Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise

by Craig Goodman

  “Yo! Chill the fuck out with the water for a second, alright?!” I roared at the guy with the bucket who was about to send forth another sudsy wave.

  To say this feline’s finer days were behind him would be a gross understatement. Besides being little more than a black bag of bones, he had an eye infection that continuously oozed a mixture of puss and blood, and two damaged hind legs that unnaturally flailed to the side as he hobbled about.

  I ignored my blossoming allergic reaction and picked up the cat as he immediately began to purr. I quickly realized that among the long list of deprivations this poor feline had obviously been forced to endure, he was also starved for affection which was painfully ironic as he happened to be one of the most affectionate animals I’d ever come in contact with. I carried him over to a chair and as he sat on my lap and continued to purr, I tried to wipe away some of the pussy accumulation. As I did he looked at me with these beautiful, soulful eyes. I then staked out a small corner of the basement, soaked up the standing water with some napkins and fashioned him a bed out of a few tablecloths.

  Then I went upstairs.

  “Hey Nick!” I called out as soon as I noticed his 400-pound frame obstructing traffic in the tiny restaurant—much like the gobs of plaque that were lining his arteries.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “What’s up with the cat?”

  “He’s gonna get rid of the mice.”

  “He’s like 90 years-old and can barely walk!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “That cat’s got a smell about him that’ll naturally scare the mice away.”

  “Yeah—that’s the smell of death, Nick…Seriously, that cat has to go to the vet.”

  “The cat’ll be fine,” he said in a tone that was clearly a precursor to what could soon become an explosive reaction to my insolence. However, my own fury was now also ignited and would continue to smolder without ceasing as the depth of his disconnect simply astonished me. I just couldn’t understand how Nick could so incessantly dote on Moochie, while at the same time put that cat in such an unsavory situation during what was clearly the final stages of his life—and all just to save a few bucks.

  Of course, as we all know I’d had some unpleasant experiences with a cat in the past and at this point wasn’t particularly a fan of felines. But my affection for Kitty grew on a daily basis as he remained confined to the narrow basement pathway, and though he occasionally found refuge on the floor between boxes of supplies when a particular item was liquidated, it wouldn’t be long before it was restocked and he was once again evicted from his space. Although there were a few other staff members who felt some pity for Kitty, I suddenly found myself emotionally invested in his well-being or unfortunately—lack thereof. Each day I arrived early for work to clean his eyes, brush his coat, make sure he was fed and issue threats. And though I couldn’t risk losing my job, I was definitely travelling down that path as I would openly make loud remarks about Kitty’s failing health and the terrible living conditions he was subjected to.

  “Hey Nick! For about a billion reasons that cat shouldn’t be down there,” I told him about a week after Kitty arrived. “But the bottom line is that he’s old and sick and there’s nowhere for him to hide. Let me take him home with me so he can live out the rest of his life on my shitty couch. Come on, Nick. It’s the right thing to do. Besides, Leo could use the company. Just do me a favor and bring him to the vet for a check-up because I totally can’t afford it, and I can’t risk getting the dog sick.”

  “Yeah, but what about the fuckin’ mice?”

  “I’ll get you another cat!” I said as I flared my nostrils with undisguisable disgust.

  “Alright—fine,” he said without any real conviction.

  Though I hated the idea of condemning another living creature to that dungeon, a younger, healthier cat might be able to find shelter in spaces that ancient Kitty couldn’t access. Besides, I promised myself it would be only a temporary solution. I was already resigned to finding another stupid job and the moment I did, I’d find another home for the other cat.

  46

  By September several weeks had passed, and as absolutely nothing was done about the condition of Kitty my anger began to mount. Then, one afternoon after clocking in I descended to the basement and found him in the corner where I’d left him the previous night—only with a kind of sick and sad expression on his face but without the makeshift bed of tablecloths I’d arranged.

  “Yo!” Where’s Kitty’s bed?!” I demanded from Juan who was busy scrutinizing the social security card he’d just purchased on Roosevelt Avenue.

