You would think that after snorting coke for sixteen hours nonstop, sleep would be hard to come by. Not true. Despite all the marching powder in my system, as soon as I stripped down to my skivvies and flopped on the sagging bed I was out for the count. And I stayed out for the next five hours, until my bladder finally rang the Apache alarm clock and forced me out of bed.
Groaning in protest, I threw on some clothes and hurried down the hall to the toilet. In hotels like the Bond, the rooms come equipped with nothing more than a hand sink and a blurry mirror. The bathroom is always ‘down the hall’. Which makes for some urgent traffic in the corridors, as you can well imagine. (And probably more in-room sink-pissing than anyone in management would care to acknowledge.)
Back in my room, the view through the grimy window showed the sun sinking low over the Hudson as dusk overtook the streets of Tribeca. Happy Hour must already have been under way. It was time to get busy prepping product for the night ahead.
I switched on the ceiling globe so I’d have light to work by, then steeled myself as I opened my pack to see how much coke had survived the night. I knew one thing for certain: it wasn’t going to be as much as I hoped. Nevertheless, even with my lowered expectations I was shocked when I weighed what remained and discovered I had barely five grams left of the fourteen I’d picked up from Bobby Bats only twenty-four hours earlier.
And what did I have to show for my efforts? Twelve measly dollars. That’s all that was left in my wallet after I’d forked over twenty for the room. Even for me this was an all-time fuck-up. What now? I asked myself, again and again, as I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to wrap my head around the full dimensions of this disaster.
True, I had just enough coke left to cover my debt to Bobby Bats, if I stepped on it with five grams of cut and mustered the restraint to peddle all ten grams without dipping into the stash for my own enjoyment. An unlikely scenario, granted, but still within the realm of possibility.
Sure, go for it, you can still make it work, the optimist in me insisted.
But the realist in me would have none of it. Who the fuck are you kidding? It’ll never happen.
The realist proved himself right by pulling out the coke spoon and helping himself to two hefty scoops from my dwindling stash.
As the rush cut through my hangover, my mind began to focus, and suddenly, with a clarity verging on clairvoyance, I could see that my life was about to take a radical turn into uncharted territory. Come Monday, I would have to abandon New York for parts unknown. It was that simple. A scary prospect, but to tell the truth I accepted it with relief more than resignation.
How many years had I been longing to escape the rut my life in New York had become?
More than I cared to count.
And how many years had I failed to summon the will to make the changes that would have freed me?
Ditto.
Now that the idiot wind had forced my hand, I finally had my way out. A sorry way out, to be sure, but I welcomed it nonetheless. The key would be raising enough cash over the next two days to bankroll my getaway. Barring a repeat of last night’s performance, I was confident I could make that happen. And so, in blissful ignorance of how events would actually unfold over the course of the next two nights, I broke out my supplies and got busy cutting and packaging what remained of the coke, no easy chore with hands as shaky as mine after the previous night’s excesses. Ten packets were all I could complete before frustration got the better of me and I called it quits. But that would be enough for starters.
When I was done cutting and portioning out the coke, I still had five grams left to work with after the first ten packets sold out – a reserve stash I immediately proceeded to diminish by treating myself to a couple of celebratory snorts for a job well done.
I was buzzing nicely by the time I finished packing away my supplies, and after freshening up with a whore’s bath at the tiny hand sink, I got dressed, checked the angle of my Bogart fedora in the blurry mirror and, satisfied I was ready to face the night, headed out in search of customers.
It was pushing seven when I walked into the Raccoon, and the crowd was sparse. Gary and Ace, the Raccoon’s two principal owners, were working behind the bar that evening, as they usually did on weekends. I said my hellos and ordered a tall rum and Coke. Then I stepped over to the jukebox, dropped in a quarter and punched the buttons for a 1972 rarity by Leon Russell called ‘I’m Slipping into Christmas’. It was a record Ace inserted into the rotation when the holiday season rolled around, a deeply bluesy loser’s lament I always thought would make the perfect background music for a Christmas-time wrist-slitting beneath the mistletoe. I loved it the first time I heard it – loser’s laments had a certain undeniable resonance for me in those days. There was no telling when I’d next get the chance to hear it again, so I seized the opportunity to play it one last time.
