From: (Peter McDermott) Subject: Re: Base houses Date: 1996/11/05 newsgroups: alt.drugs.hard In article <327EF0C5.2A60@indra.com>, Jackson wrote: >I was "Introduced" to two Base houses and several shooting Galleries by > a Prostitute that went there after every "John" from my clinic. Those >places were weird. Oh well, I guess it's time to tell _my_ crack story. Back in the late eighties, it had never really made it's way over to the UK, but the press was full of stories about it and as an intrepid drug explorer, I was keen to sample it. I'd done iv coke lots of times, and couldn't see how it was supposed to be 'more addictive', but curiosity was bound to get the better of me. So, I'm in NYC for a week, staying in a borrowed apartment on Avenue B between Houston and 2nd (of all places.) But I'd been out of the life a good ten years, sticking to my maintenance and going to college. However, here I was, on holiday, my first time in NYC -- something that had been a lifetime ambition. Every time I came out of the apartment, people would hit on me, asking me if I wanted to cop. However, I didn't know the deal at all. Scoring in NY is very different to scoring here in Britain. So I was very reluctant to get involved. But then one afternoon in Washington Square Park, I met a young Jamaican kid, an illegal immigrant, who was trying to survive by copping for people and taking tips for it. Anyway, I get the kid to cop me a handful of ten dollar vials of crack. The first few I blew by not knowing how to smoke it, but then I got myself a pyrex stem and I was off and running. After I'd smoked the first lot, I desperately wanted some more, so I went back out, found the guy again and cops a few more, insisting to myself that these would be my last. Of course, once they'd gone, I was desperate for just one more hit. However, by now it was around 1.00am, and the guy that I was with was refusing to come out with me again. So out I go, all alone into the night. I had $40 and enough for cab fare to the park and back. Anyway, once I reached the park, I thought I found the guy. However, it wasn't him, but he promised that he'd take care of me anyway. As we went to cop though, we ran into my original kid, who started to argue with this guy that I was his customer and I should go with him. However, I felt obliged to go with this guy. Initially, he was very charming, and was expressing concern about my doing this stuff -- telling me it was bad shit and I shouldn't do it, etc., etc. However, the further we walked, the further we got from the beaten track, the more intimidating the guy got. Eventually, we were well out of the village, down some dingy side street off the Bowery, south of Houston. The street was just filled with little squads of people, buying and selling crack. I was the only white face anywhere to be seen. Anyway, the guy goes away, and comes back with these tiny little vials.. that I've since found out were actually two dollar vials, and wanted me to give him ten dollars each for them. I was furious, and got into an argument with him, but he held all the cards. I was alone, with no clue as to where I could be, my heart was racing and I badly wanted another hit. I threw the money at him, snatched the vials and walked off until I found a gas station.. anywhere that was reasonably well lit, while I waited for a cab. Cab arrives, I tell him were I want to go, and he takes me. However, he dropped me on the wrong side of Houston, and when I get out the street, all I can see are gangs of black youths hanging out, eyeing me like I was a victim. So I hit the street and start walking. And walking. Until I find myself right down by the East River. With no way back, other than back through bandit country. So, I decide to hail another taxi. Here in England, if you're alone in a cab you will tend to sit next to the driver. However, in NY, this is not the done thing. So I try to get in, and as I do so, the guy drives off, spinning me around. Then stops a few yards away. So I go back up and do the same thing again. As does he. I'm totally baffled. Is he trying to kill me? What the fuck is going on? So I let him go and hail the next one. I get in and tell him where I want to go. Of course, it's only four blocks, so the driver takes one look at me and says 'show me your money'. All I have left is a dollar, though I've got plenty back in the apartment. But he refuses to take me, so I have to steel myself for the walk back past the gangs of black and latino kids who were lining Houston at 2.30am. It must have been my lucky night, because I made it without any further incident. So I get in, blew the crack in a few minutes, and spent the rest of the night smoking bits of white crap that I found on the floor. Totally sad.