One of my favorite memories of Craig

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I remember one of my favorite Craig memories. It was 1994, and I decided to record a compilation CD of street musicians. And Craig was one of the first people I approached for the project. For Craig was the quintessential street musician after all. Braying out his songs to the midnight moon with his battered street guitar as he belted out druggy versions of every Rolling Stones song you could think of. And wiith all the anguished, tormented soul that Craig was famous for.

The recording sessions for the CD took place in this abandoned bank building on Shattuck & Bancroft. A friend of mine who worked for City Hall had given me the key to the building. And we set up a make-shift recording studio in there (great acoustics inside the bank vault but you sure don’t want that big round door to shut and lock on you).

I had invited about 20 street musicians for the first session. And when I showed up early that morning to unlock the building Craig was already there waiting for me, with a big smile and his guitar slung over his shoulder. Craig was so excited about the project he had gotten up at the crack of dawn to get there first. Or, more likely, he had been up all night doing speed and hadn’t even gone to bed yet. At any rate we were both thrilled at this once-in-a-lifetime chance at playing at being rock stars. And who knows maybe we’d get lucky and come up with a hit record — stranger things have happened. Or at the least maybe we’d get one of out songs played on the radio (we actually managed this one).

The two engineers with the recording equipment hadn’t shown up yet. So me and Craig took our guitars into the men’s room — where you get that great echo-y sound — to warm up. Craig went through his repertoire of Stones songs. And they sounded great. And for the first time I started to think that maybe this crazy project of mine — this crazy pipe dream (literally) — was actually going to work. I had a cheap-ass tape-recorder and i recorded Craig singing and playing in that dark and dank men’s room (most of the sockets in the building didn’t have light bulbs). And one of these days I’m gonna have to dig up that tape. It’ll probably make me cry.

When we got all of our recording equipment set up Craig was the first person we recorded. He had written an original song that was a parody of an Alice Cooper song that he titled “The Ballad of Isy Jones” (Isy Jones was one of Craig’s many street aliases — Sic Pup was another). He had reworked Alice Cooper’s lyrics into a dark and zany first-hand account of life on the streets (and jails) of Berkeley. I was proud of Craig — he had come up with a weird little underground classic. And Craig’s ravaged singing voice let you know he had lived out every line of the lyrics of the song, and then some.

When the recording sessions finally came to a close well after midnight, me and Craig and Monk (another crazy street rocker who could have been Craig’s brother from another mother) were hanging outside the building on the dark sidewalks of Shattuck. We were all definitely buzzed. But when I pulled the keys out of my pocket to lock up the building, the blotter acid in my pocket also came flying out and fluttered off in the wind.

“Oh fuck!” I said.

“What’s the matter?” said Craig.

“I just dropped my acid on the sidewalk.”

“Fuck.”

So the three of us are down on our hands and knees fumbling around on the dark sidewalk of Shattuck Avenue looking for that strip of acid.

“Found it!” said Monk.

Monk popped the acid in his mouth. And then happily bounded off down the street. And me and Craig bopped off in the other direction.

Just one more night in a seemingly endless expanse of nights on the streets of Berkeley. And we were all young and strong and just crazy enough to love the whole mad misadventures of our mad, mad lives.

That’s how I’ll always remember Craig. Bounding off down the street with his guitar slung across his back, off to his next adventure on the streets of Berkeley.

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One of my last memories of Craig

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I remember one of the last times I saw Craig. It was late in the evening and he was standing in front of the Annapurna head shop (“Since 1969!!”) on Telegraph. I could tell he was stoned out of his mind. He was hurking and jerking and sort of piruetting around in circles like a wind-up toy with a crucial piece broken.

“How ya doing, Craig,” I said.

“Not good, Ace” said Craig flailing his arms in the air. “The clerk at Annapurna’s is calling the cops on me.”

I looked in the front door of Annapurna’s and could see that the clerk behind the front counter was doing precisely that. “Why is the clerk at Annapurna calling the cops on you?” I said.

“Ooooh. I DON’T KNOW!! The last time I was in there I caused some kind of scene and they permanently banned me. I forgot about the ban and just went back in there again and I got all confused when I tried to make my transactions.”

“What was the transaction?” I said.

“I forget'” said Craig. His face was contorted and in some kind of distress. He threw his hands up in the air and started pacing back and forth. “It was all a big misunderstanding.” Then he burst out laughing.

“Oh,” I said.