In light of how the rest of the night went, that Leon Russell dirge would prove to be a prescient selection. By the time I stumbled out of the Houston Street after-hours club the following morning – for the second time in as many days – I was a bigger loser than ever, with plenty to lament. Once again, I had spent the night doling out free hits like they were party favours – only this time I had spread my largesse over a wider territory by wandering from bar to bar on the Tribeca circuit. Puffy’s. Whitey’s Tavern. The North River Bar. The Ear Inn. In every bar, I made more friends than profits.
It wasn’t that I didn’t unload any product along the way. Six of the ten packets I’d prepped at the Bond actually turned into cash in my wallet. But the three hundred bucks I collected had somehow been reduced by half by the time I left the after-hours club – which would have depressed me more if I hadn’t already reached the stage where I couldn’t give a fuck. I was so sick of the grind and so ready to put it all behind me that I didn’t care whether I left town with money in my pocket or not.
Still, my prospects weren’t totally bleak. There was every chance I could move a few more grams during the big game on Sunday night. Or so I told myself as I crawled back into bed at the Bond Hotel to catch a few hours’ sleep before the festivities kicked off at a pre-game party one of my customers was throwing at his loft on Church Street. Good thing I had laid out another twenty at the hotel desk on my way in that morning, otherwise I would have had to check out by noon, and I definitely needed more sleep than that if I was going to make it through the Super Bowl.
The loft party at Ari and Mandy’s place was in full swing by the time I finally made my appearance. Ari owned one of the bigger job-lot electronics stores on Church Street. His wife Mandy kept the store’s books and dabbled in photography. The loft’s whitewashed brick walls were hung with dozens of her black-and-white abstracts, most of them close-focus shots of vintage architectural features from the neighbourhood’s buildings.
Dozens of locals were milling around the cavernous space, clutching cups of Bloody Marys and shouting over the music blasting from Ari’s Bang & Olufsen sound system. Blind Faith, playing ‘Can’t Find My Way Home’.
Ari’s collection of vinyl LPs from the sixties and seventies was a marvel to behold. He must have had twenty linear feet of albums packed into the long, low storage unit that lined the living room’s north wall, all standing upright, cheek-by-jowl, impeccably in alphabetical order. Ari and I were the same age and had similar tastes in music, so whenever I attended one of his parties I’d pepper him with requests. I can’t remember ever requesting a song that he couldn’t find somewhere in his library.
‘Hey, Pete, glad you could make it,’ Ari greeted me, as I made my way toward the Bloody Mary punch bowl.
‘Hey, Ari,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘Thanks for the invite. Looks like I’m a bit underdressed, though.’
Everywhere I looked, Giants jerseys and caps were much in evidence. All I had on was my wide-brimmed grey felt fedora and the same tweed sports coat and black turtleneck I’d been wearing all weekend.
Ari grinned. ‘As long as
you aren’t wearing Broncos orange, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
Christ, don’t I wish that were true, I thought to myself. I had worries galore, but this wasn’t the place to air them.
‘Good turnout,’ I said, as I took a sip of Bloody Mary, which was heavy on the vodka and laced with an eye-watering dosage of Tabasco. In other words, perfect.
‘Any tune requests?’ Ari asked.
‘Got any Nazz?’ I replied, hoping to stump him for once.
‘Shit, yeah,’ Ari said. ‘I love Todd Rundgren.’
Foiled again, but I was glad. Todd Rundgren had seen me through a lot of all-night acid trips in my college days.
Minutes later, the loft filled with Rundgren’s voice, vintage 1968, singing ‘Open My Eyes’.
‘Way to go, Ari,’ I shouted in his ear. ‘Let me tip the DJ,’ I said, pulling out my vial of coke. Ari and his wife were regular customers of mine at the Raccoon.
‘You’re too kind,’ Ari smiled.
