Needle Too: Junkies in Paradise

by Craig Goodman

The lady with the clipboard led me down a series of corridors and as she did I quickly scanned several areas containing stacks of caged, frightened felines. What a horrible place. The never ending protest of the barking dogs put the cats in a state of perpetual unease as they sat motionless in the cold, metal cages. I continued to follow her down yet another corridor of stacked cats until she finally stopped to look into an empty cage.

  “I could’ve sworn she was in here this morning,” she said quietly, practically to herself.

  My heart immediately sank as I felt that same, old, sick, familiar feeling that was there all along—waiting in the pit of my stomach—suddenly rise into my chest.

  “Please, God,” I really prayed for the first time in my life as tears were welling up in the corners of my eyes. “Please bring Kitty to me…I’m so sorry…Please bring her to me.”

  The lady with the clipboard then gently touched my elbow, and that barely perceptible contact spoke volumes. She then led me back toward the reception area, and to another woman sitting behind a desk.

  “Do you have anything on this one?” said the lady with the clipboard as she showed it to the lady behind the desk.

  I’m not exactly sure what else transpired during those terrible moments as I was overcome by guilt, confusion, rage, resentment, hatred, nausea, love, vengeance, remorse and so much more that I can’t explain.

  At one point a black man in a white jacket came out of nowhere. He had a title, but I can’t remember what it was. He was “The” something—The Veterinarian, The Technician, The Merchant of Death—but whatever they called him, this was the man that ended Kitty.

  At first, probably due to the fact that I was unaware of Kitty’s true gender, I could tell the staff members—or at least the lady behind the desk and The Executioner—had some question about whether we were discussing the same cat.

  “First of all, the cat that was euthanized earlier was found over four miles from where you stated she came from and was in terrible, shameful condition,” explained The Murderer, who seemed to be suggesting we weren’t discussing the same cat, and that I might have been an abusive or neglectful owner as he tried to cover all the bases in an attempt to justify the contemptuous way he earned his living.

  “Well, where exactly was she found?” I asked out of curiosity even though I knew in my heart and beyond a shadow of a doubt that the cat in question was indeed, Kitty.

  “According to the person who brought her in, she came from somewhere on the Upper West Side.”

  “Oh—what a crock of crap,” I said while tears were streaming down my cheeks as I detected another deceptive tactic employed by Nick to cover his fat ass.

  “So this was probably not the cat you’re looking for,” The Kitty Killer continued, as he ignored my response and was clearly trying to distance himself from my gushing grief.

  “Yeah it was,” I said as wiped eyes that continued to drip before turning around and leaving the shelter.

  I stepped out of the building and felt a momentary wave of relief wash over me as the heaviness of the place began to dissipate and the desperate pleas of its inhabitants faded behind closing doors. Of course, this was only a short respite from the horror of it all, as I was suddenly overcome by a profound sadness and an inescapable sense of culpability that immediately brought me to my knees.

  “I’m so sorry, Kitty…I’m so very, very sorry,” I wept with my chin on my chest as my body shivered and heaved with successive sobs and consuming grief. Then, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, baby—I’m sure they’re gonna find him…or her?” said a black woman with a beautiful face as she gently rubbed my shoulder. “Honey? Come on, tell me—is it a him or a her?”

  “Oh God,” I said in between sobs. “It’s a her.”

  “Well, I’m sure she’s gonna turn up. So just don’t lose hope, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said as I continued to fall apart.

  But of course, nothing was okay as I sat there wallowing in the consequences of my own inaction and the horror of it all became clear. I had a calling and I missed it. I should have taken that cat to the vet back in August when we first met, but instead I did nothing other than bitch and moan and pass the buck because I didn’t want to pay the bill. Now I was gonna pay…for real.

  As I slowly rose up from the sidewalk my grief became uncontrollable as I couldn’t stop weeping and for the first time in my life I was overcome by raw, unadulterated, bereavement. And now, though 15 years had come and gone, I once again found myself broken and vanquished on the very same street by another odious operation dealing death out of another dark building.

