Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise

by Craig Goodman

  “No, we didn’t,” she agreed. “And since we didn’t we should at least get him in a cab and take him back to Sonoma.”

  “We don’t have the time or the money for that and we need to get back home and I HAVE to get back to work. Besides, someone’s coming to get him and he’s a big boy who makes his own decisions,” I said as I returned to the table where my friend was still wrapped-up in his arms and his medication. “Right, Perry?!”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re okay, right?! I don’t have to call a fucking ambulance or a cop to escort you home, DO I?”

  “We’ve already had dish dishcussion,” he mumbled.

  “Perry, I really think we should just put you in a cab and send you back to Sonoma,” Emily attempted. “You can always have your friend or employee or whatever come back later to pick up the car. Whaddaya think?”

  “I dink you sh’go home.”

  When we landed in Fort Myers Emily immediately pulled out her phone to check on Perry and it finally dawned on me that I never should have left him there alone at the airport like that, regardless of how stubborn he was or how selfish I was. But I suppose I always considered him to be an older, wiser, brother of sorts because even though I was the one who grew up in the city—he was the one with the street smarts. For better or for worse Perry was always the man with the plan, the big picture guy, the captain of the ship who would chart the course. He was the kind of guy that if stranded alone on a desert island with nothing other than sand and coconuts he’d come up with a recipe for Coconut Sandcake and not only survive the ordeal but make a fortune in the process. Indeed, for as long as I could remember it was always Perry who was in control and did the worrying, but never needed to be worried about REGARDLESS OF THE SITUATION.

  “Yeah, well I think right now he needs to talk to you,” Emily told me in the midst of my soliloquy as she handed me the phone while we were en route to baggage claim.

  “Hello?” I said, and though I didn’t hear anything from Perry, according to the P.A. announcement at the airport in San Francisco he wanted a word with me at the courtesy desk. “Oh man, he’s actually paging me.”

  “No shit,” Emily confirmed.

  “Perry…Perry!” I shouted into the phone which was beyond exasperating as I could actually hear him slurring something to someone in the background.

  At some point the call was dropped, and after several successive but unsuccessful attempts to reach him, Emily and I suffered through a sleepless night ridden with angst and worry. Of course, Perry would survive the dangerous ordeal because that’s what he does, but it didn’t mitigate the fact that I failed him in just about the worst way imaginable.

  On the following day the medical facility attempting to corral Perry called to inform us that at some point during the middle of the night he’d managed to return without anyone noticing and was apparently none the worse for wear. In fact, he recalled nothing of the trip to the airport, our departure or how he managed to get back to Sonoma, and within two weeks the vegetation around his heart cleared-up and he was sent home to finish recovering from the stroke. However, his poor health and impending surgery made pulling trees out of the ground forbidden fruit for the foreseeable future, and as a result Perry lost his business, his Bug AND his driveway and would be forced to stay with friends at least until the valve replacement which was scheduled for later that winter. And making matters worse, the lingering effects of his condition made his hands tremble so violently it was impossible for him to hold a pen, which is of course an indispensable component to the repertoire of any waiter or waitress trying to survive. Consequently, he would be unable to revive the restaurant career due to the stroke he suffered at the ripe old age of 39—while I, of course, wasn’t as lucky, and in order to reserve my mornings for writing Needle I had to continue working at Stonewood as copywriting gigs were becoming fewer and farther between. Ironically, however, Emily—who had spent the entirety of her adult life behind a bar slinging drinks—was able to parlay her good looks and quick wit into an advertising-sales position with a real estate magazine in Sarasota.

  By mid-March Perry successfully underwent his third heart surgery opting once again for a donor valve, and though he had no intention of ever mainlining anything again, the mere notion of a catastrophic failure resulting from a synthetic replacement took center stage when it came time to make the decision. Unfortunately, however, even after he had the surgery his hands continued to shake, and due to the fact that by now most of his missives were composed with two fingers pecking away at a keyboard he never bothered to learn how to write again.

  40

  By the spring of 2006 I was cranking-out Needle at a steady pace. In fact, I took my eyes off the ball only once when Emily and I were invited on a cruise to the Caribbean where I swam with stingrays in Jamaica, ate tacos with Colombians in Cozumel, and realized the emotional highs and lows of playing black jack in a casino are remarkably similar to those of smoking crack in Hell’s Kitchen, as my money went up in smoke in a different way but at about the same pace. Fortunately, by April, however—we maintained enough of our capital to put a small down payment on a small two-bedroom condo in the Cape.