So we adjourned to the kidney-shaped glass coffee table that fronted his big sectional couch, where a half-dozen other partygoers were already gathered, chopping lines and wielding straws, revving up their team spirit. I tapped out four generous lines from my vial, and Ari and I joined in on the fun.
The fun kept right on coming for the next two hours, until the party started breaking up around six. Everyone was heading out to catch the game at whatever big-screen bar they fancied. A good many in the crowd at Ari’s were planning to watch it at the Galway, an Irish-run joint on Varick Street that was famous for its Super Bowl half-time buffet. I figured it was as good a place as any, so I tagged along with Ari and Mandy on the short walk uptown from their loft to the bar.
We arrived a good two hours before kick-off, but the place was filling up fast with people who had made their reservations weeks earlier. It was always a reservations-only affair. Ari and Mandy were on the list, of course. I hadn’t booked a spot in advance, but the off-duty bartender who’d been pressed into service as the doorman was one of my frequent customers.
‘Hey, Jimmy,’ I said.
‘Hey, Hat, come on in,’ he replied, waving me through without so much as a glance at his clipboard. Lowly as my adopted profession might be, you couldn’t deny it came with perks.
After two hours of guzzling Ari’s Bloody Marys on an empty stomach I was feeling no pain when I squeezed into a corner spot at the bar with a decent line of sight to the giant screen in the back. The spot I picked was in a shadowy little alcove with a single two-top table tucked up hard against the bar’s tinted front window – an out-of-the way place to surreptitiously snort the occasional hit.
Of course, the ‘occasional’ hits got less occasional by the hour, and by the time the strains of the national anthem started echoing through the room I was Mr Magnanimous once more, buying rounds of drinks for everyone and treating an ever-growing circle of friends to free hits from my stash.
Go, Giants!
Or, as Mr Magnanimous would say, Go crazy!
And that’s exactly what I did as the first half played out. The only hint of sanity in my whole performance was when I took the time to unload a few of the packets I’d prepped at the Bond before visiting Ari and Mandy. Otherwise I would have been tapped out after the first few rounds.
Half-time came, with the Giants in the lead, and the happy crowd began queuing up at the big buffet table. I should have joined the line, but the blow had suppressed my appetite, so I stayed put at the bar. Which was fortunate, because otherwise I might have missed Elena’s entrance.
I saw her step through the front door, and she caught my eye immediately. She just stood there, looking a bit perplexed as she scanned the packed room, trying to spot an opening.
She looked familiar, but it took me a moment to place her. She was a waitress at the Greek diner on Hudson Street where Dave and Andi and I had eaten breakfast on Saturday morning. I was so used to seeing her in a frumpy waitress uniform it was a surprise to see her dolled up in tight-fitting designer jeans, high black leather boots and a faux-leopard jacket. It was a fashion statement with an unmistakably outer-borough accent, but it showcased her curves with more flair than the smock dress and apron I was used to seeing her wear.
As soon as I recognised her, I waved her over to my corner and gave up my stool at the crowded bar. She seemed grateful for the welcome, but the look on her face told me she was having the same trouble placing me that I’d had with her.
‘I’m Pete,’ I said, extending my hand. ‘I eat at your diner all the time. I’m the guy who always orders the meatloaf special.’
That seemed to jog her memory.
‘Elena,’ she said, smiling as she shook my hand with a strong grip. ‘I thought you looked familiar. Thanks for the seat. I just got off shift. I’ve been on my feet for the last eight hours.’
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ I offered.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’d like a double shot of ouzo and a wine cooler.’
Whoa, this girl wastes no time getting up to speed! I thought to myself.
In the spirit of eudemonia, I ordered a double shot of ouzo, too, and lifted my glass to hers in honour of the occasion.
‘To the New York Giants,’ I toasted.
‘To whatever,’ she smiled, clinking glasses before she downed her double shot without a flinch. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not really into American football. I just came for the party. I’ve got the next two days off, and I’m not leaving here tonight until I’m so drunk I pass out on the cab ride back to Brooklyn.’
