Needle Too.

Craig Jordan Goodman.

Many thanks go to David Gazzo, David Minter, Eva Novak and Mich.e.l.le Giancolabecause good friends are hard to find.

The events depicted here are true. Certain identifying names, characteristics, dates and places have been changed to protect anonymity. A few individuals are composites, some timelines have been expanded or compressed, and some of the dialogue has been recreated or reconstructed to help support the narrative, and to clarify and illuminate critical aspects of the story. A small portion of Needle Too first briefly appeared at www.Needleuser.com.

Needle Too.

"The most beautiful people are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity and an understanding of life that fills them with compa.s.sion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen."

-Elisabeth Kubler-Ross.

"Compa.s.sion for animals is intimately connected with goodness of character; and it may be confidently a.s.serted that he who is cruel to animals cannot be a good man."

-Arthur Schopenhauer.

"Addiction is way funnier than recovery."

-Craig Jordan Goodman.

One.

July 23rd, 1996.

Richmond, Virginia: 4:45 a.m.

"Ya'on that s.h.i.t?"

"Huh?"

"That f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.t! You on it?"

"Yeah, man-sure," I said because I wanted him to go away, but also because I'd been on so much s.h.i.t he was probably right.

"You on the heron?" he tried again.

"The WHAT?!" I said as I looked up from the bench where I was sitting and squinted while trying to see past the residue clouding my thoughts and my ability to focus in on the f.u.c.ker.

"The HERON, man The HE-RON," said a middle-aged black man with a broom in his hand as he gradually materialized before me.

"The HE-RON, man?!?" I repeated back to him annoyed and tired and scared and exasperated and mocking his misp.r.o.nunciation or whatever the f.u.c.k it was. "No, I'm not on the f.u.c.king HE-RON!"

"Wellyou nasty like you on the heron."

"I'm nasty regardless."

"Yeahyou on the heron," he decided with a strange sort of smugness.

"What the f.u.c.k, man-you a cop or something?!"

"Nah, man-I'm the custodian," he mumbled.

"The WHAT?!"

"The f.u.c.kin' custodian, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!!-I clean da G.o.ddam terminal!"

"Try cleaning the men's room."

"f.u.c.k DAT s.h.i.t!" he said. "I don't even wanna walk pa.s.sed it. There's all KINDS of f.u.c.ked-up bulls.h.i.t goin' on up in DAT m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka. Actually, I ain't even the real custodian. I just sweep up'n take out the trash for dis n.i.g.g.a every now and den and he throws me a few bonesand you know what else??? It could be worse."

"I have no doubt it could."

"Oh YEAH, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka-oooh-wee!!!" he said in a rush as if he was waiting for just such an opening. "When I was yo' age, I was mo f.u.c.ked up den you is! I was paying dem m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas $200 a DAY for dat black tar s.h.i.t. f.u.c.ked my veins all up. I was on dat s.h.i.t so bad I was bringin' in blow from Mexico just to pay fo' it with! Two kilos a trip, two trips a month, $5000 a trip for almost three YEARS, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!"

"You're lucky you didn't get locked up."

"Who da f.u.c.k said I didn't get locked up? I didn't say dat s.h.i.t! You think I be sweepin' up after some broke-a.s.s n.i.g.g.a if I didn't get locked up? Dey locked my black a.s.s up real good for 18 YEARS, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka! Eighteen m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin' years, G.o.dDAM!! And I'd STILL be on da s.h.i.t if dey didn't."

"Well, then I guess it was a good thing you got locked up," I said trying to be friendly, while secretly hoping he'd get the f.u.c.k away.

"Oh yeah, man, dey locked my a.s.s up REAL good!" he said again. "Me AND my boys-white boys like youm.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin poodle."

"What?"

"m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kIN POODLE f.u.c.ked my s.h.i.t all up!"

"Man, what're you talking about?!" I said while unexpectedly on the brink of tears.

Then, this black, middle-aged, surrogate janitor leaned his broom against the wall behind the bench where I was sitting and took a seat beside me.

