Preview to Out of the Ghetto
The last time I found myself locked behind bars was in the summer of 1976 while trying to score a few bags of heroin on 9th Street between Avenues C & D, in Alphabet City. There was a "panic" in the streets of New York. Heroin was a precious commodity. On a muggy Sunday afternoon, I stood in line for well over an hour, waiting for my dealer to show up. In line with me were men and women in business attire, two Hasidic Jews dressed in their full orthodox regalia, and several other street punks just like me looking for a fix.
Suddenly, all the locals disappeared into the abandoned buildings on both sides of the block. As I stood there trying to get a grasp of the situation, six men in jackets and ties came hauling ass down the middle of 9th Street. I should have realized right away this was a bust, but when you are dope sick, you are focused on one thing and one thing only, "getting well" again.
The first question the undercover agent who placed me under arrest asked, "Are you stupid? Didn't you see when we rolled up, everyone on the block ran, except for you idiots?" My best apologies had no positive effect on the officer. I was cuffed and taken to Central Booking, eventually ending up in the Tombs in lower Manhattan for the rest of the evening. Fortunately, the courts ruled this kind of "street sweeping" was unconstitutional, and I left the court the next day a free man.
The epitome of my drug-induced insanity came on a day when I purchased a gram of cocaine from a local dealer. He warned me to be careful as this cocaine was "as close to pure as you can get." But dealers all say the same bull; that their dope is the best out there. After all, like in any business, they want you to purchase their product and not their competitors.
I raced home, locked myself in the bathroom, put half the cocaine into the cooker (usually a bent spoon or bottle cap), and let it fly. Within seconds, I knew whatever amount I just injected; was way too much. As I was losing consciousness, I prayed that God would not let me die on this day, in this manner, on my bathroom floor. My poor mother would be the one to find me dead, with a spike in my arm.
As I began to regain consciousness, my body was convulsing, my clothes drenched in sweat. There was blood and vomit splattered everywhere. The rig (needle and syringe) was now lying in the bathtub, unbloodied, and blameless as if it did not play any role whatsoever in my near-death experience.
When I gained enough strength, I sat on the toilet and thanked God I was still alive. However, while cleaning up the mess, I remembered I still had half of the cocaine left in my pocket. The usual "addict's debate" ensued. One side insisting I shoot the rest of the cocaine asap, while the other reminded me if I did not wait at least a couple of hours, I would not experience the same intense "rush" I had earlier. Would anyone care to venture a guess on what happens next?
It took less than ten minutes to have the rest of the cocaine flowing through my veins. This level of insanity is almost impossible for anyone who is not addicted to understand. Family and friends will wonder why their loved ones cannot simply muster up enough willpower to stop using. What non-addicts don’t realize is trying to prevent addiction by willpower alone is like trying to stop the flow of diarrhea in mid-stream; it’s not going to happen!