{"id":156926,"date":"2022-02-10T15:00:00","date_gmt":"2022-02-10T20:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=156926"},"modified":"2022-02-10T15:27:44","modified_gmt":"2022-02-10T20:27:44","slug":"narcotics","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2022\/02\/10\/narcotics\/","title":{"rendered":"Narcotics"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Gary Indiana, Cookie as my ex-boyfriend<\/em>, New York, 1980.<\/p><\/div>\n

I was at a sedate little cocktail party in SoHo, one of those uneventful parties I wound up at once a week. It was a typical SoHo art shindig: there was a full bar, sliced raw veggies and clam dip, bread sticks, mini-wieners and pea-size meatballs floating around in red sauce in a hot stainless-steel pan. The usual bunch of scrubbed, aspiring, New York art climbers were there mingling and tittering and chit-chatting discreetly, the women in sensible low heels and expensive stockings with no runs, and the men in silk ties, designer sports jackets, and clean jeans.<\/p>\n

A few of the men with goofy-looking bloodshot eyes were passing around marijuana; the ladies were giggling and tossing their sleek pageboy hairdos around, acting like they\u2019d never seen marijuana before. These women were young, fresh out of college, but they were always trying to make themselves look old for some reason. I never understood that. They wore gray baggy dresses and a few pieces of tiny, tasteful, conservative jewelry.<\/p>\n

There was a man standing near me at the butlered bar, flirting with one of those bland-looking, corn-fed debs in gray. They were smoking a joint. The girl\u2014this perky, peppy, preppie\u2014started to cough, and he laughed and attempted to cuddle her for her cuteness. He turned to me only long enough to hand me the joint.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere,\u201d he said, \u201cyou look like the type that could handle this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo thanks,\u201d I said, \u201cI don\u2019t use drugs \u2026 only narcotics.\u201d<\/p>\n

That was the truth. I\u2019d stopped using marijuana. It made me paranoid.<\/p>\n

The person I\u2019d come with, Alvain Arles, the art critic and historian, came over to me.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is a real bore. A snore fest. Let\u2019s get out of here,\u201d he said. Alvain was many things, but never boring. He had a hard time tolerating people who were. I hurled back my martini and we slipped out the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou think UFO or SHELL SHOCK will be out yet over on Fourth Street?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think so. But ROADRUNNER or SEVEN UP or NAUSEA ought to be out on Seventh Street,\u201d I said, as we tried to hail a cab.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow about T.N.T. or DOLT BOLT?\u201d he said in the cab, counting his money, \u201cthey\u2019re a little stronger.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s just head straight for 10th Street for POISON or BLACK DEATH,\u201d I said, \u201cthey\u2019re always open. They have TOXIC and RADIOACTIVE there too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo where\u2019ll it be?\u201d the cab driver asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust head for the east side,\u201d Alvain said. \u201cHow about IMPALE or PEG-LEG? VIRGIN DEVIL, X- RATED? Or PARALYZE or WALLOP or LOT O\u2019ROT?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNever had any of those except WALLOP. I don\u2019t even know if WALLOP still exists. You have to go for the newest stuff \u2026 after a week or two the quality always plummets. How about SWEET SIXTEEN or TRUE BLUE? Wait, wait! Why not TOILET?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey!! Okay!! Yeah!! TOILET\u2019s out now, so\u2019s TORTURE!\u201d He got excited. \u201cDriver, take us to East Third Street and Avenue B,\u201d he said, and settled back, happy. \u201cTOILET and TORTURE. Either one is great.\u201d<\/p>\n

We were talking about heroin. These were the names rubber-stamped on the little glassine packages of ten-dollar amounts sold on the Lower East Side streets. Junkies, weekend users, and other heroin aficionados memorized all the names by heart; they knew where to get each one and exactly what time the \u201cstore\u201d opened.<\/p>\n

I wondered what this cab driver thought. Maybe he thought we were going over the names of our favorite exploitation films or dirty books, or discussing S&M bars.<\/p>\n

We got to the corner of Third and B, and Alvain hopped out. \u201cYou hold the cab,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019ll take one second.\u201d<\/p>\n

The cab driver waited for four seconds and then he turned to me, \u201cHey, I don\u2019t wanna sit here. I\u2019m losing fares,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry. We\u2019ll make it worth your while,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Pay up, I gotta go.\u201d<\/p>\n

I gave him the money and got out. That was a drag. Ordinarily, it was no calamity being without a cab, but I was looking a little too spiffy in my cocktail regalia for that neighborhood at that hour in that time of the decade. I was also holding the rest of Alvain\u2019s money, and junkies can smell money, especially if they\u2019re thieves or dope sick. I looked around for Alvain and saw him down the block talking to a Puerto Rican guy in red-and-white running clothes, probably flirting, because the guy was cute and he was Alvain\u2019s type. I walked up to them and heard the Puerto Rican say, \u201cYeah, TORTURE\u2019s smokin\u2019 righ\u2019 now. I seen \u2019em carron out somebody who jes O.D.ed on it. You give me ya money an\u2019 I\u2019ll git it fa ya.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that\u2019d be the last I\u2019d see of you<\/i>,\u201d Alvain laughed. \u201cNo, I know where to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