  I eventually collected myself and headed west on 110th Street and though it was no longer the bustling drug bazaar it once was, it was still the same sort of place; a place that sold glassine packets of temporary relief from the profound sickness it was the cause of, and a place where I’d purchased literally thousands of those packets that hijacked my spirit and the very essence of what made me feel. Of course, back in 1996 I recaptured some of that spirit when I escaped 110th Street along with the brand of anguish it peddled. But it seemed as if during my absence this dark stretch of Harlem was lying patiently in wait, devising a new and vengeful strategy steeped in awful irony and intended to make me rue the day I reclaimed my humanity. And certainly, now, there would be no relief—temporary or otherwise—from this particular brand of anguish.

  At 110th Street and Lexington Avenue I descended to the subway and boarded a train that would take me to Brooklyn and to Leo who I now needed more than ever. And as I took a seat I noticed my body was numb, and I was emotionally vanquished and oblivious to things around me. At some point, however, I became aware of a black family sitting a few seats away and though the parents were ghetto with thick chains and gold teeth, their two little girls were breathtakingly beautiful and dressed to the nines. In fact, they made such an impression that for a moment I failed to notice the two little dogs that were with them.

  Sitting next to the father was a Maltese and a long haired Chihuahua, both of whom were uncrated which is prohibited on the subway because it’s unsafe for the dogs, which was evident as the Chihuahua stood up for just a moment and began to slip and slide on the plastic seats.

  “Sit yo’ ass down!” the man shouted at the little dog, while the Chihuahua continued to slip and slide as he tried to find a more stable position. “I said SIT THE FUCK DOWN, muthafucka!!”

  He then raised his hand high in the air before it came crashing down on that poor little dog’s back and the moment it did I felt it in my torso, so much so that I was suddenly incapacitated as the wind was completely knocked out of me and I couldn’t breathe. It was like getting struck by a lightning bolt in the chest and I lost my breath for several seconds as the train slowed to a stop at 96th Street while the family collected their dogs and disembarked.

  Eventually I made it back to Bay Ridge where I crawled into bed to spoon with the Pomeranian and cried for Kitty.

  48

  Although I would remain at Mole until the fall of 2011, the basement became a tainted and toxic place for me and if I lingered there long enough it felt like I was suffocating. Kitty’s memory was ever-present, and with it came a wave of remorse and rage that often inspired me to begin prepping the tacos by igniting the restaurant while Nick was inside. Instead, I would bide my time, be patient, and sharpen my knives until the time was right. Of course, Nick wanted me out of there immediately, but Lupe called the shots—and though I don’t think she was captivated by my standard of service she was clearly intimidated by the vengeance I perpetually wore on my sleeve for Kitty’s unjust ending and the silent but mounting fury that continued to fuel it. Only sometimes, it wasn’t so silent.

  “Oh—what the fuck now!!” I shouted at Evan, one of my coworkers, as my rising wrath had finally reached a crescendo several months after Kitty’s execution on what would be my final day in the restaurant.

  “Calm down, man!” he said de
fensively which angered me a little further. “Listen, they’ve got me scheduled to work on Saturday morning and I have to go to Albany early that day for my cousin’s wedding. Do you think you can work for me?”

  “I don’t have to think about it and no I can’t work for you.”

  Please, man—I’m begging you,” he went on. “I requested the day-off months ago and if I don’t make an appearance I’m gonna be dealing with a lot of pissed-off relatives.”

  “Listen to me,” I said. “I’m already working Saturday night, which would mean I’d have to work a double and I don’t like working doubles for a variety reasons. First and foremost among them is the fact that it requires me to leave Leo alone for over 12 hours. You know what that means?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll tell you what it means. It means that Leo, who now along with my daughter has suddenly become my only reason for living, will be forced to remain alone in the apartment while his bladder and bowels expand incessantly so you can attend some fucked-up gathering with your fucked-up family. Now, before I agree to put the love of my life through this extended horror story simply for your own selfish needs, I wanna make sure that you, in return, understand the depth and magnitude of what you’re getting your stupid self into,” I said as I now realized I was mostly unfit to be around others...or at least human others.

