by Cleo Odzer
Free but hungry, I worried for another week.
Then I met Canadian Mitchell, a Goa Freak I hadn't known before. I had recently arrived in Thailand and shared a room with, surprise, Giuliano. He too was planning a smack run and said Giuliano was helping him build his suitcase.
"You're staying with Giuliano!" I exclaimed. "You'd better watch out. He's not sane these days."
"I know. As soon as he finishes the case, I'm out of there."
Mitchell needed a runner to take the case to Canada. He said he'd give me ten thousand dollars. Great—I had a job again!
Another surprise—Mitchell was ready to go within days. We met at the airport to exchange luggage and were soon airborne. Since the world recognized Thailand as a drug depot, we figured it would be safer not to fly west from there. We went to Sri Lanka.
Sri Lanka Immigration. Similar to India's but worse. Total chaos. The mass of arriving passengers bunched around two Immigration officers, with no organization whatsoever. I had to push through the heaving crowd to show the Immigration officer my luggage and then accompany him back to his desk so he could stamp my passport. Mitchell and I had flown together and sat side by side during the flight, but once we landed we pretended we'd never seen each other before. I almost had a problem when the Immigration officer wanted to see money. You had to declare a certain amount before being allowed to enter the country. I had zero rupees and zero dollars. Somehow, I managed to signal Mitchell as I pushed my way through sweaty bodies (no air conditioning, of course). He slipped me a wad of hundred-dollar bills, and the officer smiled through this gold teeth as he stamped me in.
We stayed at the Sheraton while we planned our next move—entering Canada.
"Out-of-the-way airlines have nifty flights," I said. "They stop over in tiny countries you've never heard of. They're also the cheapest."
"Well, let's look at this map and see where we're going," said Mitchell.
"I'd like to stop somewhere, anyway. It doesn't cost more, and the country's stamp will look good on my passport, make me seem like a tourist—especially some little country that's never heard of drugs."
"First we should find out which airlines go through Sri Lanka. There aren't many."
"Oops, I hadn't thought of that. Aw, probably only Air Ceylon, and that's it."
"I saw an Aeroflot office on our way in."
"AEROFLOT!" I shrieked. "The Russian airline. I want to go through Russia! That's it! That's it! That's the one! Perfect! I've been dying to see Moscow. I can't wait."
"Don't get exited yet. We have to see how the flights go."
"No, no, it's perfect. For sure flights leave Moscow for everywhere. And coming from Russia, the last thing the Canadians will look for is dope. A Communist maybe, but dope—never! Oh, how wonderful!" I jumped on the bed and started hopping up and down. I jumped to the next bed and then to a stuffed chair and back to the bed.
"Quit it, will you?" said Mitchell. "You're messing up my bed. Jump on your bed, why don't you."
I sang, "I'm going to Russia wu wu Russia . . . "
"Cool it. We have to check it out first."
It checked out fine. Not only was it the cheapest flight, smuggler wise it was the best strategy. Who would check me for drugs disembarking from Moscow? As I'd anticipated, the route to Canada called for a two-day stop over in Moscow. Yowee, I was going to Russia.
We didn't stay long in Sri Lanka. Mitchell still had most of his marbles, and he realized that every day on the road meant more of our import business was inhaled. Between me and Mitchell, we consumed over two grams of dope a day.
Soon, I was once again dressed in the boring-beige outfit, with my hair teased two Inches above my head, a dumb bag over my wrist, silk stockings, pearl earrings—yeck! Somehow, though, that look brought approving nods from ticket clerks, pilots, stewardesses. Those people had no taste. I had no problem anywhere. The nice Russian Customs man gave me no trouble. Oh, boy—Russia! Aeroflot lodged me at the Intourist Hotel in the centre of Moscow. I arrived late at night and couldn't wait for morning to go exploring. I had to keep my hair in the bird's nest, so I slept carefully. As soon as I awoke and had a snoot, I left the hotel.