  Certainly, we hadn’t fallen victim to the property-flipping frenzy that seemed to be overcoming everyone around us, and though by now we would’ve preferred to escape from Florida, it was obvious that Savannah and Momma Marcott weren’t going anywhere and so neither were we. Consequently, it seemed logical to make the investment and at least temporarily become homeowners as we realized we could be paying off our own mortgage rather than the landlord’s and eventually recoup at least a portion of what would’ve otherwise been blown on rent. Unfortunately, the subprime loan we qualified for was arranged by a subprime mortgage broker whose good faith interest rate was about a full percentage point lower than what we were eventually provided with at closing. As a result, he handed me almost $2000 literally under the table and told us we could refinance the $170,000 apartment within a year. Of course, the last time I had that much cash in my hand I’d stolen it from a drug dealer, so at the time I was pretty thrilled with the arrangement because the implications of it were unclear. But within six months chinks in the armor of the subprime housing market would begin to appear as the subprime bubble had finally burst and people were not only losing their homes but their jobs, as so many worked for construction and real estate firms which were the first to begin the massive layoffs. All around Southwest Florida the mood was becoming grim and gloomy as lenders began foreclosure proceedings and homes were taken, businesses were lost and overwhelmed property owners suddenly began to throw their hands in the air and walk away. By December Emily’s magazine completely folded, and not long after that the few copywriting clients I’d been relying on had also disappeared as my earnings were now limited to whatever shifts I could scrounge-up at Stonewood.

  In February, Emily and I both secured seasonal jobs at typically busy restaurants on Sanibel Island where we hoped we could maximize earnings during the winter months and save our home as well as the thousands of dollars we’d put into it. But that season would end up being the most anemic in decades, and in March the bank actually raised our subprime adjustable mortgage rate while our 30-year-old condo, initially appraised at $180,000, was now worth 90,000. Of course, there was no shortage of individuals willing to exploit the situation even further by offering us between 50 and $60,000 for it and we probably should’ve taken one of them up on their offer. But I couldn’t help but feel resentful and victimized by the situation because unlike virtually everyone around us—we weren’t looking to get rich. Rather than continue to pay rent, we’d purchased property to remain close to those we loved in an area we despised—simply because we thought it would be more cost effective to do so. It ended up not being that but I should’ve known better. The moment I saw waiters and waitresses flipping houses and making tens of thousands of dollars overnight I should have realized something was up. But when you’re not looking to get
rich, sometimes it’s easy to miss the forest for the trees. So in May as foreclosure threats were beginning to flood the mailbox and the reality of the situation came bearing down upon us we finally decided to throw our hands in the air and walk away as well…down the road…to Momma Marcott’s house.

  Momma divorced Tom almost immediately after Jon died and had purchased a new home that wasn’t as grand as the other but was equally as beautiful, and unlike Emily and I and soooo many others she was actually able to grind it out and do what she needed to in order to retain her investment. And when Emily and I stampeded into her lovely abode she didn’t even ask for rent, though we did occasionally help out with a bill or two which was about all we could afford as our seasonal jobs were now out of season and we were once again out of work. Of course, Emily—young and beautiful as ever—was able to find something somewhere that would help cover our cost of living but I, getting older and uglier by the moment, wouldn’t be as lucky and it would be months before I could find any work at all. Needle, however, was only months from being completed and it had been a remarkable journey for me—not only as a writer—but as an addict trying not to be an addict and to put the past in its proper perspective. Certainly, this was no easy task as the self-centeredness of my addictive behavior had been enmeshed in personal aspirations and the future I’d envisioned, but writing Needle forced me to examine myself and the decisions I’d made with a clear head and from a vantage point which truly helped me realize that in all things, distance truly lends perspective.

  By the end of the month Emily purchased a copy of The Writer’s Market for my birthday. Obviously, the implications of her gesture were clear and not at all surprising given the fact that I’d never shared my concerns about publishing the past. But the feedback I’d received from the few souls I trusted with my dirty laundry was so overwhelmingly positive that the notion was actually beginning to stick in my brain.

  As I thumbed through detailed listings of literary agents in what was clearly the Holy Grail for writers trying to get published, I realized that after almost three years of writing Needle—which otherwise would have been dedicated to some other professionally ambitious though probably unsuccessful undertaking—I owed it to those around me to at least look into whether or not this 130,000-word monstrosity had a chance. And of course, as Savannah was becoming more expensive by the minute and already halfway to college, I needed to fiscally address the future.

  Although I hadn’t completely finished the book, in August I began mass-mailing queries to agents that supposedly specialized in this sort of nonfiction, and at first I was puzzled by the fact that I received no responses of any kind, and concerned that the contact information listed in The Writer’s Market was either flawed or outdated. Then, within a couple of weeks my fears were put to rest as 78 rejection letters appeared in my mailbox…which I found both concerning and comforting at the same time.

  41

  It’s just after 5 p.m. but it’s mid-November and it’s already getting too cold to be outside and too dark to even see the ball, so I head home up that not-so-steep hill and around that circular driveway surrounding that fountain that leads to the lobby of my building. This is where I live. This is where I watch television. This is where I do my homework. This is where I run for cover. This is where I make up excuses. This is where I…bide my time.

  As I approach the Cryder House lobby a shiver suddenly ripples through me as I remember that Mother has been in the apartment all afternoon and I’ve broken the law by sneaking off the property—so I look up at the 17th floor of the building to make sure she isn’t at one of the windows as I sneak back on. I then push open the gigantic glass doors and head into the lobby as I notice a bit of a disturbance on the front lawn by the river, as some of the building’s youngest residents are congregating around a terrace belonging to one of the ground-floor apartments. So I step outside and toward the edge of the grass to investigate:

  “What the fuck are you assholes doing?!” I shout at the little shits.