"Man, I must've taken dat trip 70, maybe 80 times," he said. "Every time I never had no f.u.c.kin' problems. Even when dey started bringin' out dem dogs and s.h.i.t, man-nuthin. No, sir! Dem Mexican boys packed dat s.h.i.t up so tight, so right-I didn't even know where da s.h.i.t was at. POlice pull dem big m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin German Shepherds outta da gate and nuthin! Never! Not a f.u.c.kin' thing! And den come dat one day-I had dis feeling. I don't know what da f.u.c.k it was, man, but I had a BAD feeling dat day wasn't gonna be like dem udda daysSo we pa.s.s da gate and s.h.i.t and come up on dis raggedy-a.s.s checkpoint in some m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin Hebbron, Texas or some s.h.i.t, like it's some G.o.ddam holy place and s.h.i.t, and dey be bringin' dis ol' black lab outta some broken down trailer. Now I ain't never seen no dogs at no checkpoint, see? I seen'em at da gate a whole mess a times, but I ain't NEVER seen'em at no checkpoint but it's cool, man, it's cool. So da POlice is walkin' dis ol' m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka around da truck, and me and my boys is kinda like laughin' and s.h.i.t cuz dis dog is soooo f.u.c.kin' ol', man, too f.u.c.kin' ol' to be out dere in dat heat lookin' for dem drugs and s.h.i.t for dese dips.h.i.t m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas. So dey keep walkin' dat ol' dog 'round da truck and walkin' and walkin' and he don't know where da f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.t is at, I don't know where da s.h.i.t is at, n.o.body knows where da G.o.ddam s.h.i.t is at. So dey go a couple mo' times 'round dat truck before dey bring dat ol' black lab dog back inside dat f.u.c.ked-up trailer and I'm thinking everything's cool, right? Den dem POlice come out wit' anudda dogskinny, curly-haired m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka widda big, f.u.c.kin' head and s.h.i.t. A black dog-real nervous and s.h.i.t-and crazy lookin' like a poodle or somethin'-the biggest G.o.ddam poodle I ever seen in my life but all skinny and f.u.c.kED up! Had dese big, crazy m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin eyes and I knew he wasn't right. I knew he was a G.o.ddam genetic operation."

"You mean aberration," I said after thinking about it for a moment.

"Huh?"

"You said 'genetic operation.'"

"I know what I said, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka! So out come dis big, gangly-lookin' genetic operation with crazy eyes on a big, heavy chain'n s.h.i.t, and I'm thinking why do dese f.u.c.kin' POlice gotta big-a.s.s heavy chain like that fo'? And Lord a' mighty, when dey get dat f.u.c.ked-up dog a couple feet away from dat truck his eyes get all big and s.h.i.t, and he starts shakin' and bouncin' and s.h.i.t like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned puppet on a m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin chain. And dis big, hairy, crazy-a.s.s m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka is gettin' so G.o.dd.a.m.nED jazzed about dis m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin s.h.i.t dat he's barkin' n' growlin' n' cryin' n' whinin' n' p.i.s.sin' all over hisself and I still don't know where da s.h.i.t is at-but dis f.u.c.ked-up m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka knows where da s.h.i.t is at cuz he's about to s.h.i.t all over hisself. And da cops is laughin' and s.h.i.t and dey be pullin' on dat big m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin chain and s.h.i.t and dey be like, 'Good boy-Cocoa, good boy' and dat dog's got all dis f.u.c.ked-up s.h.i.t tryin' to come up out its mouth and nose and he's tryin' to bite the tires and s.h.i.t and the cops is tryin' to hold the m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka back and dey be like 'Oh, don't you worry, Cocoa, we know whatchoo like, Cocoa, we know whatchoo waitin' fo' and I be like, 'Oh G.o.dd.a.m.n!!! Dis is one m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin c.o.ked-up genetic operation of a G.o.dd.a.m.n poodle if I ever f.u.c.kin' seen one!"

I think I might've laughed at that.

"It ain't funny, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka! Dat bulls.h.i.t cost me 18 years of my m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin' life. Dem cops ain't right, manDey was cheatin' !!"

"Yeahthey do that occasionally."

2.

"Hey, I know you haven't had a big guy around so if you need anything-anything at all-you just let me know"

This was heavy. Over the last year my grandmother had slowly and steadily deteriorated, and she wasn't exactly the picture of health to begin with. Although I wasn't privy to the details of her condition at the time, at some point I remember hearing someone mention something about her liver, while even with my own eyes I could see her skin was turning a sickly shade of yellow and her body seemed to have become concave, almost as if it was receding in on itselfand disappearing. And Grandma had always been my hero. But she spoke slowly now in strange tones around measured pauses about peculiar things I'd never heard her mention before in a voice that seemed to be coming from very far away. But all along and not until just before she pa.s.sed I was kept entirely in the dark about what was actually happening, and it would be years until I'd finally figure it out: She was dying on meshe was saying goodbye.

Anyway, maybe a few weeks after I got the first inkling of what was really happening-just like that, Grandma was gone...

