Nasty Read Free Page A

would come from all parts of the city, to see him paint on the canvases he set up in Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village. His specialties were portraits and landscapes. Though he was definitely talented, he was infamous for rarely finishing a painting. Before drugs had completely consumed him, folks with money, especially white Bohemian women with thick fat trust funds, had been so impressed with his skills, they’d invite him to stay in their New York City pads, hoping he’d develop great works of art.
    Over the years, he had lived in some of the most exclusive addresses in Manhattan: The Dakota, the building where John Lennon was murdered; multi-million-dollar converted lofts in Tribeca, and his favorite hang, the Hamptons. Back in the day, he could always get an invite to bring his paint supplies and stay a month or two in the summer playground of New York’s obscenely wealthy residents.
    His freeloading with the rich was always a short-time stay. Drugs always seemed to corrupt his ability to stay focused. Whenpatrons discovered his talent was limited and his need for drugs unlimited, even the women who kept him for sex had soon grown bored with him. Eli was never discouraged when they tossed him out. There were always new people who spotted him at his village “gallery” who were convinced they could tame the undisciplined artist.
    But that was then. Seemed like now that he was older, folks with money didn’t want a down-and-out junkie around who couldn’t even complete a child’s paint-by-numbers project. Nobody thought he was special.
    A correctional officer walked past his cell. He yelled out at him through the bars, as if testifying to the world. “Hey, officer, listen! Listen up!” The C.O. briefly turned around. “Look, look here. Now I’m gonna kick this habit, but send me some methadone now before I
die
!”
    The officer looked at him in disgust and spit out, “Fuckin’ junkie, you’ll get it when the nurses call your good-for-nothing ass and not a minute before. Now shut the fuck up!”
    He felt like screaming a million obscenities. But he just moaned to himself. Nobody cared about junkies. Even he didn’t care about junkies. Eli had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he had chosen a lifestyle that would eventually kill him. He was too chicken shit to use the old, tried and true, “bullet to the head” method.
    If he’d only taken Alan Montana’s offer of money and a crack at a decent rehab facility two years ago, he wouldn’t be in jail. The wealthy comedian had been so grateful when Eli had helped him find his teenage daughter, he’d offered him the moon. But Eli had always admired him. He wanted to be on equal footing; man to man. To look Alan in the eye. He refused the offer. Alan, impressed by how he clearly needed help, hadinsisted. But Eli had his pride. The more the comedian begged, his conviction to refuse grew exponentially.
    He had bragged about his experience with the comedian later that night when he was getting high with a musician buddy he’d known for years. The saxophonist shook his head as he injected heroin, wondering why Eli refused the cash. “The biggest tool for a fool is his pride. Ain’t you never heard, pride goeth before a fall, and shit, nigger, junkies always falling.” Still shaking his head at Eli’s foolishness, waiting as the drug took effect, he leaned into a junkie nod.
    Two months ago, when his own habit had him living out of cardboard boxes under the Manhattan Bridge, the young girl Eli and her father had tried to save, died from an overdose. All the money in the world couldn’t keep her from crack and the streets. He wanted to attend the funeral, and maybe ask Alan Montana for help. Once again, the demon pride intervened. He could not ask for assistance, especially since his life was in such a despicable condition.
    Now he was in jail. For stealing. In all of his years as a junkie, he had never stolen. He had truly hit rock bottom.