  “Huh?”

  “Let me make things perfectly clear for you, dipshit: I’m not exactly sure what it’ll be, but if I agree to work for you the payback will be tantamount to you getting on your knees and sucking me off in the middle of the dining room while Lupe monitors your performance—and a long line of drunk and obnoxious customers kick you in the back of your thrusting head as they race downstairs to take a piss. Got it?”

  “Well…can’t I just work a shift for you?”

  “NO!”

  Clearly, I was changed by my experience with Kitty and though I’d never been particularly enamored of people, my desire to be around coworkers I didn’t mind, not to mention customers—many of whom I thought personified the very worst that humanity had to offer—was practically nonexistent. I was at war with the world with a loose cannon waiting to explode on anyone for any reason as each day thousands upon thousands of animals were being put down and abused—while I catered to the wishes of the spoiled rotten and obsessively selfish. And not surprisingly, running around to serve their needs, as well as those of the establishment that built a business around catering to them became the most awful thing in the world as I resented every minute of it and didn’t care who knew.

  “Craig, can joo bring some chairs down to de basement?” Lydia had the audacity to ask a moment after she saw Evan risk his own life.

  “I’m not a fucking furniture mover.”

  After I finished detailing my job description for Lydia, she took a step back and a deep breath as she appeared to be gathering up some courage—and with a bit of nostalgia it reminded me of the old days during those rare moments when I had the balls to stand-up to my mother.

  “Joo no wanna work!” she suddenly shouted at me as she banged her fist against the surface of the bar. “Joo only wanna collect de tips!”

  “I don’t even wanna do that.”

  “Well someone has to do somesing because de man has de baby!” she said as she threw her hands in the air and walked away.

  “What the fuck is she talking about?” I asked Lou, the brunch bartender, as he gestured to a gentleman in the front of the restaurant who was removing chairs and bar stools from their designated positions in order to accommodate a very large baby carriage in a very cramped station between the windows and the bar. Eventually, as Lou and I continued to stare in silence at the man, he finally took a seat with his back to the widow while staring blankly at his baby and the side of the bar that was now without a place to sit.

  “Why the hell did he choose to sit there?!” I asked no one in particular.

  “I don’t know, man—but if I get few more customers they’re gonna be standing, so can you take care of it?”

  “Oh come on!” I said because the only thing worse than dragging furniture down to the dungeon was having to deal with another self-entitled West Villager just to maximize Nick’s profit margin. But then again, this particular customer’s sense of entitlement was beyond the pale and I was offended by his willingness to do whatever the fuck he wanted.

  “Please,” Lou pleaded with me again. “These brunch shifts are killing me and I have to make some money today.”

  “Okay!” I said as I finally relented and turned my attention to the gentlemen as he sat and continued to stare at the baby in a carriage that was wedged between the now, chair-less side of the table and suddenly stool-less side of the bar. “Listen, sir—you can’t move all the furniture around. If we get a little bit of a rush in here it’s gonna be chaos.”

  “Hey—give the guy a break,” was suddenly blurted out by another West Villager who happened to be the only customer at the bar.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Give the guy a break,” he repeated as if I should’ve known better.

  “Listen,” I said to the guy with the baby carriage while ignoring the guy at the bar. “The back of the restaurant’s completely empty. You can do whatever you want back there but there’s really no room up here for a carriage.”

  Suddenly, the West Villager climbed down from his stool and tried to usher me away from the gentlemen and the area of the restaurant that he and his offspring were occupying.

  “That’s Philip Seymour Hoffman,” he then said to me.

  “So,” I replied and to be honest, I didn’t even know who Philip Seymour Hoffman was.

  “He’s an actor.”

  “Oh…so?”