"because it can be rough when there isn't a big guy around. So uhhh, you know, if you ever need to talk about anything, anything at all, I'm always here for you and I'm not the only one, you know-your"

I was suddenly being exposed to the death of a loved one and all that comes with it for the very first time in my life. Of course, my dad had been dead for years but that was different and I was now beginning to realize I'd never truly grieved for him; my mother had immediately nipped that one in the bud and up until this very moment I still hadn't even addressed the fact. But I was older now and felt more and Grandma had always been my knight in shining armoror at least tried to be and that's all that mattered. And I know she was aware of how violent my mother was but really, what could she do about it? By that point she was already well into her sixties and n.o.body was prepared to take on my mommy dearest. Still, I know it really upset her but she must have felt helpless and she was right. The 1970's were a different place and time and besides, she was scared of my mother. Who the f.u.c.k wasn't scared of my mother? But again, Grandma knew what was going on in the Goodman household and I think that encouraged her to dote on me a bit more than the other grandchildren. For about as far back as I could remember Grandma was constantly buying me presents, cooking my favorite guinea dishes and by the time I'd turned eight years old, furnishing me with what some might consider inappropriate reading material. But generally speaking, Grandma always tried to expand my view of the world in ways that would soften some of its harsher realities, so perhaps she felt things like Rosemary's Baby, Midnight Express and Flowers in the Attic might offer another perspective to help measure my own horror story against. Grandma was so unbelievably important to me and now she was gone, and I still didn't have the skills or resources to properly absorb and appreciate the fact that, like my father, she wasn't coming back.

"Maybe sometime you and I can catch a ballgame or something"

For years Grandma did the best she could. Rather than prepare one grand meal on Sunday for her three children and seven grandchildren which had always been the case, right around the time I turned six she began preparing one on Sat.u.r.day and one on Sunday to accommodate whatever shifting alliances were drawn-up between her feuding offspring-all of whom could usually never be in the same room without the threat of bloodshed. And now, in a mocking tribute to her memory, Grandma was gone forever as her feuding children and family members finally decided to reconvene for the funeraland they should have been ashamed of themselves.

As a result, I was suddenly reacquainted with my favorite cousins and Aunt, though by this point they'd been missing from my life for so long that I couldn't even recall exactly why I'd given them such status to begin with. In fact, the room was filled with family members who were mostly unknown to me, quite possibly due to some unknown injustice they committed against my mother (or vice-versa) at some point in the past.

"because I know I haven't been around much and I should have been. No kid should have to grow up without a dad. So I'd like to make up for that if you'd let me."

"I'm sorry sir-now who are you?" I finally asked as he finally managed to wrestle me away from my reflections of Grandma.

"I'm your Uncle Sal!" he said triumphantly. "I'm your Grandmother's sister's husband!"

"Who?"

"Your Aunt Dolores' husband."

"OhMy Aunt Dolores? Okay, thenIt's nice to meet you, Uncle Sal," I decided to say without checking for references.

"Oh, no-we met once before."

"When was that, Uncle Sal?"

"Well, it was a while ago," said my newly-revealed uncle. "You were just a little baby at the time but believe me, I remember it like it was yesterday. Those crazy, Jew-curls."

"When I was a baby?"

"Yeahso whaddaya say? Maybe we could see a Yankee game together and eat some hotdogs or something. Just the guys! You know, I've got season tickets. REALLY great seatsI bet you'll catch a foul ball! How does that sound?"

"It sounds great, Uncle Sal-except for the fact that I'm twenty-years-old!" I said without putting on my indoor funeral voice and though I was clearly upsetting other family members within earshot-I didn't know who they were either. "And besidesI hate the f.u.c.king Yankees."

As threatened, Perry made good on his intention to deliver us to Florida and, after the surrogate custodian finished ill.u.s.trating the potential dangers of mixing Poodles with Labrador Retrievers and Cocaine, I made good on my own intentions and inconspicuously snuck onto a half-filled bus heading back to New York. Of course, had Perry noticed me attempting to slither out of the bus terminal he would've tried to put a stop to it. Fortunately enough, however, while he was busy in the bathroom with a teacher from Tampa trying to satiate a voracious libido that had suddenly awoken after hibernating for years, I was able to make my escape. I ended up getting as far as Newark, New Jersey when I was politely informed of my "error" by the bus operator, at which point I was able to take local transportation back to the city because like I said upon first hearing the news-Florida was out of the f.u.c.king question. Even while on the brink of a methadone overdose I remembered making that fact perfectly clear to Perrytwice.

