Chapter 17: Cursing a Killer

The three-day coke binges got worse. Although I probably would have died or killed someone else if I’d had more access to PCP.

I smoked it a few times, and, holy shit, did it fuck me up.

I’d even given some to a couple friends who’d trip on acid, at school, regularly, and it had them so wrecked they could barely handle it.

I had more powerful hallucinations on PCP than I did on acid. On acid, I mostly knew what I was seeing, the colors, the images, I knew it was a trip, but on PCP I believed the things I was seeing were real.

Like once I was taking a taxi home from a friend’s house, late at night, after smoking PCP, and the lady cabdriver appeared to me to have a tall spiky purple mohawk. The whole ride I stared at the mohawk, thinking how fucking weird it was to see a lady cabdriver with a mohawk, why did she have it, was she in a punk rock band or what?

Then I started thinking this lady might be a serial killer. That she was taking me to die somewhere. That she had murder tools, a chainsaw in her trunk. I really believed it. I was thinking I might end up hacked to death, pieces of my body in a dumpster. So then I started plotting on strangling her from behind, a preemptive strike, to prevent her from attacking me and chopping me to death with her chainsaw.

But then we arrived at my house and she turned on the light in the cab and I saw that she didn’t have a mohawk. In fact, she looked normal as could be, and I realized I wouldn’t have to strangle her. But if she really did have that mohawk, I don’t know what I’d have done...

People have done far worse on PCP, such as winding up like Rodney King, fucked up by cops, or like this Charles Manson looking guy I saw when I was a kid, a couple blocks from my house, who was fighting with the police. The Charles Manson guy in his teal pajamas, screaming and growling like an animal, his dick rock hard as the cops struggled to restrain him.

(It was around the same time, in California, where we’d vacationed to escape the hurricane season and muggy Miami summer, and when I’d answer the phone and receive these obscene, bizarre phone calls, from a guy mumbling, moaning and cursing. The first few times I hung up, but then I started cursing back at him before hanging up, which only made him angrier. I’d found out later that the Nightstalker and Golden State Killer were active at this time and making such phone calls. Was it one of them? I’d like to think I cursed out one of those shitbirds... )

((It would be my second experience cursing out or making an obscene gesture at someone famous. As a teen, before I got into the yay-yo, I’d been walking down the street with my friend, another teen, and we were both smoking cigarettes. Who did we see at the local car dealership nearby? None other than Al Gore. We looked at him, pointed and laughed, because we knew who he was. He eyed us, sternly, with a disapproving expression, upon seeing us smoking, and, none too happy with him giving us the evil eye, I flicked him the bird, and my friend and me took off running.))

As for our cocaine supplier at this time, it was through a friend of a friend that we’d met a cop who was selling drugs ... He was a fantastic connection for coke and had been supplying many around the local area. His prices were great, and his products were top-notch, especially his pure Bolivian flake...

He had the perfect racket. He could buy from large suppliers, who were getting it directly from sources in South America, and he could have any competitors arrested. He had informants. He had supply. He was making cash hand over fist but was smart, low-key, wasn’t dressing too flashy, drove a Subaru.

His whole situation was a perfect reason for paying public servants more as well as legalizing all drugs (in my opinion).

Unfortunately for us, though, the cop disappeared, fucking vanished, like Jimmy Hoffa, like milk carton, missing poster type shit, and was never heard from again. I’d like to think he’d been stacking his cash and escaped to South America, is living out his days on a white sandy beach somewhere. Or he could have been fish food at the bottom of a river or eaten up by alligators in the Everglades. Either outcomes highly probable in the Miami drug trade.