Needle Too (24 page)

“So, Perry—what’s it gonna be?” asked Dr. Wendel who for days had been desperately trying to persuade him to swear off heroin and take the synthetic option which would likely spare him from having to undergo future procedures. Of course, the notion of wasting a perfectly healthy donor valve on a junky who’d probably just fuck it up anyway, must have raised some ethical questions for the doctor as well. “You are going to quit using…aren’t you?”

“Of course (not),” Perry said. “But just out of curiosity: Let’s say I was to choose the donor valve and then for some reason had a relapse. What would happen?”

“There’d be an increased likelihood of a recurring infection, which could result in vegetation entering your bloodstream followed by a major stroke, possibly a heart attack, and then another valve replacement.
Trust me
. Your best option is to quit using and choose the synthetic valve. If you stay clean and take the blood thinners it’ll probably last forever.”

“Okay, okay, I know. But if I chose the donor valve and then had a
relapse would I die?”

“Well like I just said, Perry, you could have a stroke, and yes, as a potential candidate for a heart attack and a second heart surgery you would ultimately be putting yourself in—.”

“Yes, I know—but could I immediately drop dead like I might with the synthetic valve?” Perry interrupted, finally cutting to the chase
.

“In the event of a relapse the donor valve would allow vegetation to pass through without shutting down, so in that situation immediate death is unlikely but—”

“I’ll take the donor valve.”

By the spring of 2005 OxyContin came to town. Actually, I’m sure it arrived much earlier, but that was around the time I became aware of it which itself was simply a side effect of having a very young girlfriend who was now wearing an engagement ring. Of course, that’s not to suggest that Emily was into pain pills because she wasn’t, but a lot of her friends were and one night a few of them paid us a visit bearing little orange gifts.

“Oh—now what the fuck are
these
?” I asked with my usual shortage of patience for children.

“Oxys—try one,” said one of them.

So not to break with precedent I tried one. And I liked it. I
really
liked it. It was remarkably similar to dope and therefore definitely something to avoid…
from now on
. In fact, I realized had I tried OxyContin prior to becoming a dope fiend I could’ve ended-up a pill-head instead…but then again, probably not. Regardless, oxys came in a wide variety of strengths and colors and were
expensive—a dollar per milligram—and they were clearly more potent than the Perc-10’s I’d gluttonously consumed a year earlier; but in a very specific way I found the effects of prescription opioids to be less consuming and absorbing than heroin was. However, make no mistake about it: those pills were serious business and had wreaked havoc in Southwest Florida not long after they arrived, as deadly overdoses were becoming commonplace and prescription drug abuse was running rampant.

Again, I suppose it’s
possible
that had I happened upon OxyContin during my turbulent twenties I could’ve become addicted to it. Thankfully, however, by the time I swallowed that tiny orange pill I’d already unmasked the monster and perhaps my brain chemistry had finally corrected itself because I was now certain I couldn’t accomplish anything with that much fun in my life. And on the few occasions when my weaknesses prevailed and I
did
indulge,
Needle
would languish with nothing but indiscriminate and incoherent little notes written here and there and of little if any value. But aside from those few lapses in judgment, I seemed to have outgrown the thrill of it all as that mixture of unbridled anticipation and anxiety that always preceded any opiate consumption finally seemed to be dissipating and a thing of the past. Unfortunately, I would occasionally see that same excitement on the faces of some of Emily’s friends who, prior to their recent spate of pill-popping, had never done anything other than smoke weed and drink beer and now suddenly there was that sparkle. There was that expression of delighted discovery. There was that false sense of well-being and security amongst those who didn’t know what they were getting themselves into. And although the opioid in pill form deconstructed the Romantic myth for me, for so many others with less experience it was nothing other than a wolf in sheep’s clothing as guards went down and overdoses went up. Certainly, that’s not to suggest I was walking the straight and narrow as I was still smoking pot on most days, but usually nothing more than a blast or two after dinner.

I suppose it’s somewhat ironic that the OxyContin epidemic in
Florida actually helped me gain some perspective, understanding, and a little more control over my addiction and inclinations, and though I really didn’t keep tabs on Perry beyond a monthly phone call or two I assumed he was making his own progress as well. Then, early one morning toward the end of November in 2005 the phone rang:

“Hello?” I said as I answered; however, only the sound of silence and a bit of belabored breathing was heard on the other end until a few words were finally spoken…
sort of
.

“Ah ha a sharoke.”

“Perry?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Ah ha a sharoke.”

“You
what?”

“Ah ha a sharoke,” he tried again.

“Listen, man,” I told him. “I’m finally writing about all the bullshit back in New York and I’m in the zone right now, so can you call back later?”

“Ah ha a sharoke.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time and from the sound of things it must have been some pretty fucked-up shit, but I’m mid-thought right now and I need to get back to this so just relax and enjoy it and I’ll call you later,” I told him just before hanging up.

But he immediately rang back.

“Emily!” I screamed while refusing to pick up the phone again.

“
What?!
” my wife-to-be said as she entered the kitchen, a little annoyed by my volume.

“Perry keeps calling but he’s all fucked-up on something and I don’t have time to figure out what he wants,” I explained as the phone continued to ring. “Can you
please
deal with it?”

“Hi Perry,” Emily said after she answered the phone. “What’s up?”

“Thanks,” I whispered and returned my nose to the grindstone.

“YOU HAD A STROKE?!”
Emily shouted in shock as I looked up from my laptop and was suddenly taken aback. “OH MY GOD, PERRY, A FUCKING STROKE?! ARE YOU SERIOUS??? A STROKE??? CRAIG—Perry had a fucking stroke!!”