Though my body was soon in Manhattan my brain would be marinating in Methadonia for another day or two, which wasn't at all surprising given the fact that I'd consumed four pretty potent bottles of the chalky, orange variety in as many days. And now with really nowhere else to go, the extreme degree of intoxication made homelessness MUCH easier to come to grips with; so in a fitting tribute to what was apparently my new station in life, I walked about a mile to Central Park where I decided to lay down on a desolate patch of gra.s.s in one of the more wooded areas and remain there.

Although I'd always been convinced that hitting rock bottom was synonymous with checking into the Whitehouse Hotel, I cannot begin to explain how unbelievably indifferent I was about not being able to afford even that caliber of roof-or lack thereof-even for just a night. Certainly, though, my absurd complacency with absolute homelessness would be short-lived and commensurate with the subsiding effects of the drugs and at some point, as other old habits apparently die hard, the thought of once again freeloading at Jeff's apartment. And though I was certain he would've put up with me, in reality and for excellent reasons I don't believe I would have been entirely welcome. Besides, I was in no mood to discuss my present condition nor was I willing to address the tragic death of my friends or my bereavement which, even with a deceased father and grandmother, was something I had little to no experience with.

Within a day or so, literally with hat in hand and little else in terms of choice, I would eventually drag myself out of the park and use whatever money I still had for a train ticket to Stamford. Honestly, though, the thought of it made my heart race. I hadn't seen or spoken to my mother since that gla.s.s table exploded under my a.s.s two years prior, though I would soon learn that my Uncle John-her brother-had recently died of cancer while I wasunavailable. Of course, unlike the death of Eric and Virginia Holst, the news of his pa.s.sing would have little impact on me, and I suppose that was partially due to where my head was at. But the more enduring reason was simply a byproduct of the dysfunctional and self-destructive way in which my family functioned.

When my father died, any contact with his side of the family was either immediately extinguished or allowed to wither away. I don't know for certain my mother was the cause of this, but it would seem likely given not only the hatred she harbored for her deceased husband, but the twisted dysfunction that existed within her own bloodline because the Comunales were a sick f.u.c.king bunch. Of course, Italians are notorious for having familial bonds that can fluctuate between loving and lethal within the blink of an eye, but at the end of the day-in most cases-that bond is unshakeable. If you decide to f.u.c.k with one of them you're usually f.u.c.king with the lot and at any point should expect a couple of Monte Carlos and the aroma of garlic and oil to come wafting into your driveway. The Comunales, however, were a very different breed of Italian and though they clearly had the violence component down pat, the sense of closeness and the health of the actual relationships, even within the immediate family, were in a state of perpetual decay. In fact, even some extended branches of the tree were infected with the same sort of sickness, one born from a mixture of ego, self-righteousness, hypersensitivity and hair-trigger temper. Family spats almost always escalated to a point where tribes within the clan would take steps to secede from the union by executing policies ranging from self-imposed semi-isolation to complete estrangement or at the very least, a suffocating sense of familial indifference that went on for years or never ended at all. EVERYONE on all sides was always primed and ready to be offended and that never, ever, changed.

In 1973, while-unbeknownst to me-my father was perishing in the hospital and succ.u.mbing to lung cancer, my mother decided it was an appropriate time to relocate. She thought it best to move us from Scarsdale to Queens in order to be closer to her family during this trying and difficult period, particularly her sister and my Aunt Rosie whom she utterly despised. Oh, wait a minutedoes that sound odd? Well then sit tight because it gets better.

We ended up moving to Cryder House in Whitestone which was about eight blocks from where Aunt Rosie lived in a red brick house with her husband Paul and my older cousins, Jimmy and Chris. By this point throughout the course of my life I'd spent countless hours in and around that red brick house wreaking havoc with my cousins, and I can't tell you how many times Aunt Rosie had to come running out of it to pull those aggressive little a.s.sholes off of me which was impossible to do because (A) they wouldn't let go and (B) I thought it was nothing other than a privilege to be pummeled by them. And I LOVED my Aunt Rosie. I thought she was funny. SHE taught me how to ride a bike. And she made me feel special sometimes, especially after my dad died. In fact, I loved her SO much that I never even held a grudge against her for betraying me on that fateful Christmas in 1973 when she told my mother that my father and I had been cheating on her with his secretary, Phyllis. And I can very clearly recall not only the moment I clued my aunt in on "The Big Surprise for Mommy," but also when Rosie pa.s.sed that information along to my mother.