“I went back in there multiple times to try and straighten things out but the clerk just kept gettin’ more and more confused and freakin’ out on me for no damn reason!!”

“Oh,” I said.

Craig’s brains had become permanently scrambled from speed. I had known Craig since 1994. And now it was 2007. He had been a legendary speed freak even back then. It was a big part of his self-image as sort of a Keith Richards-wannabe rocknroll outlaw romantic street poet drug addict. I was a John Lennon-wannabe myself with my own drug demons, so what could I say.

“Maybe you should get out of here before the cops show up,” I said.

“No I need to go back in there and buy something at Annapurna’s,” said Craig.

“What?” I said.

“I don’t KNOW! I FORGOT!!” Craig threw his hands up in exasperation and confusion. Then started laughing again.

Back in the old days Craig used to get high. But then he’d come back down. Come back down to earth. But then Craig got high this one time and never came back down.

I think it was that one last fatal speed binge that did him in. One of the biggest speed dealers in town had recently ODed. And since the rent on his studio apartment was still paid up until the first, this whole pack of speed freaks — including Craig — had descended on his apartment like a horde of locusts. And moved in, systematically selling off all of his stuff and using up his huge stash of speed. And I think all that speed finally drove Craig over the bend.

So nowadays you’d often find him in the middle of the street babbling nonsense non-stop. Or laughing hysterically for no reason. It was really sad to see. Because Craig was basically a really good guy. But that’s life on the streets. Some people hit the streets with some kind of deep wound in their souls. And then the streets just tear them apart.

“Well I better get going,” I said.

“Hey Ace,” said Craig. “Would you give me a hug?”

“Well sure,” I said.

We embraced standing there on Telegraph in front of Annapurna the head shop. And Craig held onto me tight for just a couple of extra beats. Before he finally released me.

It was an odd request. We had never hugged before after all. But I just figured it was one more goofy thing that Craig did. He was almost always in a goofy head space now.

“You take it easy Craig,” I said.

“YEAHHH!” he said.

And he started laughing. That kind of loon laugh where things are so fucked up all you can do is laugh at the absurdity of it all. One thing I’ll say about Craig, he never lost his sense of humor right to the end.

I could see two cops walking in our direction so I made a hasty exit. And I didn’t think more about the encounter. Just one more surreal interaction with crazy ole Craig.

Until a short while later. After Craig had jumped in front of a train. And I thought about that hug. I think Craig had realized he was fucked. Doomed in a way. It’s hard to get through life when a person’s brains are permanently scrambled. And they’re sort of beyond help. And all they can really ask for is a good hug before they walk off the plank.

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Craig

 

