Acrobaddict (30 page)

When I came home to the apartment, Darren looked shocked, almost angry, but intrigued at the little bags clenched in my hand. We carefully unfolded the wax paper, pouring the dirty brown powder onto a plastic CD cover, our usual stomping ground for coke. We cut two small lines from the mound; a bit of the powder still clung to the paper. We didn’t know how much to do or what it would feel like, even though we’d done opiates before. But this was the source; this sniff would take us all directly back to the enchanted poppy flower.

How many warnings had I received not to drink from the sacred well of the world’s most divine water? I could hear the serpent calling my name from the Tree of Knowledge. How could we know that a single drink would leave us forever thirsty, make us sick and insatiable? How could we know that it would take away our lives, money, and future? That one drop of nectar would never allow us to stop?

Before I sniffed the small line, I saw a future before me: birthdays, Christmas cards, clothing sales, long shifts at work that made me look forward to a weekend, growing old, running with a dog on the beach, a quiet evening with a cup of steeping tea. And from my slow progression upward, out of darkness, I willingly gave it all back. In that moment, leaning toward the table, holding the straw to my nose, I sniffed my new life straight up to my brain. I sniffed hard and heard an angel sigh.

The powder stung my nose and I could feel it ball up in my nasal cavity, like a rotting cobweb lodged in there, and the bitter taste dripped down to the back of my tongue. Its bitterness was the taste of an unsatisfied life and the reward for a new beginning. The three of us silently waited for the high to alter our existence, and it did.

When it hit, it felt warmer than the sunshine and deeper than any hug. An intense, itching sensation filled my body, especially across the skin of my nose, and scratching it felt magnificent. Closing my eyes blocked out the slight nausea that camped in my stomach. Darren reached over, put his hand on my shoulder, and asked, “What have we done?” Even though his skin was on my flesh, I was untouchable. I was falling in love, and the rapture exploded in my blood.

I lit a cigarette, grounding myself in the plumes of smoke, and found my lungs perfect, uninhabited by the air-stealing beast. I had just sniffed the secret and the answer to life. Growing up as a gymnast I had accepted agonizing tests of endurance, but at that moment I finally found my weapon to annihilate those years of mental and physical pain. And I vowed I would never live my life without it.

Inside that warm elation, I sensed a distant presence, not the usual demons I knew so well, but something stronger, more eternal, reeking
of forever, and calling me closer. I knew that would not be our “first and last drink” from the well. I would forever be peering down that stone circle, wishing my arms could reach the heavenly water to freely cup it to my mouth.

As I sank quietly into the safety of our dirty carpet, every violin and piano chord reverberated and chimed through my skin and senses. As an experienced addict, I had to plan carefully and meticulously to never get physically addicted. I had to discover a scientific way to use occasionally to avoid the depletion of opiates in my body. I would never surrender to the horrible withdrawals and malicious sickness that seem to torment every heroin addict. Both God and the Devil had a place in my life, and I willingly invited the Devil in, heeding none of the many dire warnings. I believed I could use heroin in moderation and refrain from ever shooting it into my veins. I deemed I was strong enough to obey that order and keep smack in my life forever, but under my control.

Disappointed in me for bringing another drug into our lives, Nick, I felt, needed to be properly introduced to my new love. Despite his initial protests, he sniffed without question, but didn’t find the same romance as I did. During one night of using, I set our sheet-covered, cardboard-box dinner table with the CD case; three perfectly cut small lines for each diner. Nick accidentally moved the sheet with his leg and the plastic serving platter flew into the air. Losing my cherished smack turned me into a crazy, screaming monster. I grabbed my straw and started sniffing anything that resembled powder off our disgusting, moldy carpet. Nick and Darren watched silently, glimpsing my future.

Sniffing heroin didn’t send me out of control like the pills had; in fact, I almost appeared to be sober and extremely happy. The only telltale sign was my eyes. Pupils normally widen or narrow, like the aperture of a camera, in response to light, but opiate users’ pupils stay like pinpoints. Still, I could walk a straight line, go to the store, and do my laundry, all without making a complete fool of myself. A favorite activity became doing a line before going to the gym and running on the treadmill.

My new love kept me warm as winter approached, but I had to keep a close eye on our relationship. The voices of that distant underworldly presence were getting louder, and I began to detect an aroma of cinnamon and ash. I continued my research to beat the side effects by grilling my addict friends with questions like “How did you know you were dope sick? If you had to do it again, how would you avoid it?” They must have known I had picked it up. I avoided writing in my journal—putting it down on paper would mean I really
was
using smack.

I found a new job waiting at Gabriel’s on the Upper East Side. Despite warnings not to work where the rich and cruel clientele would treat me like a slave, I left the Indian restaurant that had welcomed me to the city for less hours and more money: the perfect recipe for an addict.

The restaurant was famous among locals and tourists for its brunch. Tables were dressed in white linens, and two enormous flower arrangements separated the dining areas. The countertop in the bakery area was pristine and gave an atmosphere of dignity, respect, and warmth. On my first day I saw Woody Allen cross the street, and decided to tone down my heroin use, afraid it could interfere with my new job and clientele.

A tall, beautiful girl named Diana with huge, sparkling eyes and an amazing singing voice became my new work friend. Her unstoppable charisma made everyone around her happy, and I knew someday I’d be saying, “I knew her when.” As summer approached, Diana said she needed to find new roommates to help pay her ridiculous Manhattan rent on the Upper East Side. She invited Darren and me to move in. But the rent would still be too expensive with just the three of us, so I called my first rave and piercing partner, Randi, who lived in Boston, to see if she wanted a life change. She did. It would be difficult not living as close to Nick, but he could visit on days off, and we both saw the move as an opportunity to expand and further my life.