To a man in my condition, this seemed an entirely reasonable goal, and I decided then and there that I would help her reach it.
‘Well, then, we’d better have another round. You’ve got some catching up to do.’
When the half-time hoopla ended and the second half kicked off, we were already working on our third round of drinks, and Elena was getting more affectionate by the minute. By the fourth quarter, when New York had the game well in hand, Elena was putting up less resistance than the Denver Broncos’ defence, and – lucky me – it looked like Phil Simms and the Giants wouldn’t be the only ones with something to celebrate that night.
It would be flattering to think that my charm and wit were what won Elena over, but odds are my success had more to do with the baggie of coke I kept passing to her beneath the apron of the bar. Apparently Elena had as big an appetite for marching powder as she did for ouzo.
The Giants’ 39–20 triumph sent the crowd in the Galway into a frenzy of back-slapping and high-fives. Elena and I skipped all that. We were too busy making out in the shadows of the alcove. It was the sort of public display that would normally have provoked cries of ‘Get a room!’ but in the euphoria and the general pandemonium nobody paid us any mind. Not that it mattered. By that point in the evening we were well past caring about public opinion.
At 3 a.m. the party was winding down, and Elena and I decided to head home to her place. Outside, on Varick Street, it was snowing lightly as we flagged down a cab and set off for Brooklyn.
‘Should I take the bridge?’ the cabbie asked.
‘No, take the Battery Tunnel,’ Elena told him. ‘It’s quicker.’
Up until that point, Elena hadn’t mentioned exactly where she lived in Brooklyn, but when I heard her recite her address to the cabbie, I realised we were heading to – of all places – Bay Ridge, my native ground. I hadn’t set foot in that part of Brooklyn in many years. And now, on what would be my last night in New York, I was returning to my roots, slipping back into the old neighbourhood under cover of darkness for a one-night stand.
At the time, it struck me as an odd coincidence. But months later, and many miles away, after I’d had time to mull over the symmetry of that farewell visit, I would come to think of it as fate.
As we cruised along the shore of the Narrows, I could barely make out the running lights of the ghostly freighters out on the water beneath the Verrazzano Bridge. The snow was several in
ches deep when we climbed out of the cab in front of Elena’s place, a two-storey brownstone on a quiet side street off Fifth Avenue. It was one of those old-style row houses you enter by mounting a ridiculously high set of front steps, and what with the snow underfoot, and Elena’s compromised equilibrium, it was quite an adventure coaxing her up to her first-floor apartment.
As soon as we were safely inside, Elena triple-locked her front door and dragged me straight to her bedroom. After our make-out session at the Galway, any attempt at foreplay would have been redundant, so we skipped the preliminaries and, without further ado, we stripped off our clothes and got busy. And we stayed busy for quite some time.
When our bodies finally untangled, the only thing I craved was a good night’s sleep. Elena, however, wasn’t quite done. Before turning off the bedroom lamp, she reached for the empty baggie on the nightstand – the baggie that had once been full of Bobby Bats’ coke – and turned it inside out. Then, like a cat lapping milk, she gave the white-dusted plastic a thorough licking with her pert little tongue. ‘Dessert,’ she called it, and in a way that’s exactly what it was.
The final act before you leave the table.
I just hoped I’d be well out the door before the bill came.
With that unsettling thought in mind, I rolled over, passed out and didn’t awaken until hours later, when the sound of Elena’s panicked voice roused me into groggy consciousness.
‘Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!’ she moaned, throwing back the covers and hopping out of bed. ‘Wake up, Pete. Hurry, you’ve got to go!’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘It’s already one-thirty!’ she exclaimed. As if that explained anything.
‘What’s the rush? You told me you had the day off.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘But I forgot about Demetri!’
‘Demetri?’ I repeated. ‘Who the fuck’s Demetri? Your boyfriend?’
‘No, Demetri’s my older brother,’ she explained. ‘He’s coming over at two to fix my washing machine, and you can’t be here when he shows up.’
Idiot Wind Page 3