CHASING THE BAG

by
Dan Tracy

Somewhere in the early 1960s I mainlined my first shot of heroin. Peer pressure and the seemingly cool life junkies portrayed urged me on. I wanted to be a hip cat just like them. I wanted to be among the whores and thieves and the euphoria. I craved to be just like the jive hipsters whose saxophones cried out for mercy - Coltrane and Parker and Rollins. I wanted to understand the passion for life as well as death; Billie Holiday so eloquently shed tears for. I needed to belong, somewhere, anywhere. From 1960 to 1973 heroin ruled my world, I had arrived. I became one of them. I belonged. The following events chronicle those years and the characters I met along the way. The order in which these events occurred are unclear, chasing the bag for 13 years erodes memory.

#

Martin Luther King Drive - a street that ran through the centre of Yellow Mill Village - was the Mecca for dealers and dope fiends; caps, bags and spoons of doojie could be had anytime of the day or night. Yellow Mill was also home for a few Black Panthers. Wherever you found Huey P. Newton’s soldiers, you’d also find Hoovers FBI lurking about. Copping dope anywhere in Bridgeport, Connecticut was dangerous, but in the Village you had to prepare yourself mentally. The hallways of projects were ideal rip off sites for junk sick vultures. One had to move in and out quickly and cautiously especially if you were a 150 pound white boy in a sea of black faces. I knew most of the faces. They knew me from jail and reform school, but there was always that one, or gang of young boys, waiting to ambush you and take your dope. The young ones were unpredictable; they scared me more than the older guys. At least the older ones would put a gun to your head or a straight razor to your throat, take your dope then leave.

The young ones would take your dope and disembowel you simply because you were ‘whitey’; early teachings of Malcolm X fuelled this attitude. Nixon didn’t help it either since most of the body bags coming back from Vietnam were filled with blacks and latinos, many stamped – PARTS ONLY. I was apolitical, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass who was president or mayor or whatever.

My mission was to simply cop dope, fire up and nod out. Anyway it’s the black young bloods one had to avoid. On one particular day I wasn’t so lucky.

Three of my brothers; Tom, Joe and Mike were strung out. Each of us scored junk money differently; Tom stuffed toilet tissue inside coin slots of vending machines. Hours later he’d squirt water from a plastic squeeze bottle into the coin slots dissolving the toilet tissue, depress the coin return lever and collect the coins from the return slot. Mike boosted shopping bags full of meats, lobster, King Crab and cartons of cigarettes from A&P’s. Joe ripped off the whores not protected by pimps. I boosted watches, rings and necklaces from department stores. By noon the four of us would meet at Skinny M’s, our fence. Skinny had mob ties; he always gave us the going rate of half price for meat and jewellery, 75 cents on the dollar for cigarettes.

Joe F, an old timer I met in North Avenue Correctional Centre, turned me on to Skinny. Pretty much everyone I knew I met in stir.

We did pretty good this particular day, scored over 400 dollars combined. We headed for the Village. We did not save a wakeup shot from yesterday. The stench of junk funk billowed from our junk sick bodies, a sure sign of impending withdrawal. Cold turkey was just around the corner. As we approached the Projects I had Mike, Joe and Tom wait at Layla’s Bodega, four white boys walking through the Projects wasn’t a good idea as this would draw attention and spook Willie, my dealer. They gave me $75 each for a spoon, and with my $75 it tallied up to $300 for four spoons. We saved the other hundred just in case we were jacked up or burnt. Hoover’s turds lay in the shadows so carrying a weapon for protection was out of the question. The courtyard was clear, nobody in sight. I walked inside the hallway at a normal pace and up the stairs to apartment 303, building 19. I gave the usual 3 knocks. The peephole on the door went black. He was checking me out.

Click
Clack
Click

The dead bolts unlatched, Willie peeped out.

“You holdin’?” I asked.

“Whada you want?”

“Four spoons.”

Willies hand reaches through the chained doorway, “300,” he says. I handed him the cash, the door slammed, then popped open in less time than it takes to scratch your ass.

Two seconds later I’m trotting down the hallway stairs two steps at a time then out of the hallway and onto the court yard. Five young bloods surround me. It happened so fast, no more time than it takes a bubble to burst.

As they closed in around me (I didn’t see any weapons) I raised my clenched fists (holding the 4 spoons, 2 in each hand) in a boxers stance, made the meanest, contorted horrific face, jumped as high as I could and screamed at the top of my lungs, “YOU MOTHERFUCKERS, I’LL KILL YOU!”

I watched their faces as I came down on my feet, their wide eyes startled with astonishment. I guess they thought I was deranged or retarded. Self preservation forced me to lunge forward pushing two of them aside. I ran as fast as my feet would go the young bloods not far behind. I looked back to see how far away they were, tripped and sailed through the air. I flew a good 10 feet in the air before landing on my clenched fists and thighs, gravel and dirt scraping into my bloody legs and flesh hanging from my torn fingers.

My brothers saw what was happening through Layla’s window and ran out. The young bloods backed off. I hurt so bad I couldn’t get off the ground but I did save our 4 spoons. As my brothers carried me home I thought of how all the pain will be gone soon. Heroin is your passport to Heaven without dying.

