Getting Your First Crack Pipe Will Change Your Life — And NOT For The Better

I couldn’t combat the paranoia. I couldn’t fight the fear of having a heart attack, dying, or going to jail. It was at this point I knew I had to get out of here. During my stay in the shithole hotel I called home, the guy below me died from heart attack at 44 and I knew I wasn’t too far off. The block became so fucking hot, the DEA, cops and undercovers passed the corner five times an hour. I figured they had to wonder who the one white boy was out here and if they saw me leaving the ‘Row, I thought for sure they were gonna fuck with me.

I started wearing all black to fit in — that’s hood camo — and the boys got a real kick out of this. I’d change the streets I took to the ‘Row, taking different routes so I didn’t see the same cops, the same bouncers, the same undercovers, and the same junkies. A pair of undercover cops jumped me on my last night in town. They saw me and Harry talking close — he had handed me my change from a run he made for me, but he hadn’t handed me my rock…yet. The UCs put me against the wall on the corner of 5th and Los Angeles, searched me and asked me questions like, “Have you ever been arrested for possession?” For possession? “Nope, never,” I said. As they continued to bother me, I was hoping Harry didn’t toss or swallow the rock. It was the only thing going through my mind while the cop grabbed my balls. Always a nice feeling getting searched when you ain’t got shit. It’s kind of like a free rub and tug. When the cops left, I got a round of applause from the peeps on the corner and we talked about the cops’ questions. It was similar to the scene in Goodfellas when a young Henry Hill (Ray Liotta) gets pinched for the first time and after court Jimmy Conway (Bobby D) tells him he learned the Two Greatest Rules in Life: 1. Never Rat on your friends and 2. Always keep your mouth shut.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5Mfs44MhYM&w=560&h=315]

My homeboy didn’t toss or swallow the rock, so when the cops were out of sight, we roasted it fast.

I didn’t want to die in this disgusting hotel room. I didn’t want to be like another junky that LA had claimed a million times before. I didn’t want to die alone. I didn’t want to die — period. I was so scared I might die that I would write notes to friends and family in the margins of my notebooks. They were by no means suicide letters — they were more like, “Oops, I smoked too many crack rocks! My heart exploded and I’m very sorry I died,but I do love you,” notes. Sad to say, but the people I was closest with in DTLA, laughed the most with, and shared the most with were some of the homies on the ‘Row. (Besides you, Mimi.)

I had been thinking about leaving for a while when a friend from high school died. I’ve lost a lot of friends to drugs, but this one struck a cord. It wasn’t because I realized drugs are bad, or because I was sad, but because he died alone. And that was a scary thought to me. I don’t want to get into too many details about his death, but people on Facebook had to get in touch with his family in different states. People were worried about his things being stolen. Someone even used his phone to post as him on FB. There’s no fuckinh chance my mother or sister or friends are gonna see some junky posting stupid shit as me after my death. I refuse to let junkies or sleazy hotel workers go through my shit if I go early. I want my boys calling my family or my family calling my boys. I want my boys going through my shit and sending it to my family. Better yet, I want to clean up my act and have a better life. I guess priorities change as you get older and If I do happen to die early, being back in NY, at least I know I won’t die alone.