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I was hanging out at my usual spot by the Cody’s Books corner when Craig walked up to me and said, “Hey Ace, are you interested in buying a 20 dollar bag of meth? If you got the dough, I got it all lined up.”
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“This isn’t going to be a complicated deal?” I asked.
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I always asked that question with Craig. From painful past experience. Having waited around for 6 or 7 hours on a dark street corner waiting for Craig to get back from one of his other “simple easy deals.”
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“No, I’ll be right back! I got it all set up in the Park!” insisted Craig, with that air of frantic urgency that Craig always had when involved with all things crystal methamphetamine (arms jerking up in the air as he talked, legs pacing back and forth, etc.). “I got a 20 myself. And with your 20 we could get a big sack and split it.”
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I hesitated for a moment and then said, “Okay.” As I made that sometimes disastrous commitment of pressing the $20 bill into Craig’s hand.
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As Craig bopped off towards the Park, I flashed on the memory of another time and a similar circumstance when  Craig walked off with my 20 dollar bill. Only to return six hours later, empty-handed, alas. But at least he returned my bill THAT time — a minor miracle in itself.  But what was odd was the bill itself. It was crumpled and wrinkled almost beyond belief, with this strange, glossy sheen to the surface of it. As if Craig had been frantically rubbing and caressing and folding and unfolding the bill non-stop, with enormous finger pressure for the entire 6 hours the bill was stuffed in his pocket. Crystal meth is a strange drug.
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About 15 LONG minutes later, Craig did in fact return.
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“Lets go for a walk,” he said
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“So how’d it go?” I asked as we walked down Haste Street, still not sure if he’d hand me back my bill (in God knows what condition) or the drugs (in God knows what amount and/or quality) or whether some strange, new complication had arisen calling for a private strategy session and a Re-thinking of Our Options. “Did you get it?”
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“Yeah, I got it,” said Craig. “Lets go somewhere and let me snort a line for scoring for you.”
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Craig handed me the little bag of meth as we walked side-by-side down the street. I quickly eyed the size and feel of the bag, sizing up the amount and the potential quality before I  jammed it into my pocket. I’m eager to get this transaction over. You can go to jail for this stuff after all. And annoyed by the unexpected complication of sharing a line with Craig (evidently he hadn’t had a $20 after all, so this was his way of getting a little something out of the deal).
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“Man, I hate this shit,” I muttered, letting Craig know I wanted this part of the transaction to be as short-and-sweet as possible.
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We’re both making slightly manic small-talk as we walk side-by-side down the street. I’m nervous and giddy with hopeful anticipation at the prospect of actually getting HIGH (my life has been so low lately, for so long), and, of course, we’re both trying hard to “act normal” — which flies in the face of our normal, abnormal behavior. We sing a few odd lines from songs by Lou Reed and the Rolling Stones (in retrospect, I guess it should have been “This could be the last time . . “). And I say: “It’s a whacky world, Craig.” An inside joke between me and Craig, told and re-told during the course of many previously-shared scenes of whackiness over the last 13 years on the scene. Ahh, the things we have seen, me and Craig. Two damaged, fucked-up, but eminently soulful, bums on the streets of Berkeley. Sheesh. (If you could look at some of the real-life movies that played out from behind our eye-balls you probably wouldn’t believe some of the scenes. For people like Craig live at that juncture where the surreal, the crazed, the bizarre, the demented, and the horrific, is the norm.)
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Craig led me around the corner and up the steps to the side porch of the First Presb Church. We both sat down on the floor, our backs resting against the church building. It was a fairly safe spot, we were blocked out of the sidewalk traffic, and we’d be able to spot anybody coming from any direction before they got to us. Craig — as crazy as he was — was a genius in that sense. In the middle of the most crowded city streets, he could ALWAYS find some little covey-hole, some safe little haven, where you could get high. A skill no doubt honed with animal grace by thousands and thousands of previous drug-related manuevers in the urban jungle. (Reminiscing after his death, virtually every person on the Berkeley street scene had cherished memories of “getting high with Craig” or “going to jail with Craig” And sometimes both, getting high AND going to jail with Craig). If there was a Tweeker Hall of Fame, Craig would certainly be a first-ballot inductee.
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“Lets be quick about this,” I whispered, handing Craig the tiny, zip-locked baggie.
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“Gimme your lighter, Ace.” He took my lighter and rolled it over the bag of meth, crushing the little rocks into a snortable powder. (“So THAT’S how you do it!” I thought. Previously, I had taken the meth out of the bag and crushed them with an exacto-knife — sometimes causing parts of the rock to go pinging off the mirror and into the unseen distance — always fun searching for those long-lost crumbs of meth, two days later, when you’re down to your last line. But leave it to Craig: the Expert. He was in fact the expert on all things Drugs. He had virtually dedicated his life to the pursuit, the study, and the consumption, of drugs.)
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Craig quickly poured out a line. “Gimme a dollar, Ace.” Craig expertly rolled up the bill and took a big, nostril-burning snort. AHHH!
