Needle Too: Junkies In Paradise Part 17

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 s.h.i.thole 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 a.s.signment 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 righton 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."

"Ohthanks," I say to her as I a.s.sume 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 pa.s.sed 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, 2010that 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 b.l.o.o.d.y f.u.c.king Ba.s.s serving breakfast or something?"

"Oh-I don't work there anymore," she tells me. "This crazy b.i.t.c.h got knocked out by one of the bouncers and I decided it was time for me to go."

"Wait a second. Some b.i.t.c.h actually got hit by a BOUNCER at the b.l.o.o.d.y Ba.s.s?"

"No. b.i.t.c.hes get hit all the time by bouncers at the b.l.o.o.d.y Ba.s.s. This b.i.t.c.h got KNOCKED OUT. By the way, how's your s.h.i.tty 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 pa.s.s 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 againor 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 b.u.mps and bruises along the way, I apparently succeeded in boring my addiction to death. Gone were the cravings, intrigue and desire a.s.sociated 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 f.u.c.k-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 undoc.u.mented 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.

"Really?"

"Uh-huh."

"But he's soooo cute!" she insisted. "Are you sure he's not a puppy?"

"Yeah, I'm sureBut he doesn't listen like a puppy!" I said, hoping that might count for something.

"Okay, thenbye!"

"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 pa.s.s and I suddenly found myself a middle-aged waiterwaiting. 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 circ.u.mventing 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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.

"Yo! Chill the f.u.c.k 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 p.u.s.s.y acc.u.mulation. As I did he looked at me with these beautiful, soulful eyes. I then staked out a small corner of the bas.e.m.e.nt, 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, NickSeriously, 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 s.h.i.tty 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 f.u.c.kin' 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 s.p.a.ces 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 pa.s.sed, 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 t.u.r.ds 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 pa.s.s as Kitty continued to languish in the bas.e.m.e.nt 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 s.h.i.t 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 f.u.c.k!!" I screamed with real fury and genuine malice-though the only one I scared away was Kitty. "What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you stupid f.u.c.kers?! Don't any of you have a brain?! For G.o.d's sake, CAN'T YOU SEE THE f.u.c.kING CAT'S TRYING TO TAKE A f.u.c.kING s.h.i.t?!"

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 f.u.c.k the consequences.