(Slipping) With The Fishes

Not long after his arrival in New York City, Cooper had learned about a business startup event being held in the flatiron district.

He had been to a million of these networking events before and in his mind, they always progressed along a similar trajectory. He would arrive, mingle, enjoy the cheap free beer and snacks, solidify a business relationship or two and either ensure the relationship was solidified by visiting a bar with the respective party, post-event, or make his way home in a semi-drunken stupor.

On this particular evening, however, he couldn't manage it. From the moment he stepped out of the elevator and into the foyer of the 25th story building, a wave of anxiety swept through him.

He looked at the groups of people mingling, under the light of big chandeliers hung throughout the space and decided he needed a drink. He could feel his heart palpitating, and his palms becoming sweaty.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked himself. A question he could not answer.

As he made his way through the crowds of aspiring businessmen and women he could feel his vision begin to change. He felt as if he had lost the ability to completely see out of his peripherals which only added to the anxiety.

"Jesus Christ..." he said under his breath.

"I need to get outta here"

Less than ten minutes into the event he was back in the elevator heading to the ground floor. The sound of his pounding heart reverberating through his body.

Once he was back out on the street he spotted a dive bar across the road and walked towards it. He had stopped panting, though, the entire ordeal if one can call it that had left him in need of sedation.

To quote The Ramones, "24, 24 hours to go... I wanna be sedated" a track that Cooper frequently listened to and used to justify his behaviour.

The bar was dark, grungy, and looked as though it had been beaten up by another bigger bar in grade school. Cooper didn't care.

He took the first available seat at the bar without notice of the girl he was sitting down beside.

"Barkeep, single malt anything you have. Double and a Budweiser please"

He handed the cash over and included a sizable tip.

After thirty minutes, Cooper felt his confidence returning, bringing to life his extroverted personality.

He started to make conversation with the girl sitting next to him. She wasn't really his type, nor did he have any particular intention of advancing any social discourse into something more physical.

However, now slightly tipsy the two of them did appear to get along so Cooper invited her outside for a cigarette. Cooper thought to himself that if this was a different time and place he couldn't see a chance of them hanging out without arguing.

She just had one of those personalities, you know the type, overly opinionated with opinions that utterly lacked any kind of substance, logic, or merit. But she was also drinking alone in a dive bar on a Tuesday night so Cooper decided to suspend those thoughts in the interim.

It was raining rather cold outside, with rain that extended as far as the eye could see. Cooper and for the sake of continuity let's call her Marissa, hunched up together, and lit up their fags.

After a few minutes of conversation, a man wearing a poncho approaches the duo. Forty or mid-forties, yet looking urbane with well-defined features.

Unbeknownst to Cooper, this was David, or 'Davey' as he would later be referred to. Davey was someone who would have a great deal of impact on Cooper's time in New York, even if he didn't know it yet.

Little did Cooper know, but Davey was a long time heroin addict who upon first sight to Cooper, was maybe, possibly homeless as well.

But, what separated him from the rest of the junks in New York was the fact that aside from being well-spoken, and clearly intelligent, it was that his tale of woe actually seemed genuine.

Marissa immediately pulled out a ten or twenty bill she had in her purse, and Cooper felt inclined to do the same. After all, what was his money good for, if not to help some stranger yearning for a better life.

Cooper handed the man fifty dollars. Davey was overjoyed.

Excuse me, gentleman, if this is sounding a little dry. Here's something that may spice up Davey's introduction for you.

According to Davey, he used to be a hotshot salesman pulling in close to a million dollars annually prior to getting hooked on dope. And even then, his true dependence only began when he IV'd the drug for the first time, opting to instead choose smoking as his preferred route of administration.

And so he would stay that way, fully functional for up to fifteen prior. Until of course, like every heroin IV user knows - once one receives that initial hit, they never look back.

Firstly, it's more economical. Notwithstanding one's potential fear of syringes, one soon realizes that hitting their mainline produces a high that is simply incomparable to any other route of administration.

Secondly, the only other route that provides almost as much bioavailability is placing the heroin up your ass. Well, not literally. It needs to be dissolved in water and sucked into a dropper first then slowly delivered into your asshole.

Think of it like taking your asshole to a fancy dinner, and this is just the awkward part before the date. That said, if you can avoid 'plugging' or 'shelving' narcotics I would suggest against it.

Davey had a little boy called Max, near six or seven in age. Cooper couldn't fault Davey because he genuinely seemed sincere about wanting to rekindle his relationship with his son, particularly while Max lived in Long Beach with his grandparents.

Once Marissa left which wasn't long after she departed with her cash, Cooper remained speaking to Davey for a solid hour or two, fascinated by what life on the street in NYC was really like.

He had seen many junks during his time in the rotten apple but none as determined or cognitively intact as Davey.

