TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 192

[Tobie Shapiro]

March 29, 20000000000000007


Dear Chief Assistants to the Assistant Chiefs,

	I have culled your replies about the passport issue and the 
water, and have learned that Feyna will need an official picture I.D. 
plus a birth certificate to get in and out of Mexico on foot.  It 
won't be until January of 2008 that she would need a Passport or a 
new tourist Pass that they are coming out with.  She's got the birth 
certificate and a California Drivers' License, so she ought to be 
good coming and going.  About the water, I have found no source 
except Feyna's friend, Alex, that says the water is fine to drink. 
All the sites on the internet, the Question/Answer site on Yahoo, and 
studious papers about the sewage treatment mess in Tijuana indicate 
that you are not to drink the tap water.  Some of the better hotels 
have in-house filtering systems that make the tap water potable, but 
it's still best to drink only bottled water or agua purificado.  I 
have told Feyna that I have no interest in proving Alex wrong.  My 
only interest is in her well being.  But she's going to do what she's 
going to do, and we'll just have to see if she gets sick or not.  It 
won't kill her, but it will make her feel like dying if she reacts to 
the water the way I did (and I was being careful, very careful).

	Now the main focus is on getting ready for Passover (Pesach). 
We have two seders: one small one on the first night, and one large 
one (17 people) on the second night.  We have to make gefillte fish 
with jelled fish juice, matzo ball soup, charoshes, red beet 
horseradish from scratch, salt water eggs, scallions for dipping, 
tsimmes (carrots, yams, onions, raisins, prunes, knedlach (dumplings 
made of matzo ball batter) and a meat bone), tongue and brisket, 
asparagus with dip.  My sister is bringing dessert.  We'll make the 
coffee and tea.  And there you have it.  No big deal.  We'll be 
working for the rest of the week, and into the first two days of next 
week.  I've cancelled all my appointments, even the one with my 
shrink.  This is serious stuff.




 
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The Night Shift

	When, in the middle of the night, I ran out of cocaine, and I 
was not yet ready to drug myself to sleep, I'd go over my options. 
My dealer was the slimy John Egan, the guy who had built up a 
tolerance and needed to freebase in order to reach his desired high. 
He was a psychiatric nurse at Herrick Hospital's lock-up ward.  Here 
was where all the crazies wound up, the people who were a danger to 
themselves or others, who were taken against their will and forced to 
walk, be dragged, or wheeled into the fourth floor ward.  There, they 
were put on the proper medications to render them no danger to 
anyone, not even of consequence to anyone.  They stood around, or lay 
in their beds, stared out the barred windows, roamed the limited 
hallways, talking to themselves, or to imaginary playmates, demons or 
apparitions.  And John Egan was there to administer their meds, to 
ease them into their rooms, to round them up and shuffle them off to 
impotent land.

	He worked the night shift, from 11:00, p.m. to 7:00, a.m. 
That is where I would find him to tell him that I'd unfortunately run 
out of peppy powder and needed to purchase another gram or two.  He 
was armed with a stock supply, even as he protected the inmates from 
self medicating.  He had his secret stash, ready for sale, for 
outsiders who needed a little nudge toward nirvana.  By the time I 
got around to calling John Egan, it had nothing to do with nirvana to 
me.  It had more to do with fending off utter panic, or staving off 
my otherwise imminent demise.  I was out.  I'd run out, and I had to 
have more.  I ignored focussing on whether this was a problem or not. 
I lived in the moment.  The moment said I had to have more.  I was 
coming down and I had to get up again.  Up again even as my hands 
trembled and my heart pounded in my chest.  I would not recognize 
this as an addiction.

	I'd call the ward and ask for John Egan.  They'd fetch him 
unless he was siphoning off somebody's brain juice or something.  I'd 
wait on the line, nervously tapping my fingers on a counter, or 
rocking, or nodding my head rhythmically.  I had to keep moving. 
He'd get on the line and we'd talk in code.

	"I'm out of powdered milk and I need some for tonight."

	"You're in luck.  I just went by the store and picked some 
up.  I have three boxes of it.  How many do you need?"

	"Two would be great.  Can I come pick it up?"