“Yeah, I got that part already—give me the phone,” I said as she handed it over.

“Hello?”

“Ah ha a sharoke.”

“That’s what I heard…I think,” I said. “What happened?”

Unlike Emily I didn’t understand a
word
of what he was saying, though I would later learn that Dr. Wendel’s awful admonitions had officially become prophecy, and although Perry only booted that dirty black tar on a few occasions it was apparently enough to sprout a hunk of vegetation that eventually lost its grip on his heart and did some damage to his brain.

“Okay then,” I said after pretending to understand his mumbling. “Try to get some rest and I’ll call you in a few days—alright,

brother?”

“CRAIG!”
Emily suddenly screamed at me.

“What?!”

“Give me the phone!” she snapped as she ripped it out of my hand. “Perry, do you want us to come out there and see you?”

“Forget it,” I interrupted. “We can’t afford it.”

“Okay, Perry—don’t worry about it, we’ll come out there tomorrow,” Emily said while ignoring my fiscal concerns. “Where’s the hospital? Okay, do you have an exact address? Then don’t worry about it, we’ll figure it out…Don’t be silly…Everything’s gonna be okay…See you tomorrow…Alright…That’s okay…Bye, honey.”

Then she hung up and turned to me as she suddenly had a revelation.

“You’re a fucking asshole!”

“Why now?”

“Because he’s your best friend and he needs you!”

“He’s not my best friend…he’s
one
of my best friends.”

“Oh God, you’re really a fucking idiot,” she suddenly reconsidered. “Call work and tell them you need some time off.”

“We don’t have the money, Emily.”

“We’ll borrow it from Momma.”

39

Although we couldn’t arrange a flight out the next day, we did the day after that as Emily and I boarded a plane and headed out west to visit Perry at a hospital in San Francisco. Only it wasn’t that easy.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked after we stepped out of the airport and into his taxi.

“Kaiser Hospital.”

“Which one?”

Apparently, there’s about a billion medical centers in the area that in some way incorporate that same name, and by the time we were able to determine and arrive at the location where Perry was being treated we’d spent two hours racking-up over $200 in cab fares and the fucker had already left.

“Well where the hell did he go?!” I asked the doctor.

“He was sent to a convalescent home in Sonoma to recover from the stroke and to clear up the vegetation,” she said as I felt that same old sickening feeling come over me. “You know, you’re friend has some pretty serious problems.”

“Yeah—no shit.”

“And he’s gonna need another valve replacement.”

Wow. That would be his third heart surgery in twelve years and for some reason it surprised me though I suppose it shouldn’t have. She then gave me the address of the medical facility where he was presently being cared for but at that point visiting hours would
have been over by the time we arrived.

“Well then can we call him?”

“Sure,” said the doctor who then led us to a reception area where she made the call, was connected to his room and then handed me the phone which I passed along to Emily since she apparently spoke stroke. We then rented a car and checked into a motel within walking distance from the facility in Sonoma as the mission of mercy was getting more expensive by the minute.

The following morning when I awoke Emily was speaking stroke to Perry who was apparently giving her a list of errands he needed completed that day, which essentially amounted to picking things up and bringing them somewhere else. Keys, checks and invoices were among the deliveries we made from Marin to Petaluma and it was an inspiring and beguiling whirlwind tour of an amazing place I’d never seen before. Emily then called Perry to tell him we’d completed the assignments and were en route to the convalescent home where my 39-year-old stroke victim suddenly found himself.

By the time we made it to wine country a stormy sky and setting sun cast a pall over what seemed to be the main drag in Sonoma—where banks, markets and fast-food restaurants lined the avenue as we scrutinized storefronts for a convalescent home that was supposedly wedged in there somewhere.

“Let’s stop for a second so I can get my bearings,” I said as I pulled to the side of the road.

“Scary man! Scary man!”
Emily suddenly blurted out and pointed as I happened to pull alongside a scraggly soul pacing the sidewalk with heavy, deliberate steps while his hands were clasped behind his back.

“PERRY!” I shouted and lowered the passenger window as he immediately stuck his head in the car and met Emily in person for
the first time.

“Ga a chiggarre?”

“Yeah, sure, man—I understood
that
!” I said as I threw a Marlboro Light toward the opened window. “Go on—suck it up,
stroke-boy
. Wanna wash it down with a whiskey?”

“No, shanksh.”

We parked the car and after he finished his smoke, we returned Perry to the facility that seemed more like a nursing home for the very ill and elderly.

“Wow, I have to say you seem to be in pretty decent shape considering you just had a fucking stroke,” I told Perry as we headed to his room while passing other patients in wheel chairs and much worse condition.

“You shink?”

Indeed I did. He had the same, crazy, pacing, borderline-hyperactive gait as always, and as his speech would clear up significantly over the next couple of days it began to sound less like a symptom of a serious medical condition and more like the most humiliating lisp in the world. But Perry would soon overcome each verbal hurdle he was faced with and his difficulties with consonants would eventually become a thing of the past.

“Happy Shankshgiving,” he said to me on the following day.

“Shame to you,” I shed to him.

“Hey, I read shumaya book lash nigh,” he told me on what was our third day in California while he was lying in bed and was once again attached to a variety of anti-fungal drips. “Ish pre-ey goo.”

“Thanks, but it’s not even halfway finished yet,” I told him. “I’ve got at
least
another year of writing left.”

“Go home and fi-ish.”

“No, we’re gonna stay with you a bit longer. We’ve only been here a few days.”