Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise

by Craig Goodman

  I really liked Pablo. He lived with his girlfriend and their two kids and was legally in the country and entitled to work. As such, he was frustrated by Marco’s cash payments because demonstrating a paper trail of continued employment would help him in his quest for citizenship, which was the reason he was here to begin with. But legal or not, I liked ALL the staff at Trecolori…except Raul. Raul was a 24-year-old Ecuadorian who was hygienically-challenged, evidenced by the stink lines that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He was sort of tall and very skinny with greasy black locks of hair stuck to his head. But it wasn’t only his aversion to water that I found disturbing, as Raul was one of the rare, undocumented waiters that had an attitude about the sanctity of his position and considered me an interloper of sorts, as if I was taking a job that I hadn’t a right to. He seemed to believe that restaurant work, at least in service capacities, should be reserved exclusively for immigrant labor as he felt the rest of us were too busy being overindulged with entitlement to have to compete for such lowly positions. He somehow also owned—of all things—a barber shop in Queens, and though he obviously wasn’t making a fortune I was intrigued by the fact that he was able to own any business at all. But Raul wasn’t the only revolting thing at Trattoria Trecolori, and one evening when we were standing in the server station while the busboys were busy collecting butter and olives from discarded plates by departed guests for others that had yet to arrive, he had a revelation of sorts.

  “You know,” he said to me. “If I was born in this country I would’ve never worked in a restaurant.”

  “If you were born in this country you would’ve run into a bar of soap.”

  A second announcement is made and from what I can gather, the train will be making local stops the rest of the way so I decide to seek out a more direct option before I’m late. I end up giving the woman my seat after all, and step off the train and onto a platform at Atlantic Avenue where posters bearing subway service alerts in every language except English are plastered everywhere as I rise up through the Tower of Babble on a quest for clarity as well as a completely different train that will bring me to essentially the same place.

  I take a seat on the alternate option and suddenly realize its departure is being unofficially delayed. In a successful bid to prevent the train from leaving without her, a woman has selfishly wedged her foot between the sliding doors that were shut by a motorman who stubbornly refuses to reopen them. I decide they deserve each other. As always, though, the motorman eventually relents—but not before stoking the flames of passenger fury further by allowing the delay to continue for several angry moments because of course—they won’t be able to get a hold of him.

  The alternate train heads into Manhattan and when it arrives at the alternate stop I step off and leave the station as I immediately try to get my bearings and sense of direction. Of course, this has become a bit of a challenge with the passing of the World Trade Center which for me, with respect to its geographical position in relation to the Empire State Building, had always been a compass of sorts. Indeed, so many things are different now…

  Oh yeah—and Emily left me.

  You couldn’t really blame her, but in October of 2009—a little more than a year after we left Florida and landed in Sunset Park, Brooklyn—Emily finally wised-up and headed-out for greener pastures of which I’m certain there were many, though now that I think about it I’m not sure she ever provided a specific reason for leaving. But nonetheless, I don’t believe I will ever again be so completely loved by another human being, and part of me is truly heartbroken about that and part of me couldn’t care less. It was like that the day she left, and has continued to be like that ever since.

  I remember once when I was 14, sitting in home room and waiting for the bell to ring and the school day to officially begin, Bryan Grayson began discussing his intentions of getting married by the time he was 23 and having three kids by 30. Though no one else within earshot of the discussion seemed particularly offended by it—I was absolutely aghast. Of course, judging from the way it seemed to work I assumed marriage and children were things that just sort of happened…like the chicken pox. But the popular notion that such aspirations were spawned by an innate or natural need or desire was completely foreign to me, so I always assumed I was born without it or that perhaps my mother had simply beaten it out of me. Now, that’s certainly not to suggest that I don’t absolutely adore my daughter because I do, and consider her nothing short of an incredible miracle because I wrapped it up twice. But to say that I ever harbored a desire to be a father or husband would be false, and without getting too self-analytical it would seem likely that my disastrous childhood, as well as the feuding family dynamic that was such a significant part of it, greatly contributed to the person I have become. After all, recession or not, not every father would be able to move thousands of miles away from their one and only child for an extended length of time for any reason, but I somehow found the strength because in the end—on paper—with the help of some unemotional reasoning, cold calculations and perhaps the undue influence of a flawed, familial, frame of reference it seemed like the most logical decision. Of course, that’s not to suggest I didn’t have my regrets because I did and still do. However, regardless of how others may feel, I don’t hate myself for leaving Florida. Indeed, I hate myself for many, many, things—but that’s not one of them.

  Of course, for Savannah, to whom Emily was—without question—a second mother, I was concerned that the split might affect her more profoundly and for the briefest moment it did when I first mentioned it to her a couple of months later during the Christmas visit. But she almost immediately recovered from the news, and perhaps that’s because she too may have a flawed frame of reference for certain things and if that’s the case then I may indeed have something new to hate myself for—though I’m not sure I can be sure.