The guy kept trying to think of some way to get some money from us, and he walked beside us talking nonstop. I could tell that Alvain was falling in love.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, I\u2019m gonna give ya one of my bags,\u201d Alvain said, and gently tweaked the Puerto Rican\u2019s beardless chin.<\/p>\n

We walked over to the burned-out building where people were lining up in the dark hallway, clutching their money, waiting to buy. Everyone was very quiet. The first guy in line put three ten-dollar bills through a slot in a door in the back of the hall and out of the slot came three glassine bags of TORTURE.<\/p>\n

A big black guy standing at the hall entrance was keeping everything moving. He worked there. \u201cHurry up, move along, have your money ready, step up,\u201d he was saying.<\/p>\n

A punk rocker in front of me was talking to a skinny Italian American guy, \u201cYeah, somebody jes O.D.ed on this shit minutes ago. Must be the best shit on the street right now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTold ya,\u201d the Puerto Rican reminded us.<\/p>\n

\u201cGreat!\u201d another person in line said, \u201cI\u2019m lucky I came out now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, my ol man was sa high on TORTURE yestada, he was throwin\u2019 up all ova da place,\u201d said a skinny birdy girl in a blue leather jacket. \u201cWas goooood sheeet, man!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShhh!\u201d said the big guy at the entrance.<\/p>\n

Mixed in with the losers and hardcore users were a few prosperous types waiting in line: a Wall Street man, a blonde-haired model I\u2019d seen in last month\u2019s Vogue<\/i>, a famous post-minimalist sculptor, a famous filmmaker, and a guy I\u2019d seen once on some daytime soap opera, Another World<\/i>, or The Edge of Day<\/i>, or City Hospital<\/i>. I can never remember the names of those shows.<\/p>\n

When Alvain and I got to the dope door, Alvain slipped his money through the slot and out came six little white rectangular packages, taped with clear tape and stamped with the word TORTURE. With the goods, we bustled out the building and walked fast off the block. Alvain gave one to the Puerto Rican, and the Puerto Rican disappeared. Alvain was temporarily heartbroken.<\/p>\n

He got over it immediately when we saw a cop car cruising down the avenue. Instant paranoia. If they decided to stop us, we would go directly to jail for the night, even if we\u2019d had just one measly bag between us.<\/p>\n

I heard the lookouts, young kids who worked for the dope houses from the rooftops, start yelling, \u201cBajando! Bajando!\u201d That was the Spanish alert. It meant the cops were coming. We saw people walking very fast out of the building we\u2019d just come from. Another watcher from the corner yelled, \u201cDon\u2019t run! Calm down! Don\u2019t run!\u201d People on the street who were heading toward the building just turned in their tracks and walked fast the other way. In less than two minutes the street was empty. The whole thing was really organized. By the time the cop car appeared around the corner and cruised slowly in front of the building, everything was peaceful.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d seen a funny scene one day at a dope spot on Rivington Street. People were lined up against a waist-high wall, waiting to score. Suddenly the alert went out, a cop car was coming, so the seller and all the people in line dropped on all fours and were hidden by the wall. After the car went by, it was business as usual, everybody just stood up.<\/p>\n

The sellers were always trying to be one step ahead of the cops. A few dope houses were doing the routine where the sellers would lower a basket from the window on a rope, the customer would put in his money, and the basket would be raised. Down would come the packages of dope. When the cops came, the basket would be raised quickly and the crowd would disperse. The dope scene had no room for sloppy salesmanship. There were many workers.<\/p>\n

Before the cop car got to us, we found a cab right on the next block. That was luck. We drove past Ninth and B and there was a guy with a knife standing over a person who\u2019d been in line at the building we\u2019d just come from. The guy on the ground wasn\u2019t hurt, he was reaching into his pants pockets, pulling out his heroin, and handing it over. As we whizzed past I heard him cursing, \u201cShit. Dammit, now I\u2019m gonna be sick. Common, man, leave me jes one bag. Fuck!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPoor kid.\u201d Alvain looked back at the scene.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe ain\u2019t gonna hurt \u2019im,\u201d the cab driver said. \u201cHe\u2019ll pralee leave him one bag too.\u201d Anyone on the streets there at that hour knew what was happening.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood thing we found you when we did,\u201d Alvain told the cabbie.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. I saw you two in line,\u201d he laughed. \u201cWhere to?\u201d<\/p>\n

Friends of mine who went to buy dope in that neighborhood would sometimes have their watches, earrings, rings, and all their drugs and money taken. An artist friend had gone there right from an opening and he\u2019d been all dressed up in his leather jacket, his cowboy boots, his best wool tweed pants. The person who ripped him off at knife-point wasn\u2019t satisfied with just the dope and his money. The thief also took the jacket, boots, sweater, tweed pants, and even my friend\u2019s boxer shorts. Stark naked, he started running home, freezing. On his way he searched the garbage cans for something to wear and finally found a dirty pink sweater, so he put his legs in the sleeves and ran, hoping he didn\u2019t see anyone he knew. At least his wang was covered.<\/p>\n

