madman of the catskills
It was 1986, the year that AIDS and crack cocaine were the new media horror stories. I didn't want AIDS, but crack sounded so powerful, I had to try it. Me and the wife-to-be drove up to Washington Heights above Harlem and copped some buttery nuggets in a plastic vial from a Spanish Wolfman.
We motored up to the Catskill Mountains for the weekend, staying at a moldy old resort where meals, lodging, and bingo were all included in the $99 price. On Saturday morning we shoved a white rock into a glass pipe and took some megablasts while watching Pee Wee's Playhouse. My head swelled up to weather-balloon size and it seemed as if my heart was going to punch through my ribs and splatter all over the room. But as soon as it felt safe again, we smoked some more. That night, gacked on crack, we drove through the dark mountain forests to a posh hotel featuring kosher comedians such as Mal Z. Lawrence.
The ride back was black and quiet. Trees were huddled deep and thick on both sides of the narrow road. Suddenly, as we hit a dip, a bearded wildman in a fringed-rawhide jacket jumped out of the woods and tried leaping onto the car hood. It was something out of a "Freddy" or "Jason" movie, minus the production values and plus the real threat of death. I hit the accelerator and left him in the forest.
We reached our hotel with foreheads sweating and our hearts battered like punching bags. I decided not to develop a crack habit.