#

Frankie P. was one handsome sum-bitch; tall, lean and wore the latest fashions. Women creamed their panties watching him sashay up to the Merritt Canteen to order a burger or coffee. I’ve watched women’s eyes lick every crevice of his body. All women adored him. Frankie had the looks women swooned over, they’d run up to him offering their phone numbers and wet cunts. Rumour has it Frankie fucked half the women in Bridgeport, the other half was just a matter of time. Frankie was a modern day Casanova, the Don Juan of this century. That was before a tractor trailer rammed his car crushing it, and Frankie, like an accordion leaving him a paraplegic. Women no longer desired Frankie. Frankie didn’t care; he found a new love---heroin.

#

Life is easily lived when you remember less of it. Too much reality, even a smidgeon is way too much. The human mind has its limits. Unfortunately, some of us have gone the limit---and beyond.

Whites Diner on Boston Avenue in Bridgeport looks like a large bus without wheels. I stop there frequently to check out the chicks, both waitresses and customers. I sat at the counter, ordered coffee then ‘BLAM’ a loud blast causes everyone to jump from their seats and rush to the rear of the diner. There was Tommy D. face down on the parking lot, a huge pool of blood around his head. I overheard a cop on his portable radio:

“Looks like a shotgun blast blew away half his head hurling hunks of brain matter and skull splinters around the parking lot. He’s DOA. 10-4.”

Grapevine has it Tommy D. raped a girl whose father was a cop. I’ll miss Tommy for one reason. He had some decent dope, bad bedroom manners but damn good smack.

#

As addiction takes hold of your mind and body you forfeit your membership from the human race. You are no longer ‘like them’, you become the pod from Invasion of the Body Snatchers, a shell of a person with no capacity to think or feel or love. You become the zombie from Night of the Living Dead exchanging flesh-eating for heroin. Living as you once knew it, no longer exists and, unfortunately is never regained. Once the putrification process of addiction begins, you might as well kiss your ass goodbye; your bed has been made.

Vinny D. was a mason; he built very artistic stone retaining walls. He’s one of the few dope fiends I knew who worked for his daily fix. Vinny worked hard and used heroin just as hard. I tried lifting stones for him to make a few bucks but gave up; it’s much easier to steal. Once Vinny copped a couple of dime bags with me. We fired up at my crib. Vinny fell out. It was some really good shit, stronger than we had anticipated. I pinched, slapped and punched him to no avail. I threw him in my tub under a cold shower. He went into the death rattle, foamed at the mouth, snot bubbled from his nose then he slumped limply. He was dead. I had to get him out of my crib. I called my brother Mike explaining what had happened and we decided to dump him in Saint Michaels Cemetery. Mike and I rolled Vinny up in a carpet and tossed him on the rear seat of Mike’s car then placed his body beside a tombstone. The next day there’s a knock at my door. It was Vinny.

“You guys goin’ out to score?” he asked.

He never mentioned the cemetery.

We never asked.

#

I met Sue S. through a friend. Sue’s father was a pharmacist; her mother was a pill head. The mother (I forgot her name) was strung out on barbiturates, Seconals, Nembutals, and Tuinals, which her husband brought home daily. The mother was in a living vegetative state, constantly drooling, and slurring her words as she tried to talk. Rarely she’d become lucid; when she did, she’d say hello and give me a few pills.

Sue was my lover for about a year- only I don’t think she knew it since she, too, was always zonked out. Sometimes, when I was straight, I‘d lay beside her fingering her clit for hours hoping to get some. She didn’t respond at all. Many years passed since then. I never saw her again. Maybe I rubbed that clit to hard.

#

Bridgeport Hospital parking garage was easy pickins for dope fiends. Doctors making quick trips to the hospital left their bags in their cars. This was 1963; video security cameras were non-existent. I’d walk from car to car looking for bags.

Once found, I’d crack open the small vent window with the thump of a large screwdriver, reach in and unlock the car door, slip the doctors bag inside a shopping bag and nonchalantly stroll away. Doctors usually carried a vial or two of Demerol. I guess doctors aren’t very smart; I hit the same ones repeatedly. Dr. Lipton was the dumbest. I got him 3 times in one month.

#

Dope fiends by necessity are ingenious in the ways they score money and drugs. Richy B. had a simple yet creative technique. Private physicians set up practice in downtown Bridgeport office buildings. In many of these buildings lobby doors were unlocked for early morning janitorial duties. All of the doctors offices were locked however, each office door had a letter drop with a swinging metal flap. Richy would lift the flap, peek in making sure no one was inside. He’d slip his junk thin hand and forearm inside the letter drop, reach up and to the side and unlock the door. I’d search the left side of the office while Richy sifted through the right side. We’d meet in the middle pocketing any drugs we found. All doctors had a little something lying around especially vials of Demerol and tabs of Dilaudid. Richy kept the Dilaudid, I pocketed the Demerol. Just a matter of preference, I was the lazy one, Demerol was used as is…straight from the bottle no heating, no preparation…suck it out and zap it in, no waste, no fuss.

#

In the street I found a phony 10 dollar bill printed with a church advertisement on it. If you folded it a certain way it looked real. I figured I could burn a dealer with it. I called Rich B. to pick me up in his car. The plan was to pull up to a lesser known dealer on the corner, hand him the phony 10, grab the dime bag and haul ass. We got away clean. As we cooked up the smack it turned to a clump of shit. “HE BURNT US, TOO!” Son of a bitch…you can’t trust a damn soul in this game.

#

Thirteen years of drug addiction, living in the underbelly of society, left me with an intense appreciation for life. The fact that I sunk as low as I did and returned, proves Man’s ability to adapt. The more excruciating the pain one suffers, the greater is his ability to experience joy. Life really is grand.

© Dan Tracy
Reproduced with permission