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Craig handed me back the little bag of meth. “Give me back my dollar, too,” I said, a little too quickly. And I always felt bad about that, regret it. Because it was a cheap thing to say. But at this point, I had already given Craig $20, and now HE was the one getting high, and I STILL didn’t know how much was in the bag or if I’d gotten burned — still hadn’t had a chance to take a good look at my little, covert prize. So, at the LEAST, I wanted my dollar back. But its weird how these mundane interactions take on more of a resonance — and this haunted feeling — because they’re your LAST interactions with the guy. So it’s like I’m magnifying them. Searching for clues at the scene of the crime.
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We quickly got up and scurried down the steps (and now, EVERY time I pass that spot by the First Presb Church, I flashback to that last time with Craig, sitting there, crushing the meth with my lighter, etc. and for a moment I’ll think about ole’ Craig).
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Craig was strangely subdued as we walked back to the Ave. I could feel the heaviness of his spirit. He wasn’t his usual, herky-jerky self. In retrospect, I think he already knew. He had already made up his mind. To me it was just one more mundane afternoon on Telegraph, in a seemingly endless expanse of them. Isn’t it weird how we always think its going to last forever?
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Craig walked off and disappeared down the street.
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”Where’d you and Craig go?” said Psycho Joe with a leering, knowing grin on his face.
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“Nowhere,” I said.
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All the nosy bums on the corner had been watching the interactions between me and Craig — the whole crazy dance — and they all knew. Which was embarrassing. Because crystal meth is such a degenerate drug. And I was embarrassed that everyone knew about my degeneracy.
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“Its a good thing you left,” said Psycho Joe. “Because while you were gone the cops were just here busting those guys hanging out on the corner.” (Which just shows you how slim your margin-of-error can be on the streets).
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As I walked back towards my office, for some reason I started thinking about the whole mystique of the drug scene. Craig was kind of a Keith Richards-wannabe. And I was kind of a John Lennon-wannabe. And we had both bought into that whole trip. I thought about all the drug-related books, records and magazines of our youth that we had both avidly consumed. William Burroughs. Jim Carroll. Lou Reed. . Iggy Pop. Jim Morrison. William Blake.  All the great drug heroes of our youth. And all the exciting descriptions of their drug use. Mind-tripping to all these strange and taboo realms of reality. And the whole outlaw mystique that we bought into, hook-line-and-sinker. And the whole desperate need to just simply feel GOOD. To feel happy, to feel sensual pleasure, to feel contented, to feel love, to love and be loved. In a world that mostly seemed to offer pain, emptiness, and unfulfillment. Except for this fleeting thing we could sometimes grasp in a little, tiny, zip-locked baggie.
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I holed up in my office for 48 hours, snorting the speed and obsessively making these weird collages. Crystal meth has this bad combination of affects. It makes you incredibly stupid.  And it gives you this incredible amount of energy to act out your stupidity. So it’s a double whammy. The collages I would make while I was tweeking are a prime example. I would cut out all this photos from magazines and scotch tape them together into bigger pictures. I would reshape and alter the photos with my scissors and pens  and I could create virtually any picture that I could conger up from my demented imagination. And they’d be layered with all these layers of scotch tape, which made them glisten and shine under the electric lights adding a surreal affect. At some point, the collage would actually look incredibly beautiful. But as I got more and more wired I’d get more and more obsessive. If the photos weren’t lined up EXACTLY right, if they were a fraction of a millimeter off, I would re-cut the picture and re-line it up, and re-tape it, over and over. For hours. In an attempt to get it EXACTLY right. Until finally the collage was nothing but a big hopeless mess.
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So I’d toss it in the garbage and start on a new one.
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Anyways, after 48 hours of this non-stop manic stupidity holed up in my office, I finally collapsed in a heap and slept for a whole day.  I finally woke up the next afternoon with a splitting headache. I emerged from my hole and went back to the Ave looking for Craig. The meth had turned out to be pretty good, so I wanted to give him a 5 dollar tip for his trouble.
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When I got to the Cody’s Books corner I noticed Psycho Joe was talking with Fat Bill. Joe was holding up a little potted plant.  “And we could plant it in People’s Park,” he said, “and plant it right in Craig’s favorite spot where he always liked to hang out.”
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“What are you talking about?” I said.
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“Didn’t you hear?” said Fat Bill. “Craig stepped in front of a train yesterday morning.”
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I walked down the street feeling dizzy and stunned. My mind immediately started racing through the quickly-fading memories of my last interactions with Craig, searching for something, anything. Like holding each word we had said under a microscope.  Searching for clues. Was there anything I could have done differently?? Everything seemed very real and very unreal at the same time.   Nothing made sense. Well, one thing I was sure about. I wouldn’t be able to give Craig that goddamn 5 dollars.  That’s for sure.
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The Ballad of Isy Jones

