were in place. The show was about to begin.
17
On June 2nd it was hot out there. The weather—I mean. I was amazed at how big the ensuing summer sun had become as it now always seemed to be directly over my head while every morsel of moisture was systematically sucked out of me.
In the blistering Florida heat Rob and I filled a large U-Haul with Jamie’s life, and about 30 hours later we were in Manhattan. The Hamptons contingent had arrived in Long Island about a week earlier, and after Rob and Jamie dropped me off at the West Side Inn to secure a room before continuing on to a storage facility in the Bronx, I met up with Perry right in front of the hotel and was then provided with the exact same room we lived in a couple years earlier. Then, after a bit of nostalgic reminiscing about the past six years of indiscretion we immediately scored at the nearby Columbus Avenue spot that a medical school junky introduced me to back in 1995. But that would be the last time I’d see Perry for several months, and when Rob and Jamie returned to the hotel four hours later he was already gone and I was lying in bed deeply tucked away in a remarkably snug nod.
While I pretended to be asleep I could tell that although Rob was fine with the accommodations, Jamie was a little less than thrilled with the fact that all three of us would be sharing a single bed in a single room with a bathroom in the hallway. But since I snorted the dope it really didn’t matter what she thought. I was unfazed by her discontent. I was already in selfish junky-mode and it suddenly felt like I was on vacation. A vacation from sobriety. Well, not sobriety exactly, but sobriety in relation to doing dope. Regardless, I’d already decided that I would remain fucked-up for the duration of the summer, and in no way did I consider it a relapse in the way that I’d relapsed in Connecticut. THAT was a real relapse. THAT was a relapse with no end to the fun in sight. THAT relapse occurred while I was living at my mother’s with no serious intention of getting out of Dodge, while THIS was a TEMPORARY and COMPLETELY different situation. THIS was really just ONE LAST HURRAH. And though I couldn’t afford to get arrested as a fugitive from justice with a two-year-old bench warrant hanging over my head, I worked my magic and conjured up a brand of self-serving logic based on the law of averages, my history of arrests and my expected duration in the city and decided I stood about a 13% chance of being captured. Soon, however, that percentage would be whittled away to just about zero.
The following day I decided to visit St. Marks Pizza near St. Mark’s and Astor Place and though it no longer exists—here was clearly the greatest pizza that ever lived. I then wandered around the block and into Around The Clock and was immediately hired as a WAITER at this trendy 24-hour diner. And of course, as the newest employee I was offered the graveyard shift, which I really had no objection to and I’m glad I didn’t because it even further reduced my chances of getting busted.
Each morning at around 8 a.m. I’d leave the diner with a pocket full of cash and head directly to 106th Street and Columbus Avenue—two blocks from the West Side Inn—where the dealers would just be coming out of the woodwork to service the 9 to 5 clientele looking to get straight before heading into work, or perhaps just to prepare themselves for the day ahead. Of course, as far as I was concerned, dope had always been an after-school activity and these days school ended as breakfast began. Consequently, right around the time I was stepping out of work and getting ready to score—the cops were stepping in to Krispy Kreme and getting down to business. As a result, my freedom was never in question.
It was all so very convenient and inexpensive. I woke up, ate, went to work, scored, got high, nodded off, fell asleep, woke up again and began the cycle anew. And though within a week Jamie seized an opportunity to rent a room being offered by a new co-worker whose roommate was in California for the summer, lodging was still entirely affordable as Rob remained behind at the West Side Inn and assumed half the cost of the accommodation. What’s more is that after I sent him to Serendipity with Bill Sorvillo’s name to throw around as a reference he was hired on the spot and scheduled to work days. Consequently, each morning as he was setting out for Serendipity I was returning home from Around The Clock, and then once his shift concluded he’d usually be socializing with coworkers until after I headed out to work the graveyard. As a result we were on completely opposite schedules and practically NEVER saw each other, so we both essentially lived alone but still enjoyed the cost-effectiveness of having a roommate to share the rent with.
