hey oldhippytony - thanks so much for posting a little story of how NYC was back in the day; got any more?
axl blaze, you are welcome! I was a “functioning” addict (holding a 9 to 5 job for most of the 10 years when I used hard in the East Village) so my life was relatively routine … err … boring. Cop early in the AM so as to get me through to the PM, and then repeat. Many if not most days addicts had their choice of any number of stamps, all sold in the open air. Hell, at certain intersections (Avenue B and 3rd St., for example) on days when the heat was off and shit was wide open, the boys would be hawking a different stamp on each of the 4 corners simultaneously. Coke was plentiful also, both in powder and rock form.
In addition to street sales, some of the more savvy dope operations set up shop in burnt-out, abandoned buildings, present on most if not all streets on the Lower East Side at that time. The buildings all had a dank, musty, smoke (as in fire) smell. Electricity to these buildings was non-existent and they were always dark, brutally hot in the summer and bitter cold in the winter. The only light would come from candles used by the workers. I recall the protocol at one indoor spot, located on 2nd St., between Ave. B & C. Customers would enter through a hole in the wall on ground level and walk up a flight or two of stairs and cue up, not making a sound. There were always one or two kids with baseball bats or sticks there to greet customers. Most were teenage kids, charged with keeping order, ensuring that no one would cut the line. Talking was also forbidden, as it may draw attention of a passing patrol car or worse yet, beat cop.
If the sellers were re-upping, the line would get real long, real fast at this spot. This was especially true if word on the street had it that the dope was “smoking.” If you had an extra $5 to give to the kid keeping the line in check, you would get what was called “express” service and be escorted to the front. I’d always worry that the weight of all of the people would cause the staircase to collapse. These building, condemned by the City, were extremely hazardous.
What set this spot apart from the others was “the bucket.” As I mentioned, customers would cue up on the stairs. At the head of the line, on one of the landings, the “count man” would be posted up. He would take the customer’s money, count it, and deposit it into a bucket that was attached to a rope hanging from a hole cut in the roof of the building. The count man would then yell out, in Spanish, the number of bags paid for. The bucket would then rise and disappear through the hole in the roof, only to reappear a few seconds later with the product.
The beauty of this operation, from the dealer’s perspective, was that one NEVER saw the dude with the stash. In addition, lookouts posted on either corner would alert the crew whenever police would pass, giving the dude on the roof with the stash and the cash ample time to skate. I’ll never forget how when the alert was sounded (lookouts would yell “Bajando” … Spanish for they are coming down) my heart would pound through my chest as I stood in line with dozens of other addicts, silently awaiting the police to come crashing in. Rarely if ever was this the case however. When the all clear sign was given, minutes would pass until the roof dude (or gal?) returned and business would resume. When this spot was operating on all cylinders, unfettered by New York's Finest, I'm quite sure it would take in tens of thousands of dollars a shift.
Ahhh … those were the days.