The Ace Backwords Report
(journal entry) February 4, 2007, SUPER SUNDAY!!!

10196_630508033633410_1476375477_n.jpgI have this almost unbearable sadness in me now. I wonder if its finally taken ahold of me for good. This battle I’ve fought all my life.

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Isy Jones’s death last month — jumping in front of a train in final, permanent, agonizing torment — was like some final nail in my coffin.

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I can’t help thinking of that period — 1993 and 1994 — which I always look back on in my mind’s eye as an endless sunny, summer day. We were all young and strong and full of hope for some glorious Future that we were sure was just around the corner if we could just hot-wire the thing. Hot-wire Reality.
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Now, 13 painful years later, I sit back and watch all the people dying horrible, agonizing deaths, one after another. Its like we’re getting picked off, one after another. And I’m next. I look at the list of names on the TELEGRAPH  STREET MUSIC CD — Anthony, Monk, Comatoes, Charles, Zack, Duncan, Isy, etc — and watch them wiping out, one after another. Coming to bad ends.
You wonder if you’re under some kind of curse.
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I’m vaguely haunted by my last interaction with Isy (Am I fated to end all these games — all my “relationships” — on a losing note, an unresolved note?).
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It was around December 9th (as I count the days backwards, as I always do, realize its already been almost 2 months, as the memory of Isy and everything that he once was, rushes into the Oblivion of the past)…Isy, on his own accord, has approached me and eagerly offered to buy me a $20 bag of chrystal meth if I’ve got the dough. He’s got it all lined up.
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“This isn’t going to be a complicated deal?” I ask, as I always ask with Isy, from painful past experiences, having wasted 6 or 7 hours waiting around on a dark street-corner, only to get burned by Isy, on “simple, easy deals” Isy had set up before. So I tend to stress that point before I get into a weird “situation” with weird people, and Godknowswhat (factor in the generally deranging power of chrystal meth, and the fact that virtually every person involved in “the deal” is angling to burn you, plus the cop/paranoia/arrest factor, plus the generally complicated nature of ANY free-lance entrepenuerial enterprise of commerce involving more than 4 people (3 of whom are insane, including me) in complex patterns of social behavior — and you have all the ingredients for a “complicated” situation.
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“No, I’ll be right back! I got it all set up in the Park!” insists Isy, with that air of frantic urgency that Isy always got when involved with all things chrystal methamphetamine (arms jerking up in the air as he talked, etc.)
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“Okay,” I said, making that fateful, and sometimes fatal, commitment of pressing the $20 bill into Isy’s hand (Flashing on the memory of another time I had slipped Isy a bill in similar circumstances, Isy walked off and returned 6 hour later, empty-handed,alas, but at least he returned my bill THAT time — a minor miracle in itself — but what was odd was the bill itself — it was crumpled and wrinkled almost beyond belief, with this strange, glossy sheen to the surface, as if Isy had been frantically rubbing and carressing and folding and unfolding the bill non-stop, with enormous finger pressure for the entire 6 hours the bill was stuffed in his pocket.).
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About 15 LONG minutes later, Isy did in fact return.
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“Lets for for a walk,” he said
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“So how’d it go?” I asked as we walked down Haste Street, still not sure if he’d hand me back my bill (in God knows what condition) or the drugs (in God knows what amount and/or quality: “Oh no! Not generic white powder AGAIN!”) or whether some strange, new complication has arisen calling for a private strategy session and a Re-thinking of Our Options.
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“Did you get it?”
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“Yeah, i got it,” said Isy. “Lets go somewhere and let me snort a line for scoring for you.” (Isy’s original plan, his original proposal, was that he had $20 and if I kicked in my $20 we could BOTH split a really good deal. But, as I said, unexpected complications often developed when going from step A to step B in most methamphetamine transactions.) Isy handed me the little bag of meth as we walked side-by-side down the street, as I quickly eyed the size and feel of the bag, sizing up the amount and the potential quality before I quickly jammed it into my pocket. Like I said, suspicion and paranoia runs rampant at this crucial juncture of the transaction, as well as the thought (always in the back of my mind)that one false, or merely unlucky move, could bring the unwanted presence of the cops, which could change the course of my life for the next couple months, if not the next couple years. So I’m always eager for this crucial part of the transactions — for the money to change hands, and for the drugs to change hands — to go as quickly as possible. I’ve now got the bag in my pocket, which I’m compulsively fingering to re-assure myself that I haven’t lost it, or that the contents aren’t spilling out (zip-lock working A-OK?) and I’m so close to home and I’m already hungering in anticipation of that magic moment when I finally get safely back to my office and take that first big hit, with all the promise of satisfaction and well-being and euphoric energy and sensual pleasure (what the hell, sometimes that shit actually works — why do you think people are going to jail for it?).