  “No good, papi,” he said. “The tablecloths have cat hair. The Health Department don’t like that, papi.”

  “Oh really? Well how does the Health Department feel about a hairy puss ball dropping turds by the kitchen?”

  Without much of a response from Juan, I immediately headed upstairs to address the issue with Lupe and found her terrorizing one of her countrymen.

  “What’s up with the cat?” I asked her. “Nick said he was gonna bring him to the vet so I could take him home with me.”

  “Ah yes,” she said seeming to be aware of the arrangement. “My brother is bringing him to the vet soon,” she said.

  Later that night I was able to secure feline antibiotics from a friend, and within a few days Kitty seemed to improve slightly, though the infection continued to seep from his eye. Ultimately, there was no question that he needed to be seen by a professional, and at one point I was on the verge of taking him in myself. Unfortunately, earnings from the restaurant were so paltry that I was barely getting by, and I was certain that Kitty’s vet bill would be—at least from my position—nothing short of astronomical. Besides, since Nick created the situation Nick should be the one to rectify it and given the fact that he owned several thriving restaurants, the resulting expense should have been well within his means.

  Unfortunately, weeks continued to pass as Kitty continued to languish in the basement without seeing a vet. Of course, I would incessantly push the matter of his failing health with anyone who would listen, but by this point no one was even humoring me anymore. Each time I raised the issue with Nick, his wife, or any of their immediate underlings I was dismissed with a variety of vague or mostly incoherent responses, and it soon became clear that nothing meaningful would be done to relieve Kitty of his suffering.

  The upshot came around the middle of October when I made my daily descent to tend to Kitty and was mortified. As I opened the door to the dungeon I found Kitty in a strange position and with what seemed like an almost surprised and frightened expression on his face, as he was attempting to shit in a litter box that had been carelessly kicked under an old ventilation shaft. Only the edge of the box was visible, and as Kitty desperately attempted to aim his excrement at a target that was impossible to hit, he simultaneously tried to avoid being trampled upon by workers rushing by with cases of tequila. In the midst of it all Kitty looked up at me and for a moment time stood still. Then I melted down.

  “WHAT THE FUCK!!” I screamed with real fury and genuine malice—though the only one I scared away was Kitty. “What the hell is wrong with you stupid fuckers?! Don’t any of you have a brain?! For God’s sake, CAN’T YOU SEE THE FUCKING CAT’S TRYING TO TAKE A FUCKING SHIT?!”

  This poor, sick, sweet cat was now being denied even the most basic dignity, and as my blood was boiling I likewise found myself confronted by five miffed Mexicans who, like almost everyone else, seemed totally oblivious to Kitty’s condition. It was as if a cloud of indifference had descended upon virtually everyone in the restaurant. But that was it. That was the final straw. Something was going to be done about this today and fuck the consequences.

  I pulled the litter box out from under the ventilation shaft and stormed upstairs to officially put an end to it all, but Nick and his wife were nowhere in the restaurant. Instead, I found Lydia, an immigrant from Ecuador who spoke a horribly butchered version
of English but was still able to manage the restaurant because she understood every word of it…which was a good thing:

  “If one of you fuckers don’t do something pretty soon, that cat’s gonna die—AND GOD HELP ALL OF YOU IF HE DOES!!” I screamed at her and everyone else in the area because I’d finally snapped and didn’t care anymore.

  “Dios mio!” exclaimed Lydia.

  “Don’t dios mio me! This nasty bullshit is now coming to an end so here’s the deal: I’m in no condition to work today and tomorrow I’m off. So I’m gonna do everyone a favor and go home for a two-day respite from the depravity before I KILL ALL OF YOU! But on Thursday I’ll be back, and when I clock-in that cat better be waiting for me with a note from the vet and a goddamn bow wrapped around his neck because if he’s not—I’m gonna start making some calls. And when I do you better fire up a few plates of nachos cuz there’s gonna be a soiree of agencies partying it up in the basement. Catch my fucking drift?!”