I laughed uproariously when he told me this story. In retrospect he too admitted it was very funny, but at the time he\u2019d been mortified.<\/p>\n

Things like this were always happening there. Friends would occasionally get arrested and wind up in jail for the night, or they\u2019d lose their rent money. I\u2019d never known anyone to get stabbed, but I\u2019d never known anyone stupid enough to refuse to give up their stuff to a thief with a knife. Some people, new to street copping, would give their money to guys they thought were dope-house runners. Of course these \u201crunners\u201d wouldn\u2019t ever return. If you happened to find a real runner, he would come back with the dope, but he\u2019d take one or two bags for the run. So it was expensive and sometimes dangerous over there. For that reason, a couple of friends started selling heroin from their homes.<\/p>\n

Barbara did. She\u2019d written a mammoth novel that weighed something like ten pounds. She lived with her paramour, Jane, who was a rock and roll musician. They were good friends of mine before they started selling dope, and while they were selling it I saw them every day. Way more pleasant than the street, there was always a fire burning in the fireplace, lots of books on the shelves and flowers in vases. The cats were curled up on the chairs, there was the smell of fresh coffee. It was a home.<\/p>\n

A few close friends would visit Barbara and buy some heroin. She made some money, everyone was happy. A habit takes months, sometimes years of dabbling with the stuff before it creeps up on you. I think a lot of these people were shocked to find themselves dependent on heroin even though they weren\u2019t shooting it but snorting. Some people are dumb enough to believe you can\u2019t get a habit if you aren\u2019t using a syringe. At a certain point, a lot of the people I knew were using heroin, and some of them had habits, but no one took it too seriously. Everyone would always joke about it and everything was playful \u2026 but \u2026 being dope sick wasn\u2019t pleasant, or fun, or romantic. Baudelaire, Poe, Coleridge, and all those writers who flirted with opiates didn\u2019t write much about the sick part.<\/p>\n

A heroin habit isn\u2019t a problem for the user until there\u2019s no money. I remember one New Year\u2019s Eve party, held at this chic French restaurant, where all the guests were high on heroin. Everyone\u2019s pupils were pinpoints; everyone was in a vegetable state, and acting cool like cucumbers. All eyes were dry at the stroke of midnight, and there wasn\u2019t a whole lot of laughter; there wasn\u2019t much outward display of emotion, like there was at drinkers\u2019 parties, but in their black little junky hearts everyone was feeling warm and loving, they just couldn\u2019t show it.<\/p>\n

Everyone was standing up and mingling and talking; if they\u2019d sat down they probably would have nodded out. They were all really good friends, people who\u2019d gotten to know each other from the Mudd Club days before, and it was great to see everybody, even through the dopey haze of dope. These heroin users, like drinkers everywhere, had used the New Year\u2019s Eve excuse to get higher for this night, and everyone was as stoned as they could be. At one point, after midnight, I turned to a filmmaker friend of mine.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook around,\u201d I said, \u201cDo you realize that every single person here is high on heroin? It looks like a Zombie Jamboree.\u201d<\/p>\n

He scanned the group, \u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d he said, and laughed. I told everyone, and everyone laughed about it. We all had a good time that night, even though a lot of people were dozing off on their feet, buoyed up by the crush of friends around them. Yeah, everyone had fun, even the people who missed most of it because they were in the bathroom throwing up, or snorting more heroin.<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t like those typical SoHo art parties, like the one where they had passed marijuana around, where the guests had never known scary 4 A.M.<\/small> walks in the heroin neighborhood, where none of them ever was dope sick, or ever ran home wearing a dirty sweater on their butt, or ever went without food for three days because there wasn\u2019t enough money for food and dope too. Those people, the dope innocent, who never found themselves suddenly in a lowdown compromising situation of need, seemed like adolescents to a junky. The non-users were a whole different set of people. They might have been smarter for never getting involved in dope, but it\u2019s a fact that when junkies become ex-junkies, they\u2019re somewhat the wiser, having seen hell.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Cookie Mueller, n\u00e9e Dorothy Karen Mueller, played leading roles in John Waters\u2019s <\/i>Pink Flamingos, <\/i>Female Trouble, <\/i>Desperate Living, and <\/i>Multiple Maniacs. She wrote for the <\/i>East Village Eye and <\/i>Details Magazine, performed in a series of plays by Gary Indiana, and wrote numerous stories that would only be published posthumously. She died in New York City of AIDS<\/small>-related complications at age forty.<\/i><\/p>\n

A version of this previously unpublished piece will appear in <\/i>Walking Through Clear Water in a Pool Painted Black, New Edition: Collected Stories<\/a>, which will be published in April by Semiotext(e).<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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