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But now — darn, darn, darn!! — this unforseen complication has arisen: involving taking the little bag of highly illegal drugs out of the safety of my pocket and into public view, and then daintily measuring out a line (How much is that greedy bastard Isy gonna take?!) hopefully without spilling a drop of the precious little contents (Its rarely enough anyways) and then nervously tapping my feet during those perilous moments when Isy (he could give a fuck) is Doing Drugs in Public. (Though, in retrospect, I wonder if all this feverish outlaw excitement is part of the big appeal of drugs. I noticed I completely stopped smoking pot right around the time they de-criminalized it and you could just go buy it at all the cannabis clubs — somehow that killed the buzz.).
“Man, I hate this shit,” I muttered, letting Isy know I wanted this part of the transaction to be as short-and-sweet as possible.
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We’re both making slightly manic small-talk as we walk side-by-side down the street. I’m nervous and giddy with hopeful anticipation at the prospect of actually getting HIGH (my life has been so low lately, for so long), and, of course, we’re both trying hard to “act normal” — which flies in the face of our normal, abnormal behavior. We sing a few odd lines from songs by Lou Reed and the Rolling Stones (in retrospect, I guess it should have been “This could be the last time . . “). And I say: “It’s a whacky world, Isy.” An inside joke between me and Isy, told and re-told during the course of many previously-shared scenes of whackiness over the last 13 years on the scene. Ahh, the things we have seen, me and Isy. Two damaged, fucked-up, but eminently soulful, bums on the streets of Berkeley. Sheesh. (If you could look at some of the real-life movies that played out from behind our eye-balls you probably wouldn’t believe some of the scenes. For people like Isy live at that juncture where the surreal, the crazed, the bizarre, the demented,and the horrific, is the norm. (Too bad these scribbled journals are the closest I can come to capturing those eye-ball movies).
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Isy leads me around the corner and up the steps to the side porch of the First Presb Church. We both sat down on the floor, our backs resting against the church building. It was a fairly safe spot,we were blocked out of the sidewalk traffic, and we’d be able to spot anybody coming from any direction before they got to us. Isy — as crazy as he was — was a genius in that sense. In the middle of the most crowded city street, he could ALWAYS find some little covey-hole, some safe little haven, where you could get high. A skill no doubt honed with animal grace by thousands and thousands of previous drug-related manuevers in the urban jungle. (Reminiscing after his death, virtually every person on the Berkeley street scene had cherished memories of “getting high with Isy” or “going to jail with Isy.” And often, both. And its with a painful, poignant feeling that I realize I am chronicling the last of what was a long, long line — a lifetime — of “getting high with Isy” episodes. If there was a Tweeker Hall of Fame, Isy Jones would certainly be a first-ballot inductee.
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“Lets be quick about this,” I whispered, handing Isy the tiny, zip-locked baggie.
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“Gimme your lighter, Ace.” He took my lighter and rolled it over the bag of meth, crushing the little rocks into a snortable powder. (“So THATS how you do it!” I thought. Previously, I had taken the meth out of the bag and crushed them with an exacto-knife — sometimes causing parts of the rock to go ping-ing off the mirror and into the un-seen distance — always fun searching for those long-lost crumbs of meth, two days later, when you’re down to your last line. But leave it to Isy: the Expert. He was in fact the expert on all things Drugs. He had virtually dedicated his life to the pursuit, the study, and the consumption, of drugs.)
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Isy quickly poured out a line. “Gimme a dollar, Ace.” Isy expertly rolled up the bill and took a big, nostril-burning snort. AHH!
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Isy handed me back the little bag of meth. “Give me back my dollar, too,” I said, a little too quickly. And I always felt bad about that, regret it. Because it was a cheap thing to say. But at this point, I had already given Isy $20, and now HE was the one getting high, and I STILL didn’t know how much was in the bag or if I’d gotten burned — still hadn’t had a chance to take a good look at my little, covert prize. So, at the LEAST, I wanted my dollar back. But its weird how these mundane interactions take on more of a resonance — and this haunted feeling — because they’re your LAST interactions with the guy. Its like I’m magnifying them. Searching for clues at the scene of the crime.
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We quickly got up and scurried down the steps. (And now, every time I pass that spot by the First Presb Church, I flashback to that last time with Isy, sitting there, crushing the meth with my lighter, etc. and I say a little prayer for Isy, repeat my mantra for Isy, for his spirit, wherever its roaming across the Universe, in whatever dimension.)