  For the most part, Savannah seemed to take the demise of my relationship with Emily in stride. That, however, wasn’t the case for Leo who had a harder time adjusting to the single-parent household as it meant having to spend more time alone—something he had little experience with. In fact, while we were living with Momma he was NEVER alone due to the drastic disparity in work schedules; but even when we moved to Brooklyn, Emily and I would usually come and go at different enough times that he was never alone for too long a period and therefore didn’t suffer too badly in the process. Unfortunately, though, when Emily left for good things would dramatically change for both of us as Leo’s separation anxiety would soon find itself on a collision course with my obsessive-compulsive disorder.

  About a week after she flew the coop, Leo—challenging commonly held beliefs about the canine conception of time—seemed to realize the duration he typically spent alone, which was never more than two to four hours, had dramatically increased to as many as ten and though I wasn’t happy about the situation there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. Regardless, however, each day when I attempted to exit the apartment the Pomeranian would go into crisis-mode and systematically attempt to tear off my clothes. Starting with my shoes and then painfully proceeding to my socks, he’d continue onward and upward until I would literally have to pry him off before scooping him up and sticking him behind a closed door in the bedroom where he’d complain about it for hours—much to the displeasure of my neighbors.

  In order to combat the problem I began conditioning him to expect a treat whenever I departed the abode and he almost immediately got with the program. In fact, in no time at all, the moment he realized I was preparing for my departure he would assume a sitting position by the door and quietly wait to receive his reward as I readied the apartment before heading out. Of course, ‘readying the apartment’ was no easy task, especially given the depth of my O.C.D. and the blossoming love I had for Leo as I had to ensure that:

  The windows were shut or open

  The door was closed

  The door was locked

  Nothing was lit

  No
thing was on

  The garbage was secure

  The refrigerator was sealed

  Water was in the bowl

  Food was in the dish

  The night light was on

  Occasionally the list would be amended but it steadily continued to grow while heading off to work continued to be a complicated and time-consuming affair as I had to be certain that Leo wouldn’t:

  Jump out the window or suffocate

  Run away

  Get stolen

  Get roasted in a fire

  Get roasted in an electrical fire

  Tear into the trash

  Tear into the cheese

  Die from thirst

  Die from hunger

  Break his neck while stumbling around in the dark

  As time-consuming and stressful as it was, the measures I took to secure Leo’s safety as well as my own sanity and eventual departure were successful as I usually managed to avoid an anxiety attack; however, the routine took its toll. Each day after heading out and locking up I’d have to reenter the apartment several times to ensure the checklist was completed before the O.C.D. would finally subside and permit me to leave the building for good, and each time my opportunistic dog would be sitting by the door and waiting to exploit my sickness for personal gain and…

  I go through a box of Milk-Bones a week.

  Anyway, as luck would have it, about a week after Emily hit the road and set herself up in Manhattan—I got fired from Trattoria Trecolori:

  “Yeah, Craig uhhh….you’re all right,” Marco said to me. “You’re not the best and you’re not the worst, but we wanna give someone else a try so we’re gonna let you go, okay?”

  “Sure, man—no problem,” I told him, and even though I’d accepted my ejection from Emily’s life with understanding and affection—that shithole wouldn’t be so lucky. After getting the boot I headed downtown and reported the payroll violations to the Department of Labor, and though they would eventually award me with $2500 of Marco’s money, I suddenly found myself single and unemployed in Sunset Park.

  Thankfully, in mid-October an old friend from grade school was able to recommend me for some copywriting work for the MTA, and though I truly despised this particular agency above all others, I couldn’t let my principles get in the way of the rent. So, by November 1st I began reporting to the small Manhattan Beach P.R. firm that handled the account and was run by the second-most awful woman I’ve ever known, and in January of 2010 when the assignment ended I was relieved.

  I look up and see the Empire State Building but I have no idea whether I’m east or west of it—so I take my best guess and head in what I think is a westerly direction and toward the most despicable place I’ve ever worked.

  It turns out I’m right…on both counts.

  44

  The ringing phone awakens me as I suddenly realize it’s 8 a.m. I’m usually awake by now, but last night I went out with a few coworkers which I seldom do, and had too many Dewars which I never do, and I can’t remember why I did either but as the phone continues to ring at this early hour I think it’s probably because something terrible has happened to somebody somewhere.

  “Happy Birthday!!” Emily shouts into the phone and I realize I’m correct. “I bought you a Kings of Leon CD.”

  “Oh…thanks,” I say to her as I assume Kings of Leon is a band. Of course, I can’t be sure. In fact, I recently heard someone say that for every year we live passed the age of 16 we lose sight of one entry in the Top 40. I believe this is also correct.

  “Yes, sir,” she says like she’s rubbing it in. “May 27th, 2010…that makes you exactly 42 years-old TODAY—old man.”

  “Why are you awake, Emily? It’s like four hours before you even think about getting up. Is the Bloody fucking Bass serving breakfast or something?”

  “Oh—I don’t work there anymore,” she tells me. “This crazy bitch got knocked out by one of the bouncers and I decided it was time for me to go.”

  “Wait a second. Some bitch actually got hit by a BOUNCER at the Bloody Bass?”