	"When you come by, just go to the admitting desk and have 
them call up to me.  I'll bring it down."

	"Thanks.  I'll be there in twenty minutes.  How much do I owe you?"

	"Two forty for two."

	It was more than transparent, but less than indictable.

	I'd jump in my car, putt on down to the back side of Herrick 
Hospital, park anywhere I could, skip on over to the emergency 
entrance, walk through the automatic sliding doors, go up to the 
night watchman on duty and have him ring up to the ward.

	"There's a Miss Shapiro here for you."  Then he'd address me, 
my innocent self, milling about in the admitting area of a mental 
hospital at midnight, waiting for my dealer to come  to trade powder 
for cash.  "He says he'll be right down."

	I'd stand there, shifting my weight, counting the seconds. 
Then he'd walk out of the elevator and hand me a cassette case.

	"Here's the music you wanted."

	"Thanks for copying it for me.  Here, this ought to cover 
it."  I'd hand him an envelope with two hundred forty bucks in it. 
We'd part.  He'd go upstairs to the lunacy, and I'd trot back to the 
car to my own.  As soon as I'd get into the car, I'd curl over a 
little mirror, prepare a couple of lines, and snort them up.  It 
would take effect while I was driving home.  It was a great relief.

	One time, about two thirty in the morning, I snorted my last 
few crumbs of coke and panicked.  I couldn't make it 'til morning 
without more.  I called John.  He didn't have any, but he said he'd 
call his dealer.

	"But it's two thirty!"

	"No problem.  He's used to this."

	In twenty minutes, he called me back.  We'd have to drive 
into Alameda, through the underwater Webster Street tube, and into 
the 1950s where the island of Alameda was  still stuck, in the 1980s. 
I drove over to John's house, wearing pajamas and slippers.  No time 
to change.

	"I think I know how to get there," he said, as I got on the 
freeway.  "Just go through the tube.  I'll remember."

	I sped into the black air, my blood sparkling, jingling on 
the residue of the last high.  I steered where he wanted me to steer, 
and aimed the car where he told me to aim it.  And we were lost, lost 
on the island of Alameda in the middle of the 1950s, doing 1980s 
business, lost on the way to the dealer's dealer's house.  I pulled 
over.  I got out a map and turned on the light.

	"What's the name of the street?"

	"I'm not sure.  I just know how to get there.  Better turn 
around and get back to the main drag.  I'll know it from there."

	I turned the car around, noisy diesel engine sputtering and 
rattling in the empty noiseless night.  He directed me forward.

	"Take a right here.  No, here."

	"Which one?"

	"This one.  Yes, this is right.  There was that church.  Keep 
going straight."

	I went straight.  I turned.  I stopped.  I backed up.  We 
looked at the street signs.

	"Better go back to the main drag again."

	As I headed back, John took out his freebase pipe and lit up. 
Here we were on the dead streets of Alameda, making my diesel noise, 
with crazed looks in our eyes, our blood rushing hot and hard through 
our veins, our hearts bursting, our noses itching.  And I had an 
addict sitting in the passenger seat freebasing cocaine.  A police 
car came from the other direction, passed us.  I looked in my rear 
view mirror waiting for him to screech on his breaks, turn around and 
tail me with his lights on and his sirens screaming.  But he didn't.

	After forty five minutes, we finally pulled up to the 
dealer's dealer's house, a nice little victorian on a tree lined 
street.  John got out of the car.

	"It's three thirty, John.  Is this guy going to be up?"

	"He's always up."

	I padded after him.  A stick figure of a man came to the 
door.  He was fumbling in his pockets for something.  He brought out 
a baggy with little bindles in it.

	"Don't you ever do this to me again, John," the man glowered.

	Money was exchanged for goods.

	"Stay away from this madman," the guy told me.  "He's on the 
other side of the road."

	I puzzled over the vernacular, and accepted the merchandise 
into the palm of my hand.  "Sorry to get you up," I said.

	"Sorry doesn't do it.  But I wasn't asleep."

	We walked back to the car, got in, put on our seat belts.  I 
drove off.  All the way back, we were silent.  We met the cop car 
coming the other direction.  He waved.



 
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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net