  “Hey, Lou—tell the waiter he should leave this guy alone,” said the West Village idiot.

  “Why should I tell him that?”

  “Because that’s Philip Seymour Hoffman! The actor!”

  “Oh…okay then,” said Lou after he thought about it for a second. “Nevermind, Craig. It’s okay…he can sit wherever he wants.”

  “Why?! A second ago you were begging me to get him out of there.”

  “Because he’s Philip Seymour Hoffman!” the fawning fan squealed at me once more. “He won the fucking Academy Award, for chrissake! Come on, man—PHILIP-SEYMOUR-HOFFMAN…He’s a really famous dude!”

  “WHO CARES who Philip Seymour Hoffman is?”

  “What?”

  “Who cares who he is?!” I said again. “Why should we have to shut down the front of the restaurant for a single guy and a baby carriage?”

  “Because he’s a celebrity and a talented actor and that’s what Nick would want,” Lou pointed out as I watched Mr. Hoffman and his carriage quietly leave Mole though no one else seemed to notice.

  “Fuck Nick,” I said.

  “Come on,” said Lou who was apparently willing to pander for the right price, though still unaware that the attempted ass-kissing was a wasted one. “Help the guy out. Remember when you wanted to sneak Jennifer Aniston out the side door?”

  “That was only because I wanted to deprive the paparazzi.”

  “De man wit de baby es gone?” Lydia asked as she was suddenly inspecting the other side of the bar.

  “Yes, indeed,” I told her.

  “DEN PUT DE CHAIRS WHERE DEY BELONG!” she bellowed at me.

  “What?” I asked, more addressing the nasty tone than the words behind it.

  “I said move de chairs!”

  “Move them yourself,” I said as I gestured in her direction and had finally had enough.

  “What?”

  “You heard me—MOVE THEM YOUR FUCKING SELF.”

  So that was it and that was that. Then, in a blaze of glory across a burning bridge I headed for the very same door I wanted to use to prevent the photographers from having their way with Jennifer Aniston, and as I did one of those illegal kitchen-fucks mentioned the ‘gato’ while making a mocking and sarcastic gestur
e. So, without saying another word I finally left the restaurant for good…right after I threatened to deport everyone in it.

  I stormed out of the building and headed east down Jane Street with the clearest head I’ve ever had. For the first time in my life I knew what I was supposed to be doing with myself, my time, my energy and perhaps most importantly—my written words. Indeed, I now knew what mattered most. While amidst wasted wealth and ever-increasing appetites for assets that even I once coveted for all the wrong reasons—my path was finally shown to me by a beautiful, little black bag of bones with an eye infection that oozed a mixture of puss and blood, and two damaged legs that flailed to the side as he hobbled about. I mean…as she hobbled about.

  My mind raced as my pace increased and though I had no idea where I was going, I knew exactly what I was doing and decided I would self-publish Needle and hope it might eventually provide a platform to affect significant change and help improve the plight of forsaken, forgotten and abused companion animals. Of course, I had no idea of what else to write, but I definitely had a reason to write. And as I briefly recalled the reservations I previously had about exposing my past—they now seemed foreign, almost as if I was remembering someone else’s thoughts because my own now revolved around the furry four-legged.

  As I continued blindly in a northeasterly direction, I eventually reached 22nd Street where I made a right turn and passed a restaurant that seemed to be putting on the finishing touches ahead of some sort of opening. And, with October rent looming just ahead, I had no choice.

  I stepped into Ciano and passed a man who was sitting on a couch and shuffling papers, and then proceeded to the bar where two others were in the midst of a discussion.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I was curious if you were hiring wait staff…or server staff.”

  “As a matter of fact we are,” said one of the gentlemen. “Got a resume?”

  “Actually, dropping by was kind of spur of the moment. But I can go home and email you one, or if you want I can just—”

  “Don’t waste your time,” said the man on the couch. And, as I retreated from the bar and proceeded back in the direction of that couch, imagine my surprise when I suddenly stumbled upon—