For about four months or 119 days my routine went unchanged, and to be quite honest I’m not sure I was ever happier. I had a decent job, a decent place to live and the most fantastic roommate I never saw. I was snorting or shooting two bags of dope a day like clockwork, without the burden of a band or the threat of an arrest or aspiration to get in the way. From a junky’s perspective I HAD IT ALL, and as far as any future hope of recovery was concerned, I was fortunate for being acutely aware of the extreme singularity of my situation. I knew that as much as I would’ve loved for this to go on forever, the stars would only be aligned for so long. Eventually, Rob would be leaving and the fun would have to end because I could never afford to live there as a junky—unless of course I could find another roommate on opposite schedules to share the rent with…and I definitely thought about it.
Aside from the fact that I was probably happier and more content than I’d ever been in my entire life, that summer was of little note. Oasis released an album that I enjoyed in spite of the singer, Princess Di was tragically killed in a horrific car accident, and Matt Dillon made my miserable life a little more miserable by behaving badly in the wrong place at the wrong time.
At around 4 a.m. every Saturday and Sunday, Around The Clock would fill to capacity with drunk and sweaty twenty-something clubbers coming in from Webster Hall. On one early Sunday morning in particular, as plates of pancakes and bacon began to fly around the dining room at dangerous speeds, my station—which consisted of about ten small tables situated in a very cramped, triangular-shaped space at the front of the restaurant—quickly filled to capacity with mostly women along with a very lucky Mr. Matt Dillon, who’d apparently been carrying on that evening without the company of his girlfriend, Cameron Diaz.
He flitted about my overstuffed station with unrestrained entitlement, and as he chatted-up chicks he strutted around almost as if he’d come in entirely alone, though he MUST have been with someone. Whoever it was, however, was lost in the blazing glare of Matt’s white-hot celebrity, so by exclusion I’m certain his famous girlfriend wasn’t also in attendance else I’m certain I would’ve burst into flames.
For about an hour Matt was either completely oblivious to my plight, didn’t quite grasp the nature of my p
osition or simply didn’t care, as he was either a moving obstacle making rounds to women in my station or stretched out in his own space with his legs across the aisle like he was relaxing at the fucking beach. And I know he sensed my agitation once or twice as he made a snide comment but I simply didn’t have time to provide him with a thoughtful response. Of course, in retrospect, I’m thankful I didn’t as the public venting might have dampened my lingering fury later that afternoon and prevented a special strain of spitefulness that can only be tapped into by tapping a vein. So, a couple of hours later I got loaded and contacted the gossip pages of the New York Post to inform them of how Matt behaves when his girlfriend isn’t looking, which—as expected—they were only too eager to hear and within a day or so the news was printed on Page Three. Of course, it wasn’t long before I read that for some unknown reason Matt was suddenly single again—and I can tell you that was a HELL of a lot more rewarding than the 10% he left me on $36.50.
18
At the end of September my respite from responsibility, recovery and life itself was rapidly coming to a close. Rob had recently left the city for Michigan to visit family while Jamie stayed in Manhattan to pursue her dream, and Perry—who had remained on Eastern Long Island for the entire summer—was now heading out even further east…to China. He’d recently met Shelly—a young graduate student who was in the midst of completing her doctoral requirements in Hong Kong—so he’d be spending the fall and the better part of the winter lying on the beach and living off grant money while she completed her thesis. So, on October 4th I once again purchased two bottles of methadone and boarded a Greyhound bus heading south.
I decided to take advantage of an invitation to stay with Amy because it was my only option. Of course, it certainly didn’t have to be this way. During the summer and over the course of 119 days and 238 bags of dope I spent exactly $2,380 on drugs and about $100 on works. So instead of having a decent amount of money in my pocket to get a new footing and a fresh start I had about seventy-five bucks, some methadone and no sense of direction or how to proceed with the future. After all, although I wrote the songs—Perry charted the course, and now with the situation and outlook so completely different I was at a loss and felt a little like I was flying a plane in the dark because there was no contingency plan for any of this. For the better part of a decade Perry and I were convinced of a destiny that was clearly false and now I finally had no choice but to come to terms with that as well as sobriety and somehow make it work. But when the meth wore off the need to be high on something revealed itself once again and I would once again satiate the need with weed.
Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise Page 10