Cooper soon found out that being homeless in New York was a relative term. Davey lived in a crack den somewhere in Queens with an old woman whom he described as sharing an uncanny resemblance to a character in The Walking Dead.

"She's appalling, disgusting, you need to avert your gaze lest you begin to gag," he said morbidly, describing her appearance and mannerisms.

"So, how much money can you make in an hour or a day asking strangers on the street? asked Cooper.

"About $30/hour. On good days, I might end up with $200 - $300 by the time I decide to call it"

Cooper was amazed, and a little embarrassed. He realized Davey had his sorrow story rehearsed to a tee, and he just happened to fall for it and give him fifty dollars which he was undoubtedly going to spend on dope.

At the end of the conversation, Davey wanted to repay Cooper's gratitude by giving him a selection of prescription drugs.

2mg of Suboxone => opioid replacement.

20 x 200mg Seroquel => antipsychotic.

2 x 20mg Adderall pills => ADHD

Cooper was relatively familiar with the drugs but hadn't touched any of them before.

Davey warned Cooper about the strength of the Suboxone and to only take half or a quarter of the strip that he gave him.

You see gentleman, for those who are long term heroin or opioid users, Suboxone (or Methadone) is used legally for opioid replacement therapy.

The most common formulation is given in what looks like a small orange film strip, varying in dosage between 2mg and 8mg (though it's not unusual for addicts to be prescribed up to 32mg / day).

The effect is that of withdrawal and sickness prevention. Neurochemically, buprenorphine (aka 'Suboxone') affects the brain in a rather unconventional manner, differing from its predecessor Methadone.

Suboxone is both a receptor agonist AND antagonist. Furthermore, it's also packaged with Naloxone to deter abuse, more specifically IV abuse. Though, how effective it is at doing so is up for debate.

Obviously, the agonist part of the drug binds at a higher affinity to one's opiate receptors than the antagonist portion of it does. Therefore, enabling users to avoid their withdrawal symptoms.

Additionally, the half-life of Suboxone is between two-three days subject to one's metabolism. With that being said, it's something that both allows people to maintain their habit and provides them with an opportunity to live a relatively normal life.

Cooper thanked him for the pills and put them in his pocket. He wasn't sure if any of them would prove to be useful or relevant to his condition but he definitely had some curiosity in regards to trying out the opioid.

Thinking back to his consistent use of strong opiate-based painkillers, even going as far as to buy Codeine over the counter when he couldn't get his hands on any prescription oxycodone in order to perform cold water extraction on the pills (which would be packaged to contain 15mg of Codeine and 500mg of Paracetamol per pill).

Now the maximum tolerated dose of Paracetamol in a twenty-four hour period for the average human caps out around 4,000mg. If one was to consume more than that they would risk serious damage to their liver, perhaps even death. A very slow, tedious, and painful death.

Cooper being aware of this would purchase two, forty pillboxes of the aforementioned combination, and use a technique called, cold water extraction as a way of filtering out the Paracetamol/Acetaminophen and eventually being left with two cups of strictly pure codeine which he would share with his friends without endangering his or their liver.

Using that as evidence of one who is able to tolerate opioids well, and perhaps even have an affinity for them, Cooper believed that he would also be able to tolerate Suboxone without much trouble, especially at smaller doses. Oh, dear.

It was getting late, and he was in no rush to experience the effects of a drug he wasn't too familiar with so Cooper compartmentalized their conversation, and made a mental note to conduct some pharmacological research about the substance before ingesting it.

"Alright then, I better head off. It was nice meeting you Davey! I work not far away and am always around the city so maybe I'll catch you around"

"You got it, kid" responded Davey tapping Cooper on his arm.

They exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet up again. Before heading off, Davey had mentioned something about meeting up the next day and the fact that he would be able to get the sedatives that Cooper was looking for.

Cooper didn't put too much thought into it and decided he would wait for a little before catching up again.

The next day like clockwork he received a call from Davey informing him that he had some Ambien and wanted to catch up.

Note: Ambien, also known by its chemical name as Zolpidem falls into the class of drugs known as 'Z-Drugs' or 'Non-Benzodiazepines'. No seriously, that's what they are called in the medical community, and their effects are almost analogous to standard Benzos - they are anti-anxiolytic and work by depressing one's central nervous system through binding to their GABA receptors.

That said, they have also been reported to possess some peculiar side effects like sleepwalking, and even sleepfucking.

There have even been reports of people accidentally killing or maiming themselves by getting behind the wheel while technically asleep.

At 20 years old, Cooper had discovered that when mixing Ambien with codeine, marijuana, dextromethorphan, valium ,and a beer to 'activate it all...' that he would experience especially entertaining visuals.

Between himself and his friends they coined the potentially lethal combination of drugs, 'The Fantastic Five' and prior to his departure for New York would partake in the activity on a weekly basis.