But Moscow was no fun (was it because of my hair?). I found it tense and frustrating. Accustomed to being fawned over as a foreigner, I was unnerved that everybody was dose to rude. Gee, I only asked for help with minor things! Where can I buy postcards? How many stamps do I need? Which way to the Red Square? Everyone I beseeched for this secret information seemed harried, irritated, and impatient. They seemed to be hurrying with important things to do. I'd heard about a famous department store and headed for it with a pocketful of rubles. It was big and impressive, but what impressed me most about it were the lines. To buy anything, one faced a line of twenty or thirty people. Nobody spoke to me anywhere, and I didn't see anything vaguely resembling a Freak or a hippie. Russia was a bore. Not disappointed to leave for the airport, I disposed of my rubles in a tourist shop.
I had no problem entering Toronto. As usual I received a pass-through card and, POOM, I was stamped into Canada. A successful drug smuggler once again. Now a heroin smuggler—oh, how exciting!
I found Mitchell waiting outside the doors of the baggage area. I stayed overnight in his hotel room, and the next day we went to Iris connection, known in Toronto as the Jewish Connection. Jewish Connection was living in his parents' high-rise while they were away somewhere. He told me I'd receive my money in a few days, as soon as enough dope had been sold. Before Mitchell dropped me off at a hotel near Young Street, he presented me with a stash.
I had a colour TV and ten dollars worth of American candy, plus a soda machine and an ice machine down the corridor. What more could anyone want? I popped a peanut-butter cup in my mouth and turned on "The Addams Family."
When I didn't hear from anyone by the next night, I called Jewish Connection.
"Mitchell's out of the city," he said, "and I don't have money for you yet. I'll let you know when I do."
I didn't want to be a pest, so I decided to wait as long as I could before calling again. Two days later I ran out of dope. I had to call. The phone rang and rang. No answer! After a few hours of trying every fifteen minutes or so, I panicked. I was out of stash! Oh, no! Help! I drove the hotel operator bananas calling over and over. By the time Jewish Connection answered the phone, very late that night, I was sweating and freezing.
"I don't have your money yet," he said.
"That' what I'm calling about. I’m sick."
He sighed and there was a pause. "Okay. Come by in the morning."
"I can't wait that long!"
He grunted. "Okay. Come now."
The taxi took forty minutes to reach the out-of-the-way apartment—long enough for me to worry about the situation. Where had Mitchell gone? Was he going to disappear on me? What if no one answered the door when I got there?
Jewish Connection did answer the door. I almost fell into the room in relief. After a few snorts, I asked about Mitchell.
"He left the country."
"Oh . . . When can I get my money?"
Jewish Connection's voice dripped with impatience. "As soon as I get it. I told you I'd let you know."
"I can't wait here forever. I'm going to be sick again."
"Here, take this packet, but that's it," he said, herding me toward the door. "I can't support your habit. I call you, okay?"
I waited another few days, until the last speck of powder ran out, and then, an anxious wreck, I called again. Canada was no longer tutti-frutti.
"Tomorrow afternoon," Jewish Connection said, his words slow and precise and bursting with annoyance.
"I can't wait that long."
"Tomorrow afternoon, take it or leave it."
"Alright."
I considered calling Esther in Montreal but discovered I didn't have my address book. By the time I was en route to the apartment, my legs were killing me. I alternated between sweating to the point of dehydration a
nd shivering with goose bumps. I didn't like it one bit. I worried again whether anyone would be there when I arrived. I wanted to shoot Mitchell.
Jewish Connection answered the door. "I have some money for you, but I'm not giving you any more dope."
"Please, I'm DYING! Look at there goose bumps."
He made a face but went into the other room. He came out with a little supply. "But this is IT." He gave me five thousand dollars. "You'll have to wait for the rest," he said. I was overjoyed to receive that much. I'd started to doubt I'd ever get anything. "I'll call YOU when I have more," he added.
My spirits soared. I was no longer sick. And I had money!
First, I wanted to tell my friends everything had worked out. Actually, I should now help those who'd not been so fortunate that monsoon—that was the Goa Freak way. As soon as I returned to the hotel, I sent two telegrams—one to Neal and one to Mental, both in care of Dipti's in Bombay. Both telegrams said the same thing, if they still needed money to put a trip together, I could send two thousand dollars. I included the phone number of the hotel.
