Needle Too: Junkies In Paradise Part 3

"EEEEEW! EEEEEW! EEEEEW!" Randy now found a reason to squeal.

"I'm sure you're exaggerating a little, Jack," I said.

"f.u.c.k if I am! It was like Little Shop of Horrors."

"Stop getting me excited."

"CRAIG! She could braid that s.h.i.t and floss her a.s.s with it!"

"Ummmm-YUMMY," I said as I actually licked my lips.

"EEEEWWWWW!!!" Jack screamed as he jumped up from the table and put his hands over his mouth before bolting to the bathroomand it was comforting to know the vile little man had a breaking point.

Of course, like a shallow, predictable man, myself-with a s.e.x drive that was just beginning to get in gear-after discussing Paula's condition I immediately found myself giving her a little extra attention at work without even really being aware of why I was doing it. Certainly though, somewhere in the back of my mind I was subconsciously drawn in by not only her unseen physical attribute, but also by the prospect of eventually being able to provide Jack with a few images that would likely put him in the hospitaland then I'd finally win. And though I didn't share this with anyone-I actually thought Paula was kind of hot, well beyond the pristine, undisturbed bit of wilderness that apparently lay secreted away in her panties. In fact, during more private moments I actually pictured her as a fair maiden tucked away in some rustic Sicilian village crushing grapes with her feet when she wasn't working at the restaurant. She was clearly of Italian descent, wore no makeup, had a dark complexion along with a head full of jet-black hair and was home-schooled her entire life-though I would soon learn she'd recently been attending a local college hoping to eventually earn a degree in criminal justice, which somehow only helped inspire a more deranged aspect of my interest in her.

Paula was born in Stamford, rarely left and had only been to New York a handful of times as she obviously led a somewhat sheltered existence. Furthermore, she was the only employee at the restaurant still completely unaware of Randy's true s.e.xual orientation and, for a variety of reasons, rather than fill her in on the details her coworkers preferred to remain silent and allow her to eventually figure things out for herself. Honestly, though, I found her naivety to be entirely refreshing and at first, that only intensified my attraction to her. Unfortunately, however, ALL of my plans for Paula were laid to waste when we had our first significant discussion which, not surprisingly, centered upon Randy.

"He's a GREAT guy," she said while we were folding napkins and getting ready for the dinner rush. "I know it's really this environment that does it to him."

"Does what to him?"

"Well, I mean, he supposedly moved here to get away from all the partying back in New York but I know for a fact he still drinks and smokes a lot of dope."

"Practically everyone here drinks and smokes weed and believe it or not, Randy used to be way worse," I told her.

"And as much as I liked him at first," she said as she continued with her talking points, "I finally realized that Jack is just a terrible influence on him! I'm sorry, I know he's a friend of yours, but I really care about Randy and I don't want anything bad to happen to him."

"They're both friends of mine. And honestly, Jack's a lunatic but he's really a good guy when you get to know him."

"Jack is not a good guy."

"You don't know him," I told her as I was suddenly less intrigued with the notion of conquering that wild and unruly frontier.

"I know him well enough to know he needs to go away. He's an enabler. Every night he's dragging Randy off to Calloway's with the rest of you freaks."

"That's not really accurate and even if it was-it's not that simple."

"Of course it is! Life is full of people that need to be eliminated."

"Trust me, Jack isn't going anywhere," I told her. "They've known each other for years."

"Listen, I know you guys have all known each other for a while but Randy's different. He's a beautiful, vulnerable, soul-and you guys need to give him some s.p.a.ce and stop being such negative influences on him!"

"Wow, Paula! What's it like to have the inside scoop on people you barely know?"

"I know Randy well enough not to sit by and watch him unravel!" she said as the tone of our conversation had taken a decidedly different turn. "Listen, I know you have demons you're battling like all the other f.u.c.k-ups around here, but just don't drag him down with you."

"You know, you know, you know, you know, you know."

"Randy shouldn't be running around every night smoking dope and chugging down Long Island iced teas! It's not like it was back in New York!"