Shadows created by the moonlight would bounce off trees unmasking entire scenes playing amidst the shrubbery.

Sometimes Cooper would be transported back to the era of Shakespeare and the Medieval, other times it was to places only his imagination was able to conjure. Outer space, out of sight, out of nouns.

But more on that in Part 2. Gentlemen, let's return back to the point of digression. Davey's phone call, and his subsequent invitation.

Cooper met up with Davey around seven o'clock in the evening. After exchanging pleasantries, the first question Davey asked Cooper is whether he could borrow some money.

Pocket change, for the pockets of the poor, carried within a poor pocket.

"Hey Coop' can I borrow $10 to grab a bite?"

Cooper didn't hesitate and handed over a ten-dollar bill. He thought of it as fair, and told himself:

"This is in exchange for the Ambien, Seroquel Adderall, and Suboxone. $10 is only fair..."

"How about we stop somewhere for a drink?" asked Cooper.

"Ok. I know a place that you will like" suggested Davey.

"Lead the way"

And led they were, right into the entrance of a strip club, where Cooper had for a moment attempted to be the adult in the group working to maintain a friendly etiquette between the bouncers and Davey whom they must have recognized from previous attempts at attempting entry without paying the cover.

Being the adult: A notion that Cooper frankly found somewhat unnerving, restrictive and misaligned with the image of his own created 'self' which as far as he was concerned, was summarized best in the following line, 'best act now, and ask for forgiveness later than regret the failure to notice that the act itself had long since ended, unacted and unwatched, kept buoyant only by the tears of the apologetic'

And this 'self' - an amalgamation of Cooper's standout memories, successes, traumas, learned behaviors relationships all functioning simultaneously under the guise of a core ego, is one that didn't take well to being forced into a corner, particularly if the corner contained nothing but a mediocre light at the end of a mediocrely built tunnel.

The kind of mediocrity one feels from needing to chaperone a school prom, receiving an invitation to a reunion long after the receding hairlines, and beer bellies were granted permanent residency within the physiologies of your graduating class, or worst yet being chosen to be the designated driver on a night out.

Cooper despised the idea of dying in mediocrity. In fact, it was the only fear that he would admit to and share publicly.

"Go home, Dave. You deadbeat!" yelled one of the guards.

"Yeah, what you doin' tryin' to scam your way in hur? Ain't gonna' work pal'' exclaimed the second.

"It's alright I got him," said Cooper, retrieving some cash from his wallet and handing it to one of the guards.

Clearly, the guards had each arrived from different points in the past via time machine, and managed to acquire plus ones for their lexicons, mannerismsbackwardscents.

Cooper followed behind Davey when they entered the bar. Junk or no junk, Davey had a presence about him. Unbeknownst to Cooper, perhaps he was noticing a rendition of the stereotypical NYC presence - loud, rude, obnoxious, and always ready (and willing) to call somebody an 'asshole' at the smallest of indiscretions.

They sat down at a round marble table in the middle of the floor. Perhaps, only a few feet from the stage, and a few more from the bar.

It wasn't clear to Cooper what Davey's intentions were, or even who he was.

For all Cooper knew this guy was a conman whose goal was strictly to extract as much cash as possible out of him. Hey, maybe he wasn't even homeless at all!

"What's the matter?" asked Davey. Cooper's internal monologue must have manifested a visually recognizable performance on his face, "A headlining act, even!" stewed an embarrassed Cooper.

"Nothing, did you want something to drink?"

When posing the question Cooper had already presupposed based on his previous judgments that Davey: going to order something expensive, or that he would instead opt for many cheap somethings.

"Just some water... I stopped drinking"

"Really?" asked Cooper, equally surprised and impressed that the forty-five-year-old, lifetime heroin addict managed to break at least one of his habits.

"Sure thing'

Cooper felt a little guilty for jumping to judgment and false convictions so quickly, After all, if Davey wasn't your typical junk, maybe Cooper's support could even give this guy a new chance in life. But alas! A year and twenty-five hundred dollars later his assumptions would only be left half true.

Excuse the digression... would you please, sir, and you, madam, apologies for the distraction. Please, quick quick as we were.

Places people. Places. Intermission has finished.

Davey and Cooper, right right. Excuse me. Sitting in the strip bar.

Suddenly, the entrance doors swing open with a loud bang. Everyone's gaze is momentarily averted away from the lingerie-clad entrepreneurs on stage and instead fixated on who or what was capable of producing so many decibels of noise by themselves.

"David, you're a fuckin' asshole! You're gonna be so fucked when Arto and I are dun' with you. You-gotta' ONE chance to tell us where it is. If you do, we might just not kill you, capiche?" roars the voice.

"Shit! Not those assholes. Don't worry Coop' we're going to be fine!"