  “Nothing!” bellows Marc—the five-year-old leader of the partially post-pamper wearing pack.

  “WHAT?!”

  “NOTHING!!” he screams at me again and then darts between the thick bushes beneath the terrace.

  I almost decide to ignore the kindergarten commotion and continue upstairs to whatever awaits when my curiosity finally gets the better of me because I know with this particular troop of twisted tykes—there’s no telling what’s behind those thick bushes that conceal what’s beneath that cement terrace. So I head in that direction.

  As I kneel down and part the prickly bushes I am startled to find six black and white puppies with rounded, floppy, ears. But I think two of them are dead from exposure to the cold, while in a desperate bid to stay warm two others have draped themselves over their remaining siblings which are either sick or have also succumbed to the plummeting temperatures.

  “Oh my gosh!” I accidentally say out loud as I’m suddenly aware of my breath lingering in the air which makes me only more aware of the gravity of the situation. “Did any of you dumb asses tell a grown-up!?”

  “No,” says Marc.

  “WHY NOT?!”

  “Cuz then they gonna take’em away!”

  “Oh, Christ!” I say as I’m now almost certain that four of these little puppies are dead. “Have you seen the mother?”

  “Whose mother?”

  “THE PUPPIES’ MOTHER!”

  “NO!” Marc screams back at me as he tries to grab one of the two that are still alive.

  “Don’t touch him,” I say as I grit my teeth and growl in a voice that I hope is nothing short of terrifying to a five-year-old. “I’ll be right back!”

  I race across the lawn, stampede into the lobby and then pound incessantly on the elevator buttons as if that might somehow expedite things. After what seems like an eternity, an elevator finally arrives and I jump in and employ the same button-pounding technique as the door slides shut across the threshold before any late-to-the-party residents have a chance to delay my ascent.

  After what seems like yet another eternity the elevator finally arrives on the seventeen floor as I explode out of it and sprint down the hallway to apartment #17-H. As I enter the place I call home I am overcome by panic—not panic like when I realize my mother’s about to launch an attack—but a desperate and frigid kind of panic that extends from my belly on up to the middle of my chest and makes my legs shake and takes my breath away and makes it difficult for me to say:

  “MA!”

  “You’re late,” she responds coolly to my cracking voice as I dare to run through the hallway and into the kitchen with my sneakers on while she’s stirring tomato sauce that my grandmother sent home with us the night before.

  “I KNOW—I’m sorry but listen! There are these six little puppies downstairs and they’re freezing and I think four of them are dead already but two—”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  Immediately I feel a cold, panicky shudder run through me like a bolt of icy lightning…and then I begin to fall apart.

  “Ma,” I decide to try again in between a spate of sudden sobs. “There’s four of them…and two are dead…and the others are trying to keep warm but I don’t think they’re gonna make it…and—”

  “And?” she interrupts me dispassionately as the tears start to really flow and I start to really feel sick and try to take a breath.

  “And…please, Ma, can we please bring them in… just for a little while…just to get warm?” I can barely manage to get out as I am absolutely terrified and beside myself and overwhelmed with tears and grief and heartache like I’ve never felt before because I know exactly what’s coming:

  “No.”

  “Oh, please, Mom…just for a little bit…just until they—”

  “NO.”

  And that’s that. Whenever Mother speaks in bold print—that is indeed that.

  So I turn around and begin to walk down the long ha
llway leading to my bedroom as I wipe away the tears that continue to roll and try to come to terms with this terrible thing but then suddenly—

  “I REMEMBER!” I spin around and scream at her with a sudden burst of bravery as the sobs subside but the anger rises to the surface while the tears continue to roll.

  “WHAT?!” she shouts at me like she dares me to answer while taking three menacing steps in my direction.

  “DAD said—I remember!” I shout back at her and hold my ground.

  “WHAT?!” she asks again in an angrier way as she clenches her jaw along with her fists.

  “DAD said, DAD said!” I scream at her once more while trying to wipe away tears that refuse to be tamed. “A German Shepherd! Dad said at Uncle Joe’s he was gonna buy us a German Shepherd and then he died! And we don’t even need to buy one because there’s two of them downstairs right now and they’re gonna die! PLEASE, MOM—PLEASE!!”

  “Craig—do you wanna know what your dad said to Uncle Joe after you left the room that day?” she suddenly asks me in a calmer voice with a wooden spoon in her hand and a self-serving smile on her face while ignoring my plea and without waiting for me to answer her question. “‘LET HIM DREAM!!’ That’s right, Craig—that’s what he said! That’s what your dear-old departed father said the moment you left the room. ‘LET HIM DREAM!’”

  With that the tears subside and the last vestiges of my childhood are left in a puddle on the expensive black tile my mother was always so fond of. Unfortunately, though, she wasn’t quite finished:

  “You know, Craig, I love you—I do! You came out of me! I have no choice—I have to love you…but I don’t like you.”

  “Yeah, yeah—I know, I know!” I tell her and if I had a dollar for every time she said that shit I could’ve hired a hit man to kill her. And then I head for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?!”

  “Downstairs for a minute. Maybe I can find a blanket for them or something.”