Tales From The Crypt

Dec 10 2015

I stopped being a bike messenger. I took a middle management position for a a courier company. It seemed like a logical decision. I was burned out. Five years had passed since I started working again in New York. I had been going out to bars and clubs getting wrecked 4 or 5 nights a week for the previous 6 years. I wrapped it all into this sloppy package and it eventually took its toll. This is when the fixie craze was really swelling. A lot of my friends got into heroin at the same time. Well, first oxys a couple years before and then heroin. Don’t get me wrong, it was always there. But my core group of friends all got involved or re-involved at the same time. Some more hardcore than others. I was out of the loop by then. I couldn’t get down with it.

That’s the thing about a lot of this. You can be next to a scene, or look down on it, or look up to it, but you can’t really understand it until you’re a part of it. I still hung out with everyone for a while but it just got deeper and deeper. Some new characters emerged that were just junkies, and they were hanging out, it sucked. They’d come from all over. This one dude showed up and he was really annoying, pissed me off. I felt like he wanted to be Nemel but didn’t write graffiti and wasn’t funny or cool he was just covered in tattoos. He was a serious junkie I guess. I ended up at his place with one of my friends who was on his way there too. It was a big artist style east Williamsburg loft with a bunch of junk everywhere.

If you can afford dope and have a place to use it with other people you can be very popular in the heroin addict scene. You don’t need much more than that to reach the top levels. Its not like any other club where you have to pay dues before you get down, you get instant Gold Level status if you have the means. If you take it up a level and you have the means to support other fiends you can be popular until the day you die.

I remember these two dudes were talking about where they could buy needles, like which drug store was open 24 hours and who sold them. I was so bummed. I started walking around the loft, thinking about stealing stuff when I saw a couple of track frames shoved by a sofa. I asked the one dude who owned them and I forget if he said him or his roommate. Maybe his roommate. I just was like fuck dude, why does this fiend have these two Italian bikes?

I remember him asking me why I wanted to know and I said they were special and some G shit. He said his roommate hated him because he was a fiend. He had that manufactured junkie accent that people develop when they first get involved, the one where you pretend you grew up in the Tenderloin and drag out all your syllables. All of this was to much. I wanted to leave. My friend locked himself in the bathroom and shot up for a while. When he finally came out he drove us back to Manhattan in his rented Dodge Sebring convertible.

The drive over the bridge was horrible. The top was down on the car and he was speeding. There’s always traffic on that bridge, its bad enough when you’re sober. He started nodding out on the outside lane swerving towards the edge I kept grabbing the wheel from him and straightening out the car. Everytime I did this he’d wake up a little and get mad. “I got it man, its cool.” I made him pull over at the base of the bridge and got the fuck out of there. I don’t think I hit him in the face, I don’t know why. I remember thinking I should kill him, i thought I was going to die for sure.