  “No. Bitches get hit all the time by bouncers at the Bloody Bass. This bitch got KNOCKED OUT. By the way, how’s your shitty restaurant job going?”

  In February, Leo and I had gotten a small apartment in Bay Ridge and then in March, after wondering what could possibly be more despicable and morally reprehensible than doing work for the filthiest, greediest, and most corrupt transportation system in the country, my question was almost immediately answered when I went to work for Nick at Mole. Of course, serving a collection of the world’s most arrogant and narcissistic twenty-somethings while on the cusp of my own 42nd birthday was distasteful regardless of who was running the show, but I had no choice as I’d traversed most of Manhattan looking for work in the middle of the winter only to come up empty. And as I scoured the city I couldn’t help but pass some of my old heroin hotspots because at one point there were so many dealers on so many corners that even though they now seemed to have been eradicated, it wasn’t too difficult to be reminded in the present of the not-too-distant past. Indeed, all the gentrification in the world can’t eradicate the recollection of the street, but at no point while I was roaming the city and haunted by memories of the past did I feel even the slightest urge to score and I never did again…or at least I haven’t yet.

  I suppose my ten-year journey through opiate abstention or if you prefer—recovery, could be described as a long, drawn-out, tumbling descent down a very slightly sloping hill until I finally reached the bottom, and though there were certainly the occasional bumps and bruises along the way, I apparently succeeded in boring my addiction to death. Gone were the cravings, intrigue and desire associated with heroin as the city no longer inspired those feelings, but it had nothing to do with the fact that the dealers had disappeared from the streets. Indeed, to put it succinctly, I finally gave myself a chance to grow up. But the pivotal thing to consider is that I managed to grow up without killing myself in the process, which, when I look back over the last two decades, was an amazing and unlikely thing.

  In any event, one afternoon in March while waiting in-line outside in freezing temperatures to interview with a woman who owned the French restaurant next door, at some point I decided to say fuck-it and had no sooner set foot into Mole to get out of the cold, when I was apparently hired for something by Moochie—Nick’s beloved Boston Terrier—who practically jumped into my arms when I walked in. I pretty quickly realized the restaurant wasn’t opened just yet, but after a moment or two of small talk and some loving on that dog Nick mentioned that he had, in fact, been looking for a waiter and of course I immediately took the job.

  In platform shoes Nick was about six feet tall, and though he once told me he was 350 pounds he was MUCH wider than the Good Detective—so I think he was probably over 400. But head and heart issues aside, I initially thought he might be a decent chap. He owned and operated Mole along with his Mexican wife, Lupe, and though that particular store was located in the West Village, he had two other successful operations in Manhattan and would soon be opening a fourth in Williamsburg.

  Although it would come at a cost, I would be lying if I said Mole didn’t offer some of the best Mexican fare in the city. The quality of the food was without question the result of Lupe’s hard work as she seemed to have an endless supply of authentic recipes from Mexico, as well as an endless supply of good-looking, dapper and undocumented young men hailing from the same place. As a result, Mole became the Mecca of great Mexican food in Manhattan, and the Underground Railroad for gay bus boys looking for work in America.

  45

  “Hey,” said a little girl with blonde curls that were glistening in the summer sunshine. “HE is really cute!”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Leo.”

  “Is he a puppy?” she asked in a kind of hopeful way.

  “No, honey,” I said as I tried to break the news gently.

  “Real
ly?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But he’s soooo cute!” she insisted. “Are you sure he’s not a puppy?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure…But he doesn’t listen like a puppy!” I said, hoping that might count for something.

  “Okay, then…bye!”

  “Goodbye,” I said and then returned to my apartment before getting dressed for work and beginning the disorder-driven departure as Leo now actually seemed to be getting fat from my sickness.

  As far as my job at Mole was concerned, by July things were already beginning to get old. Although I had complete faith in Mr. Raines, the notion of airing my dirty laundry was still an unsettling prospect as the months continued to pass and I suddenly found myself a middle-aged waiter…waiting. Then, later that summer, the restaurant was invaded by a crew of ravenous rodents with a hankering for habanero and little interest in the glue boards Nick had distributed around the restaurant. Obviously, a more measured solution to the problem was needed, and Nick pretty quickly realized he would have to retain the services of an expert. So, in keeping with his strategy of circumventing any business regulation that might require him to spend some money, Nick gave the job to the lowest bidder—which happened to be an unlicensed, 20 year-old cat who was willing to work for nothing.

  My first encounter with Kitty occurred just after clocking-in on a sweltering afternoon in August. In fact, it happened in the hot and humid basement while I was preparing to change into my uniform and discovered him desperately trying to avoid a wave of soapy water rushing toward him from the prep area, as one of The Railroad’s most recent arrivals was preparing to mop the floor. Of course, the cat was failing dismally in his attempt to remain dry, as the basement was little more than a three-foot-wide swath of cement floor that led from the stairway to the prep kitchen, with supply-laden shelves stacked to the ceiling on either side. As Kitty stood there frozen with fear—his back arched, tail in the air and water rising up to what would be the equivalent of his ankles— there was simply nowhere for him to run.