Then I went shopping. I bought clothes and took a stroll down Young Street. Nightspots lined the sidewalk. Perhaps I'd go out later and mingle with the natives. I also needed a way to score dope. How ridiculous. I'd had a pound of it only clays before.
On a corner I found a headshop. Goa Freaks loved gadgets, and at the start of each season they fussed over the latest inventions brought from the West. Odd smoking hardware made great gifts. The colourful bhongs in the headshop window caught my eye. In India the Freaks used bamboo bhongs to smoke smack; here I beheld plastic ones in creative designs. Apparently bhongs were coming into style in the West for smoking marijuana.
I left the store loaded with packages. Wait till the Anjuna gang saw my red ceramic Buddha bhong! The bowl sprouted from the Buddha's fat belly.
Later that night I went to the Gaslight, one of the clubs I'd passed that afternoon. I recognized the regulars right away. Instead of sitting attables, they hang out in the hack. Those were the people I had to meet. Nobody would know where I could find a dealer.
Oh, look at that blonde. Exquisite! His face was perfect. What a nose.
I positioned myself among the regulars, leaning against the back benches the way they did. I spoke to a Person or two, not Perfect Blonde, though. He was so perfect I could only watch him from afar and let my eyes honour the form of his pale yellow No one picked up on my gentle questions about drugs. After a few hours I suspected I was in the wrong kind of club.
When I accidentally found myself next to Perfect Blonde, I felt so overwhelmed it took me ten minutes to smile at him. He barely acknowledged me. A while later I tried again. "Um. Excuse me," I said. He didn't turn around. I tugged at his suspenders. "Yoo hoo." Ugh, that wasn't what I'd wanted to say. He half turned in my direction. I stepped closer to him. "Um. Do you know where I can score, by any chance?" That wasn't what I'd wanted to say either.
He faced the dance floor. For a moment I thought he'd ignore me, but finally he said, "Maybe. I might know someone who could sell you a lid."
"Ah . . . no, not marijuana. I'd like to buy smack."
"That stuff? No." Still looking away from me, he shook his head. "Nothing like that."
Uh! I felt his disapproval. Anyone who looked as healthy as he did could only disapprove. Stupid me. Why had I mentioned it? He gazed at the dancing forms with a crinkled mouth. Now he hated me. We spoke no more during the next two minutes, and then he moved off without a farewell.
All was not lost, however; I did manage to find a dealer at the club. The dealer didn't hang out at the rear but sat at a table. He too was blonde and nice-looking, but we united on business terms only. He didn't have anything on him, and we made an appointment for the following afternoon in the same place. Terrific. Just terrific. I returned to the hotel satisfied with the night's accomplishments.
The next morning I received a collect call from Bombay.
"Hello? Tee hee."
"Mental? Mental! How's it going?"
"I just got your telegram. Tee hee, thanks."
"No problem. Everything line there?"
"Well, tee hee, you know there's trouble with Giuliano, don't you?"
"Giuliano! No. What kind of trouble?"
"You don't know? He's after you. He's angry."
"At me? I don't understand. What happened?"
"I can't explain now. I tell you when I see you. He hasn't caused you trouble there? That's good, tee hee."
"What? Mental, what's going on?"
"I'll tell you later. Just be careful. Tee hee, you gonna send me the money?"
We made arrangements for two thousand dollars to be sent to Thomas Cook's. When I hung up the phone I was uneasy. Why would Giuliano be after me? Why was he angry?
Caution got the better of me and, after I cabled the money, I checked out of the hotel and into another one using a different name. Since I was now in America, I didn't have to show my passport to register, and since I was paying cash in advance, I didn't need identification. What kind of trouble could Giuliano cause?
When I went to the Gaslight Club to meet Dealer, it was still daylight. My eyes had trouble adjusting to the dark interior of the club, and I banged my hip against the corner of an unplugged cigarette machine. When I finally got my night vision going, I saw chairs hanging upside down from tables. A vacuum cleaner sat in the centre of an aisle, and there was no one in sight. Oh, no. Was this how we were supposed to meet? It didn't seem a subtle way to make a drug transaction.
With no place to sit, I stood by the door. I half expected to be thrown out as soon as someone saw me. But there was no one. No Dealer, either.