"You're right! Back in New York he was smoking crack and chugging down d.i.c.ks."

"WHAT?!?"

"Oh, you didn't know? Well now you f.u.c.king know! And by the way-if you're gonna talk s.h.i.t you might wanna learn the proper terminologies because we smoke POT and besides-I think you're confusing my readers."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind! All you need to know is that the word 'dope,' at least in this particular context refers to one thing and one thing only and that's heroin. People who refer to anything else as dope are usually people who talk a lot of s.h.i.t but know very little about drugs-like f.u.c.king cops."

"Well then good for them!"

"Yes, indeed, Paula-good for them. But if you're gonna insist on inserting yourself in our midst and talking about our s.h.i.t, then maybe you should stop teasing me with your verbiage and get it straight," I said before walking away from her and over to Randy who seemed to be monitoring our conversation from the bar.

"I just totally outed you," I told him.

"Oh, thanks! And now are you gonna get a gander at Paula's Magic Garden?"

So that ended my extraordinarily brief courtship of Paula, and though I was a bit disheartened by her disposition-I was certain that Stamford had to be home to less obnoxious chicks with equally alluring grooming habits.

5.

So yeah, pretty much every night throughout the month of August we were smoking "dope" and drinking liquor, but I wasn't doing any more than anyone else. In fact, I think I was doing less. I was definitely drinking less. Still, I was clearly trying to somehow fill a void-a need to be high on something-that I was unprepared to live without, and though my own drug use was strictly limited to a little weed and whisky, I would soon begin socializing with some of my harder partying coworkers because besides Jack and Randy the group also featured an After Hours Club. The Club seemed to have come into existence simply because Randy, Jack and a couple of the older staff members would always draw the line after a few rounds at Calloway's, which meant the heartier partiers would inevitably continue the festivities elsewhere.

When I reflect on those first weeks in Connecticut, after six years of unrestricted, unremitting drug use of the most virulent variety, I find it difficult to express how I was feeling, what I was thinking, or what my specific plans were for either the immediate future or the long term. In reality, I suppose I was just shelving things and figuring them out as I went along without thinking too deeply about anything. After all, Perry was in Florida and since I hadn't heard from him I could only a.s.sume he was at least a little peeved about the sneaky way I flew the coop. Nonetheless, my head was now clearer and though I was determined to avoid a future in Florida, with the same conviction I knew I needed to stay dope-free and in order to do that it would be imperative for me to avoid New York as well. The mere mention of the city was a trigger, and I knew there was no way I could live anywhere even near a subway station as that would virtually guarantee a relapse. In fact, just walking by the Stamford train station conjured-up visions of 125th Street which was only four stops away on the Manhattan-bound express. Invariably, I realized that in order to avoid succ.u.mbing to an addiction that boasts recidivism rates as high as 90%-a figure that ironically considers only those who've had the luxury of undergoing treatment-it was either my mother's apartment or nothingor quite possibly nothingness. Regardless, I knew she really didn't want me there, and in order to remain in her home and buy some time until I felt confident enough not to eventually suffer a relapse, I knew it would be prudent to avoid crossing paths and do whatever was necessary to remain invisible.

For the most part it was easy enough to avoid her most of the time, as we were mostly on opposite schedules and mostly couldn't stand each other. She worked from nine to five and I deliberately worked double-shifts at the cafe which would usually keep me out of her apartment from 10 a.m. until 2 a.m. or whenever Randy and Jack decided to call it a night at Calloway's. In fact, even on my days off I would usually linger around the cafe, help out and then proceed to the bar with everyone else until it was late enough for her to be asleep and oblivious to my arrival. Unfortunately, however, although by this point the methadone-masked physical withdrawal symptoms had run their course, the long-term psychological symptoms were in full bloom. As a result, even though I was usually able to avoid the not-so-good vibrations of my mother, I still felt dreadfully depressed, hopeless about the future and always fatigued from restless nights though it came as no surprise; long ago the ghosts of Methadonia told me to expect a deep depression and debilitating insomnia, but that paled in comparison to the ghosts in my head and the full-blown panic attacks that began erupting if I happened to somehow fall asleep.

