Another story that comes to mind … It’s 1982 and I’m living in the East Village and working in Long Island City, Queens, as a Case Manager for an agency that sends (mostly) Haitian women to provide home care for disabled, elderly shut ins. I wasn’t making all that much money. By the way, if I’m ever unable to clean my own kitchen, or my own ass for that matter, send me a loving, caring old Haitian lady. At the time, some of these women would make a long commute using NYC public transportation during off hours at a moments notice to provide outstanding service for low pay to some (many ungrateful) sick folks. Props to Haitian women. But I digress.
I recall having a pretty good habit at that time, say $40 or $50 a day, which was at least half of my take-home pay. Needless to say, I was always broke. Then one day I got a “canvass letter” in the mail, inviting me to begin a rewarding career with the New York City Department of Corrections. I scoffed at the thought, until I saw the starting salary. The base was twice what I was currently earning. In addition, a recruiter told me that “new jacks” (rookies) get as much overtime as they care to work. I learned later that the overtime was MANDATORY. If the person scheduled to relieve me at the end of my shift failed to report for duty, I was REQUIRED to work another 8-hour shift. Additionally, if the person scheduled to relieve my colleague failed to report for duty, and my colleague had more seniority than me, and did not want the overtime, I was REQUIRED to work another 8-hour shift. The bottom line was many shifts, for the new jacks, ended up being 16 hours long. Go home and sleep for a few hours and come back to the hell hole for another 8 or maybe 16 hours.
They said I should expect $60 thousand my first year. I said “how soon can I start.” I did the math and realized I’d be high as fuck for a long time making that kind of money.
Addict thinking.
Some time later I’m on a 3:30 AM subway train that takes me to a NYC Transit Authority bus that takes me to a NYC Dept of Corrections bus that takes me across the East River via the Rikers Island Bridge to Rikers Island. It’s 5 AM and day 1 at the Correction Officer Academy and I’m dope sick and these fucks got me doing push-ups and running. I could go on but suffice to say the Academy was pure hell.
While at the Academy I meet a guy who goes by the name of Frenchy. We become friends, drinking a few beers on a couple of occasions. He had no clue that I was a dope fiend. Five week in, Frenchy, me, and our team take a tour of other New York City correctional facilities, including the downtown Manhattan Detention Complex, also knows as “The Tombs.” While at the MDC, we saw the ‘bullpen” where unfortunates taken into custody await their turn to see the judge.
To make a long story … not as long as it could be, it soon becomes evident that I cannot continue working as a CO. I call the Program Director from my previous job in Long Island City and ask her if my prior job is still available to me. She says it’s not. However she tells me that my previous Supervisor is pregnant and will be leaving the organization and I can come back as a Supervisor, at a higher salary than the job I left. Life is good. I resign my City job and am flush with cash.
Six weeks later (maybe more, maybe less) I’m caught up in a “buy and bust” operation in Alphabet City. At the time, the cops would bust everyone and process them at the local precinct on 5th St. Eventually I ended up in, of all places, the Manhattan Detention Complex. As I walk down a set of stairs on a chain gang, prior to being strip searched, I come face to face with Frenchy! This fucking guy stops dead in his tracks, looks me directly in the eye and says, “don’t I know you?”
I looked at him like he was crazy, shook my head, and continued on the chain. I was about to be stuck in the bullpen with at least a dozen other malcontents and the last thing I was going to do was to let them know I was a CO not too long ago.
I ended up being the person that just a few months, if not weeks prior, I was trained to guard. Dope can take you to places you swore you’d never find yourself.