"What the fuck is going on? Who are they?"

"Let's just say they are the proprietors of this establishment..."

"Let's say more, Dave..."

"And... proprietors of several other totally non-mob affiliated establishments"

"What did you say?! Those guys are part of the mob! What did you do, Dave!? yells Cooper at the top of his voice, watching the two large Italian men approaching ever closer.

"Listen, we don't have time. Here use this" he yells, grabbing a wrench from his gym bag.

"What...?"

"Ok, ok. I stole $50,000 worth of dope they had carelessly left at one of their whorehouses.. that's it! Big misunderstanding!"

"Jesus Christ, Dave. Watch out!"

Arto & Co had made it over to the table, and Arto... or was it Co? Ultimately, it doesn't matter, it was far too dark for Cooper to decipher their indistinct facial features, and they looked almost identical anyway.

Irrespective of Davey's stupidity Cooper couldn't just abandon him, and let him get killed. And if anything, after the information he just found out, Davey's stock actually went up in his book.

At the precise moment that Arto's unfathomably large hands made contact with Davey's shirt, Cooper yelled, "Duck!" and grabbed a pint of Guinness he had been drinking, and launched it across Davey's head, spraying beer directly into the face of Arto.

Arto recoiled back touching at his eyes, a second later his legs, up in the air, arms flailing about with little regard for their position in space and time, ass in a puddle of beer on the ground.

Cooper's beer attack had caused a wet spot to form underneath Arto's unprepared and unequipped loafers. He grunts, and yells while helplessly trying to get back up. Flopping around all fish-like and such.

"You're fuckin' dead! You're fuckin' dead! Co!" screams Arto. Yet the hilarity ensues when each time he plants his foot down, it slides across the beer and overextends his leg causing him to tumble backward.

Co makes an appearance and takes a swing at Cooper. Woosh! Swing and a miss! Cooper swings back and connects with his Co's nose.

Meanwhile, Davey has moved around Arto, literally kicked him a few times while he was down, and grabbed his wrench.

Although Cooper's punch connected and stunned Co' for a few moments, in return Co grabbed Cooper's arm and was pulling him in closer, while trying to rock hammer his skull with his free hand.

Wrench, and bag in hand, Davey comes to Cooper's aid by taking advantage of Co's best features - his obesity, lack of coordination, and poor functioning peripherals.

It takes several wrench strikes to the head until Co finally drops to his knees. Cooper takes the opportunity to fire a final elbow at his face, successfully disfiguring his nose in the process and temporarily negating his vision.

"Let's go!" shouts Davey.

Before Arto & Co have time to redeem themselves, Davey and Cooper are out the door, running at full speed to the nearest Subway entrance.

It's at this point Cooper realizes that the gym bag he is carrying has the entire contents of Davey's dope heist.

"Fuck me! He yells, exasperated as they enter the Subway on the corner of 32nd and 8th.

"What the fuck just happened? And Jesus fuck, take this bag, I can't believe you had the dope with you this entire time!" exclaims Cooper panting from the unexpected workout.

"Shh shh" responds Davey under his breath...

"We don't want to attract cops... or thieves!"

"But, you're a thief! replies Cooper frustratedly.

"Well, yes and no... It's a long story, and... why are you suddenly breaking my balls eh? Don't kick a man when he's down, Coop. Didn't your parents teach you to be better than that?" Davey continues his defensive rambles for a few minutes.

Silence.

Cooper is left speechless. "This guy must suffer from retardation, surely? He must have a clinical diagnosis for 'severe neurological impairment secondary to lead poisoning as a child" Cooper tells himself.

"Lead poisoning, that must be it! Yes, and asbestos too! It's the only explanation"

Cooper inhales with vigor and exhales a few seconds later.

He rests on his hypothesis for a few moments and it grants him a temporary reprieve from the stress. But he knows he's just flattering his own ego, he knows that

Davey isn't actually cognitively impaired, and therefore lead or asbestos as secondary indicators of cognitive impairment are arbitrary and irrelevant.

Sigh, the stress is back. Why couldn't I have just stuck with lead, asbestos, and maybe add in some type of motor vehicle accident, maybe a temporary drowning? It would explain so much! But alas, it's going to take somebody else other than me to diagnose Davey, or perhaps we just invent him his own mental condition. Davesdron Disease. Oh, I bet he would like that!

Cooper's mind runs through all of the possible scenarios seeking an answer to why somebody would act in such a ludicrous manner.

"Phew, close one though eh?" jokes Davey, again slapping Cooper on the shoulder.

"You did good, kid! I wouldn't have expected it. Creative all the way!"

Cooper sighs.

"Goodnight Davey!"

Cooper turns around and gets on the Q train heading back to Brooklyn.

"I'll catch ya later, Coop!''