Until this point I'd never had a panic attack, and it wasn't until a few days later when I mentioned the symptoms to Randy and he told me what it probably was, as his sister had suffered from identical symptoms for much of her adult life. The attacks also, not surprisingly, seemed eerily similar to the desperate and terrified feeling that often overcame me as a kid during the middle of the night.

It wasn't long before I realized the attacks only occurred when I fell asleep aware of my mother's presence in the apartment. As a result, thanks to my evening employment, the After Hours Club and some Ambien I was able to completely rearrange my sleep schedule to coincide with my mother's work schedule. Hence, moments after she headed out for work each morning I'd be heading in from breakfasting at Denny's with the Club, and about an hour before she returned from work each afternoon I was already Rockin' and Rollin' at the cafe. I was still usually depressed as s.h.i.t but thanks to the Ambien and the revised schedule I was never tired, and I think the only one happier about the arrangement was my mother.

Certainly, staying out all night with a group of pretty serious drug abusers in order to avoid my own relapse may sound counterproductive, but as far as my addiction was concerned I kept my head down and never looked up which was easy enough because although the Club did a lot of drugs-they didn't do dope. That's not to say they wouldn't if given the opportunity, but most of them were too deeply immersed in the wonderful world of cocaine and ecstasy and though I occasionally made myself available s.e.xually, I never did any of the drugsor at least any of the real drugs.

The After Hours Club consisted of about ten revelers, most of whom were a couple of years younger than I and included a few kids who were in college, a few kids who weren't in college, three former strippers and a singer/songwriter named Edgar Feldman with whom I obviously shared some things in common-besides the strippers. In fact, the commonalities were almost uncanny. We both previously fronted bands that had self-destructed due to drugs, were mediocre guitar players, and had warrants out for our arrests.

On most evenings the club would end up in Bridgeport where the former strippers formerly stripped, presently lived, and usually bought their drugs. And though Toni, Mich.e.l.le and Megan were no longer taking their clothes off for money, they still somehow managed to maintain stripper-sized drug habits. Each night several grams of c.o.ke would be depleted before Megan and Toni would get it on in front of me while I was beating on an old acoustic guitar and smoking like a Rasta. And though I abstained from the c.o.ke I was once again reminded of Randy and Jack and the time I'd spent at their apartment smoking crack and banging on the synthesizer while they were smoking crack and banging on each other. Needless to say, though I obviously didn't play ball with the boys back then I did with the girls now-and I'm sad to report there was barely a blade of gra.s.s on either field.

So each night my evening progressed in much the same way: twenty minutes of free binge drinking at the Cafe, followed by an hour or so of slow and steady drinking at Calloway's, capped off with a few hours of pot smoking and stripper s.e.x. Not bad for a 28-year-old recovering junky still living with his mother. And I was actually saving money. Sad as it may be, until now I'd never saved a dime and hadn't even had a checking account since college. And though certainly-by New York standards-my earnings were hardly impressive, while living in Stamford I wasn't paying any rent or bills and there was no heroin to be tempted by...at least not just yet.

6.

"You don't need anything else, Megan. Trust me. You'll be fine; the Jaegermeister finally caught up with you. You just need to sober up a bit."

"That's exactly why I need more c.o.ke!"

Believe it or not, to an experienced drug addict that made perfect sense.

"You know, it's really a f.u.c.ked-up thing when I happen to be the voice of reason," I still felt the need to say.

"Yeah, I know-the big, bad, junky-musician from New York," she slurred and then almost puked as she fell over and not-so-gently grabbed my crotch.

"Don't mock my junky street creds," I said as I pushed her hand away. "That's about all I have left at this point."

"Oh, is that what you call them?" she said as she rea.s.signed my reference and grabbed me by the pills once more. "Your junky street creds? I think that's hot. I think I want you to f.u.c.k me with your junky street credsright after I get some more c.o.ke."