  Indeed—job or no job—this situation could no longer go on. This situation had to be fixed.

  47

  On Thursday morning I awoke and mentally prepared myself for the day ahead, and though I was convinced I’d lost my job, I was even more certain that Kitty would be waiting for me to take him home with a clean bill of health from the vet. I felt my outburst from the other day—and the animosity and threats I’d now been bandying about for weeks—should certainly guarantee my termination which was fine, as long as Kitty’s health was at least somewhat restored.

  I set out for Petland to secure the necessary supplies which included Kitty food, Kitty litter, a Kitty litter box and some stupid toy on a fishing pole that was on sale, though it was probably inappropriate for a cat that could barely walk. I then returned home and no sooner stepped into the apartment when my phone began to ring. It was Nick and he cut right to the chase:

  “Uhhh…listen, Craig—we haven’t been getting along lately and you’ve been running your mouth a lot, so I’m gonna let you go.”

  “Did you take the cat to the vet?”

  “No, but I had him dropped off at the ASPCA on Tuesday—so don’t even bother coming into the restaurant anymore.”

  I stood there in silence for a moment as I digested the news and realized that Nick had just condemned Kitty to a death sentence. Although the ASPCA didn’t euthanize, they only provided shelter for animals considered adoptable. As a result, those that didn’t make the grade were shipped off to the killing fields of Animal Care & Control, of which there were three scattered around the city.

  Nick continued to ramble on but it seemed to come from very far away, as if I was hearing the static residue of another voice emanating from another phone that was attached to somebody else’s ear. My body suddenly grew cold and my head froze and became brittle as if it was about to crack, while a wintery kind of grayness seemed to descend upon my apartment. For just a moment it felt like I had died…but was then reanimated as an eerie but quiet voice rose up from a dark place within:

  “Nick—the worst enemy a man can have is one who operates beyond his depth and has nothing to lose—AND I AM THAT TO YOU. And now I’m gonna rip the lid right off of that illegal ant farm.”

  “I don’t care. Do whatever you’re gonna do. Just stay the fuck away from the restaurant.”

  “No problem,” I said. “But now it’s time for me to go. I’ve got a plague of miseries to unleash and some lives to destroy. See ya’ in hell—fat ass.”

  After I hung up on Nick, I raced out of the apartment and headed down the stairs in a blind panic. I assumed Kitty had been at the shelter for about 48 hours and given his poor condition, fragile health and the fact that there was obviously no one looking for him—there was a good chance his fate may have already been sealed. However, in order to remain focused I was forced to temporarily banish any thoughts of an unforgiveable and completely unnecessary execution to that special place in my brain reserved for things I couldn’t come to grips with.

  Although I hadn’t been to the area in 15 years, I knew that one of the AC&C shelters was located on 110th Street in Harlem—about a mile from the ASPCA where Kitty was initially deposited—and only steps from where the heroin dealers used to set up shop and peddle their brands with impunity. Of course, there were two other shelters where Kitty could have ended up, but given its proximity to the ASPCA this was the logical place to begin the search. Surprisingly, I suddenly felt that same old sensation of heart-pounding excitement mixed with desperation and dreadful fear that always accompanied a trip uptown and considered that sometimes one can never truly recover from past indiscretions.

  As I bolted out of the building I knew time was of the essence, and in an amazing stroke of last minute luck I noticed a yellow cab parked right in front. Although I had no business blowing money on taxis as I was suddenly unemployed and about to be inundated with bills, I knew I needed to get into Manhattan immediately.

  “Are you on duty?” I asked a young man sitting at the wheel of the cab, who looked to be about 15 years old.

  “No, but I can be,” he answered.

  “Great, because I need to get into the city as quickly as possible.”

  “No problem, we’ll leave in a minute. I’m just waiting for my aunt. She’ll be back in a second.”

  A moment later my landlady came rushing out of a deli on the corner and toward the cab with a paper bag in her hand.