In June of 2000, Darren and I moved to the Upper East Side, which turned out to make everything incredibly convenient for the work
commute and living in general. Darren and Nick were both a little nervous about another convenience: living closer to Hell’s Kitchen, where I got my heroin.

Eventually, Asten got fired from the Indian restaurant for stealing from the tip jar and leaving syringes in the employee bathroom, exposing his heroin persona—but he remained my faithful heroin connection. He was sickly, skinny, and dirty, with an odd sense of fashion. His plodding gait was not from injury, but from the deep spell cast over his system from shooting up. He always wore ridiculously oversized hats and smelled like mothballs. And I looked like a little boy at his side.

Notoriously late, always borrowing money and never paying it back, Asten was hard to track down, but could usually be found nodding out in McDonald’s or Starbucks toilets—the modern junkie’s shooting gallery. Despite all his shortcomings, I found him to be kind and like a big brother. He joined the legions of others who had warned me to never inject heroin. The process of getting my heroin was like crawling through a septic tank, but that was the gateway to my heaven, and he, my Papa Legba, opened the doorway to the other side, to my newfound loa spirit world.

28

ACHILLES

W
HEN HE WAS AN INFANT
, A
CHILLES’ MOTHER TRIED TO MAKE HER SON IMMORTAL BY DIPPING HIM IN THE
R
IVER
S
TYX, GRIPPING HIM BY ONE ANKLE
. A
S AN ADULT
, A
CHILLES PROVED HIMSELF AN INVINCIBLE WARRIOR AGAINST THE
T
ROJANS UNTIL ONE ARROW FOUND ITS MARK IN THE ONLY VULNERABLE SPOT ON HIS BODY—THE HEEL
. T
ODAY, THE
G
REEK MYTH LIVES ON IN A MOST FITTING NAME FOR ONE OF THE TENDONS MOST SUSCEPTIBLE TO INJURY IN OUR BODIES
.

Summertime in the city. We had moved into a small, two-bedroom Manhattan apartment on a sun-drenched street lined with tight-fitting trash cans kept from trespassing onto the sidewalk by small iron fences. Each night, dog-sized rats would break through the bars and scavenge through the garbage, practically taking over the neighborhood.

Our place was across the street from a playground, and mornings brought the sound of children laughing. The surrounding tall buildings allowed no natural light inside the apartment, but I didn’t need that warmth—sniffing heroin created my own source of heat. Sniffing the brown powder off a CD cover immediately renovated the dark space into an enchanted aquarium as Nick and I sat, feeling invincible, in my ocean-blue room, high up on my loft bed.

I was opiate-filled to the brim, and every scent from the city intensified my lust for Manhattan. It had grown on me, and I found that I loved everything about it. The trash, the homeless man on my corner, the
aroma of street-cart fresh-brewed coffee—all those things made New York feel like a giant college campus full of interesting people, with something new always around every corner. It was the college experience of my dreams.

Nick and I had our routine. He would meet me at my apartment and we would then find our way to the Port Authority and Asten, sniff a line in a McDonald’s bathroom, and walk back to the Upper East Side through Central Park. The intensity and newness of everything sparkled and seduced me into a land I never wanted to leave. As we walked through the park, we talked about growing old together and sharing a small country house with rocking chairs on a big front porch. Heroin strengthened our relationship—or so I thought. We were perfect, and our lives would forever be the beauty of that special summer. I didn’t think I could be any happier. Denial had snaked its way back into my life.

I turned twenty-two and called my party planner, Asten. I told him for my birthday I would need a lot more heroin than usual. Asten always answered the phone as if the phone line had shocked his corpse awake from a hundred-year sleep. He kept falling asleep on the phone, even as I kept asking him if he was okay. Finally he woke up, promising he would get my stuff, but he needed me to pick him up in a cab.

I buzzed his apartment and he came down, walking out the door slowly—something about him was different. A prehistoric, oversized suit made him look like a skeleton wrapped in purple fancy rags, and huge, dark, movie-star glasses made his head seem shrunken. Olive-colored undertones rose up through his ashy skin and his lips were cracked dry, the sides of his mouth caked with a dull, white crust. Walking toward my waiting cab, he stopped and seemed to dry heave into the air, but kept walking, making the unnatural natural. It was a beautiful and dreadful image: the dead crawling toward me.

I opened the door for him and asked if he was all right, but he didn’t answer. He made a low, gurgling noise and dropped his head back. His bones poked out from underneath his skin. I asked him again
what was wrong. He leaned forward, and in a twisted motion vomited yellow bile into his hands, then flipped them over, letting it ooze onto the floor of the cab. He stuck his head out the window and started puking uncontrollably, his body shifting as the vomit streamed out his mouth, running down the side of the glass in a smeared, drippy mess.

My god
, I wondered,
does he have the plague?

Moaning, he tried wiping away the stomach fluid from around his mouth, but just smeared it across his face and continued barfing into his hands, shivering in the warm summer air.

The driver had no idea what was happening until another cab pulled up at a red light and told him his fare had thrown up all over his backseat. He started yelling at us as Asten continued emptying his guts of whatever he had managed to recently digest. Do the dead even eat? Tears filled his jaundiced eyes as he whispered through the gurgling, lapping sound in his throat, “Joe, I’m dope sick. Don’t ever get this bad, don’t ever start shooting this shit, don’t ever.” He curled over in a convulsing position and emptied the remains of his stomach juices on the floor.