"She does this all the time," said Toni. "We run out, she drinks too much and then she needs a line or two to get it back together." That's the thing about cocaine. It makes you feel in control, and sometimes even powerful-until you calculate how much you've spent and realize you're about a thousand dollars less powerful than you were before you started feeling good about yourself.

"Oh, come on, Toni-do you really think she needs anymore?"

"No, but I do and she won't take no for an answer."

"Okay then, so let's just get it and get it over with. I wanna go to sleep. I feel like s.h.i.t from all the drinking."

"It's too late to score around here," she informed me. "We're gonna have to go to this totally shady place in Stamford anyway, so I'll drop you off afterwards unless you wanna come back here and spread around some of those junky street creds."

So we headed back to Stamford so I could sleep and Megan and Toni could snort some more cocaine. As rush hour traffic was just beginning to a.s.semble I noticed the sun rising up over the tree-lined highway and thought about the fact that my mother would likely be getting ready for work when I walked in, which made me suddenly realize that every night for the past month I'd been totally drunk and stoned and not in a good way. Certainly, I knew this wasn't an ideal "recovery" strategy but as far as I was concerned-every day that I didn't do dope was a good day.

"Sarah better f.u.c.king be there," Megan suddenly blurted out.

"Who's Sarah?" I asked. "The dealer?"

"No, we don't even know the dealer," said Megan. "She's just some f.u.c.king crackhead that scores for us."

"For some c.o.ke?"

"For twenty bucks."

"That's weird. She could be taxing the drugs also."

"You think?"

"I don't know, maybe. Crackheads are the worst."

"Well you know what? I'm gonna f.u.c.king find out!" she said as I dozed off and went to an entirely different place.

"Wake up, Craig-wake the f.u.c.k up!" Megan suddenly shouted in my ear as she was obviously consumed by that overwhelming antic.i.p.ation and unbridled enthusiasm that typically precedes any indulgence in the truly deadly drugs.

"What's going on?" I asked her while attempting to emerge from an incredibly sound slumber as Toni pulled into the Stamford train station.

"We're about to score some c.o.ke!"

"Oh really? Who's the dealer? Casey f.u.c.king Jones?"

"I already told you! I don't know the f.u.c.king dealer!"

"Oh yeah, that's rightand calm the f.u.c.k down!" I said as I shook out some of the cobwebs.

We parked, exited the car, and the three of us left the lot and crossed a narrow street which ran alongside the rows of ramshackle houses that didn't even look like houses. Actually, from the outside they reminded me of the bunkhouses we used to report to after swim cla.s.s during summer camp when I was a kid, just before we changed out of our soaking-wet suits, wiped our dirty feet on the mildew-infested floor and were sent home for the day.

After we pa.s.sed a few of the units we knocked on the door of one of the houses that was in total disrepair, and after a moment or two it was opened by a black woman whose age was difficult to discern.

"I was just wondering when I'd see you two s.l.u.ts again," she said immediately and then looked worried when she noticed me standing off to the side. "Who the f.u.c.k is YOU, homeboy?!"

"He's a famous rock star from New York!" said Toni. "Don't you just wanna f.u.c.k him?"

"NO!" said Sarah. "YOU A COP?"

"Yeah, me and these strung-out b.i.t.c.hes are here to bust you."

Without inquiring further Sarah let us in, collected the money, left us standing there for no more than three minutes and then returned with the stash while I realized the ramshackle houses reminded me of summer camp on the inside as well.

"Oh-thank G.o.d," Megan jumped up to grab the bag of powder as she handed Sarah her finder's fee. "By the way, you're not pinching out of my s.h.i.t, are you Sarah?"

"Nah, BUT f.u.c.k YOU IF I WAS, b.i.t.c.h! I ain't into that speedy s.h.i.t...I'm into the mellow fellow," she said as she set Megan straight.

"The what?" asked Toni.

"The heron."

"The what?!?" I said as I followed-up Toni's inquiry with one of my own.

"The he-ron, man, the HE-RON," she said again as she pulled a bag of dope out of her pocket and waved it in the air to help make her point.

Point taken.

7.