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Isy was strangely subdued as we walked back to the Ave. I could feel the heaviness of his spirit. He wasn’t his usual, herky-jerky self. In retrospect, I think he already knew. He had already made up his mind. He knew this was The Last Time. Of course, I didn’t know. To me it was just one more mundane afternoon on Telegraph, in a seemingly endless expanse of them, dating back to 1993 — the Ace and Isy show. Isn’t it weird how we always think its going to last forever? I didn’t think any more of it as Isy walked off and disappeared down the street, one more time. Until later.”Where’d you and Isy go?” said Psycho Joe with a leering, knowing grin on his face.
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“Nowhere,” I said. All the nosy bums on the corner had been watching the interactions between me and Isy — the whole crazy dance — and they all knew. Which was embarrassing. Because crystal meth is a degenerate drug. And I was embarrassed that everyone knew about my degeneracy.
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“Its a good thing you left,” said Psycho Joe. “Because while you were gone the cops were just here busting those guys hanging out in the corner.” (Which just shows you how slim your margin-of-error can be on the streets).  But now that I think of it, the other thing I always thought about whenever I walked back-and-forth with Isy in the middle of these drug scenes, was: I always thought about the ghosts of all the great Drug Outlaws Past. Isy — the Keith Richards wannabe. And me — the John Lennon wannabe. And I’d think of all the exciting books and magazines and records we had read and listened to. William Burroughs. Jim Carroll. Lou Reed. The New York Dolls. Iggy Pop. Jim Morrison. William Blake. GG Allin, man! On and on. All the great drug heroes of our youth. And all the exciting descriptions of their drug use. Mind-tripping to all these strange and taboo realms of reality. And the whole outlaw mystique that we bought into, hook-line-and-sinker. And the whole desperate need to just simply feel GOOD. To feel happy, to feel sensual pleasure, to feel contented, to feel love, to love and be loved. In a world that mostly seemed to offer pain, emptiness, and unfulfillment. Except for this fleeting thing we could sometimes grasp in a little, tiny, zip-locked baggie.
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But mostly it was the feeling that we’d blown it, that we’d been conned, that we’d walked down this False Path and we had walked too far beyond the point where we could make that U-turn back to safety (wherever THAT was, in what direction THAT was, God knows where; safety; sheesh.). And that what we were doing was just a tired re-tread of that whole ’60s trip. Which by now had been done to death — like a copy-of-a-copy-of-a-copy. Scoring drugs. Doing drugs. The whole so-called excitement of the drug subculture. But here we were, one more time on that doomed loop — me and Isy.I went back to my office, snorted up the speed, and masturbated for 48 hours. It was a reasonably good deal. (And, in retrospect, I think Isy had set up the deal because he wanted to pay me back for the times he had burned me in the past, like he wanted to clear the karmic slate before he left this plane.)
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I finally woke up on Thursday with a splitting headache. I emerged from my hole and went back up to the Ave. I had $5 in my pocket that I wanted to give to Isy as a tip.
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Rick was holding a little potted plant, and Fat Bill said:
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“. . . and we can plant it in People’s Park in Isy’s favorite spot where he always liked to hang out.”
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“What?” I said.
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“Didn’t you hear? Isy stepped in front of a train yesterday morning. . . “
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And the worst thing is: you never get to say good-bye. Its just over. Phppt. Like an anti-climactic ending to a movie. Or more like God suddenly, and inexplicably, just snips the movie right in the middle. And the screen goes blank. The End.
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But one things for sure: I sure as fuck couldn’t give Isy the $5 now. And I felt especially guilty about the “Gimme back my dollar” crack. And my mind immediately started racing through the quickly-fading memories of my last interaction with Isy, searching for SOMETHING. Wondering if it was somehow my FAULT. Survivor’s guilt. Or if there was something I could’ve done differently. Or if I had at least had had the chance to give him his goddam $5 . . .
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But it always seems to end like that for me. These loose ends, with these loose interactions, with all these loose people, that I can never quite tie together.
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Like when my friend Linda the painter had died earlier in the year last summer — that wretched year of 2006. My last interaction with her, after 24 years of friendship, was when she left a message on the answering machine of my phone:
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“Ace, why didn’t you stop and talk to me when we passed on the street the other day? Are you mad at me? Please give me a call some time . . .” I was just busy and in a hurry. A million things in this haphazard life going on in a thousand different directions in space and time. Pulled a thousand different ways. When I finally got around to calling Linda back 2 months later, her phone was disconnected. She was dead.
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I cried for Linda as I walked down the street. This aching, piercing sadness in my heart.
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And I cried for Isy later that night as I walked down the street. Sometimes, that’s all you can do.
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“I was up for 14 days / Would have done a couple more / Got hauled off to Santa Rita / Third bunk from the floor . . . “
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