  “Here you are Anthony, now good luck and make lots of money,” she said to the cabbie as she handed him his lunch and then suddenly noticed me sitting in the back seat. “Ah, Mr. Goodman, this is Anthony—my nephew. Today’s his first day driving a taxi and we’re all so excited! It’s his very first job!”

  “Okay sir, where are we headed?” Anthony asked me, a little embarrassed by the fuss his auntie was making.

  “A hundred and tenth street and First Avenue.”

  “Oh Anthony, that’s a great fare!” My landlady said. “But don’t get used to it. Cabs are a luxury these days, especially with the recession and so many people out of work.”

  “Oh, that reminds me!” I told the landlady. “Rent’s gonna be totally late.”

  As soon as I let that one loose Anthony sped away from the curb, perhaps sensing that his $60 fare was suddenly in jeopardy. But Anthony also seemed to detect my sense of urgency, and though I mentioned nothing about the gravity of the situation he put the pedal to the metal. Then, just as we were approaching the Brooklyn Bridge, my phone rang. It was Nick’s wife:

  “Don’t worry, Craig! You’re not fired. Nick is loco! Please come to work today.”

  I ended the call without saying a word. Obviously, she was only concerned about the damage that could be caused by a disgruntled employee with a famously bad disposition and a burgeoning list of the restaurant’s violations, both ethical and otherwise. Sadly, though, her lack of concern for Kitty was painfully apparent and though it paled in comparison to my own indifference toward that stupid job, the fact that she failed to even mention the situation only escalated my anger. Of course, I’d pretty quickly realized that Nick was a completely callous and morally bankrupt individual and though his wife also seemed unable to appreciate the depth of Kitty’s suffering, she seemed at least somewhat aware of how it was affecting me. I really expected her to say something. ANYTHING. Perhaps something like:

  Don’t worry Craig—we’ll get even with the bastard. Tonight I’ll shut down his oxygen tank while he’s asleep. Then, we’ll rent a tow truck and drag his fat ass down to the restaurant and make Beluga tacos. Cook him up real nice, see—in banana leaves with essence of habanero to kill the stench of boundless greed and unwavering selfishness. You’ll see, Craig…they’ll be the best goddamn tacos you ever ate...

  As Anthony and I raced up the FDR my heart was pounding, my knees were knocking and by 3 p.m. we arrived at the Animal Care and Control facility.

  “Good luck,” Anthony said to me as I paid the fare and stepped out of the cab.

  As I entered
the building and approached the reception area I was overwhelmed by a suffocating wave of sadness that lingered heavy in the midst of barking dogs that refused to relent, and though at first the canine cacophony seemed to conflict with the somber setting I soon realized it was nothing other than a sustained objection to forsakenness. Indeed, I believe these dogs were aware, or at least had some idea of the situation they were in. Certainly, many had come from loving homes where they’d built a single bond with a single clan that had been suddenly and inexplicably ripped away. On some level these animals had to recognize the gravity of their plight and in doing so likely communicated their distress to the others.

  I filled out some paperwork and tried to refocus on the task at hand, while ignoring the death and destruction around me as I did so many years ago when carrying out an entirely different mission on the very same street. Then, after waiting in the reception area for about a half-hour, I was met by one of the staff members who led me to an area of the shelter reserved for homeless cats.

  “I remember an older, skinny black cat came in here the other day, but I think it was female,” said the woman while looking at a clipboard. “You’re looking for a male—right?”

  After thinking about it for a moment I realized I wasn’t at all certain of Kitty’s gender, but for some reason had always assumed she was male.

  “Well…I suppose it could have been female,” I said and immediately detected I was losing some credibility.

  “Yes, here it is,” she said while continuing to look at the clipboard. “A black, female, senior cat with an eye infection and damaged hind legs came in here on Tuesday.”

  “YES!!!” I shouted with joy. “That’s him—that has to be him!!! I mean her. Where is she?”

  “Let’s see if we can find her.”