I stood next to the door of the room where my aunt was sealing my fate and for at least an hour listened and learned things that no five-year-old should ever know. For starters, I learned that my father was a very bad man. I also learned that Phyllis was a dirty and disgusting lady, and she had something called psoriasis all over her arms and legs and that her cat probably had it as well. But what I've always been most struck by-especially as an adult-was the fact that throughout the entire, dirty disclosure there was never any weeping or moments of heartache. There was just anger-calm, cool, collected anger. Definitely loud at times, but by no means were there any sounds of sorrow.

Come to think of it, my mother was never one for tears. Honestly, I don't think I ever recall her crying real tears, tears generated by a profound sense of sadness or loss, except of course when she was wasted and feeling sorry for herself. Interestingly enough, I do remember her shedding some tears once or twice while she was beating the s.h.i.t out of me but for some reason that didn't seem odd or inappropriate. Actually, those tears seemed more like tears of frustration, as if she was crying because she couldn't dispense justice quickly enough or with the proper degree of intensity. So I suppose it's really not terribly surprising that the night my mother learned of the Grand Deception her response was fueled by nothing other than measured rage.

Not too long after Aunt Rosie outed me and decided to be the one to inform Mrs. Goodman of her deceased husband's infidelity, she was immediately catapulted to #1 on Mother's All-Time Most Hated List which was nothing to laugh at because that s.h.i.t was a f.u.c.king scroll. But there were other horrible consequences of the disclosure that took the family dysfunction to staggering new heights. Of course, the details of my father's infidelity obviously sealed my fate as I was immediately branded a co-conspirator, which gave Mother carte blanche to build a future around kicking my a.s.s. But if you'd asked me back then I might have told you that the most devastating result of my father's marital transgression wasn't the abuse but rather, being separated from my aunt and cousins which began not long after Rosie made my mother aware of it.

After Aunt Rosie a.s.sumed her position at the very top of the most hated heap her family was soon banished from the Goodman branch of the Comunale tree, which would continue until I was well into my college years and too old to be affected by it anymore-one way or the other. And though there was some other forgettable but immediate reason that would officially initiate the estrangement between the families, I'm certain the underlying cause was that my mother simply couldn't get over the fact that the sister she disliked and resented since childhood was the one to inform her of what was probably the most humiliating episode of her life. But the sudden and needless disappearance of my cousins and Aunt from my life, combined with the sudden and permanent disappearance of my father along with the beatings my mother began administering-heightened a sense of desperation and desolation that would define my childhood until I was around 13 and too big and bottled-up with resentment to dare hit anymore. But prior to that I cannot begin to find the words to describe the staggering sense of abandonment, isolation and fear that overwhelmed me after being separated from not only my father, but now also my Aunt and cousins. And, it was magnified by the fact that the kids still attended the same, small, elementary school and we were constantly around each other-while this heavy, restrictive and oppressive cloud hung over everyone. Upon chance encounters I was told by Mother "to be polite and keep walking," though sometimes Jimmy and I would chat in the schoolyard at lunchtime, but not without constantly craning my neck to ensure she wasn't spying on me from behind the bushes. But generally speaking, there would be no interaction beyond an exchange of pa.s.sing pleasantries. Certainly, the days of shared birthday parties, family dinners at Grandma's house and trips to Lake George were now a thing of the past, and within a year my Aunt and her family would move upstate. In no time at all I was stranded alone on a horrible desert-island torture chamber in Queens, with no one to confide in besides my two-year-old sister. And of course, impulsive but unforgiving and long term or even permanent estrangements were hardly limited to the sister my mother despised, but other family members including the brother she professed to love. In fact, I can remember more than a few occasions when some poorly thought-out comments resulted in my Uncle John and his family being banished from my life for at least a year or so, one of which continued until not too long before he became ill.

On what would be my final hour living in Central Park, camouflaged behind a thick patch of bushes in one of the park's more rustic areas, my little lair was discovered just as a summer thunderstorm came bearing down upon the city.

"Hey bro, I really hate to do this to you right now and I SWEAR it isn't my idea," said a junky as he peered into my shelter of shrubs and prepared to pay his debt to society by evicting me from my home.

"Say no more," I told him as I crawled out from under the house of bushes and realized things had finally come full circle.

"I have a list of shelters in Manhattan if you want."

"No thanks, I'm gonna stay at the shelter in Stamford," I said as I squinted up at him through the falling rain.

"Really? In Stamford?"

"YeahBut it's a kill-shelter so watch out!"

"Huh?"

"Nevermind," I told him just as the rain began to come down in buckets.

"Hey, why don't you take these with you," he suddenly blurted out as he handed me a black raincoat and an olive-colored Stetson hat. "Somebody left'em over there by the rocks and I was gonna try and sell'em, but they're kinda nice...don't you think?"