Even after he was a half hour late, I hated to give up and leave. He'd been the only contact I'd made and I'd soon be out of dope again. I continued to wait. When Dealer came through the curtained opening from the street, he walked right into me, treading on my feet.
"Oo. Hey, is that you?" he asked. "I'm sorry. I couldn't see. Are you okay?" I was okay—and very relieved. "Here, let's sit," he said, pulling a chair off a table and setting it on the floor.
He didn't have anything on him, but we talked a bit, and I toll him who I was and what brought me to Canada. Then we walked to his nearby apartment, and he turned Inc on to his personal-use dope. He said he wouldn't have a gram to sell me until that night. Feeling expansive I also asked for a gram of coke. Why not? I was a successful drug smuggler, wasn't I? Might as well give it up. The prices were exorbitant. Well, just this one buy of coke. We arranged to meet later at the club.
Perfect Blonde didn't come near me that night—didn't even look my way. But I wasn't interested in the club people anyway. I spent the hours watching the door for Dealer. He hadn't given me a time. He'd just said "tonight." As it got later, the club filled, and I had to keep moving out of people's way. Where was Dealer?
When he finally arrived, again he had nothing on him, and I had to go with him to score the smack. This was getting to be a pain.
It cost five hundred dollars for one gram of smack; in Goa it cost fifty. Outrageous! By the time I had the powder in hand, I was exhausted from the effort of acquiring it. The coke wasn't available yet.
By the next afternoon I'd sniffed away the whole weak gram. This was a drag. I was also still concerned about what Mental had said. Just speaking to Mental on the phone wasn't cool either. Maybe someone had been listening at one end or the other. Had my cab from the other hotel been followed? Meanwhile, if Neal tried to call me, he'd be told checked out. Oh, well. Maybe not hearing from Neal right away meant he'd left Bombay. Anyway, with my costly expenses, it didn't look as if I'd have money left to send him.
Extra cautious, I checked out of that hotel too and into one a few blocks from the Gasfight Club. Yet again I invented a new name for myself. I called Jewish Connection to let him know the new phone number. He had no news for me. He would call me.
I went to Dealer's apartment early to score more dope. E
ek, this was costing a fortune, and it took more hours of running around to finally get it.
"You're wasting so much by snorting it," Dealer advised me. "It would last you longer if you shot it."
The only times I'd fixed anything was the vitamin B shot with Sasha and the vitamin B and cocaine shots with Neal. I didn't like the idea of doing it here. Somehow, being in the East had made those occasions less junky-like. Everything there was exotic and special.
I made a face at Dealer's suggestion. "Yeah, well . . . In any case, I only have one vein." The more I considered it, though, the better it sounded, really lasts, longer? It would make it stronger? Well, okay. Why not. Canyou do it for me?" It WAS exciting. "Did you hit the vein?" I yipped nervously as the needle pricked my arm. "Are you in?"
But I didn't feel anything. What a disappointment.
"I guess I didn't give you enough," said Dealer. "Next time I'll use more dope."
The coke he wouldn't have till later that night.
Again, I spent the time at the club watching the door for Dealer's appearance. None of the people who spoke to me interested me in the least. I just wanted my drugs. God, did I hate waiting! When Dealer did arrive, it was only to tell me he hadn't gotten the coke yet.
"I can't stand waiting here any longer," I told him, frustrated. "I could bring it to your hotel," he proposed.
"Well . . . okay." Discouraged, I despaired he'd ever come through with the goodies.
Surprise! Not long after I arrived in the room, he delivered. He also brought a few friends. And had invited more. Pretty soon I had a party. I recognized people from the club.
Hey, this was great! Others also had stashes, and a cosy gay-together developed with dozens of people crowding in. Wow, I felt like part of the Toronto scene. Especially with the expensive hotel room—my guests treated me like a V.I.P.
And then, big surprise! Perfect Blonde turned up. I could tell he was impressed, too. He didn't do any smack, and I could sense he was against it, but he had a hit of coke and positioned himself next to me on the bed. I made sure he kept near me, and he didn't seem to mind. I inched closer to him. After a while our shoulders touched. His arm had such a nice slope. Those light blonde hairs! I smiled at him.