The Patron Saint of the Needle By Richard J. Goff

Sean Benham CC




The Patron Saint of the Needle

    
   The sheriff had Highway 73 blocked with flares and blue lights right beside the 1976 Lincoln Town Car squatting in the pines at the edge of an old-timer’s cornfield. It looked like my father’s car, right down to the ugly color.
   A truck tire lay baking on its roof; whitewall tires long since gone flat and been stripped by field mice for nesting. Surrounded by a thin stand of Southern pines, its school-bus yellow paint cracked and peeling, left to rot in the North Carolina sun. 
   I must have passed the vehicle a hundred times over the years and thought about him. It reminded me of a simpler time—the Bicentennial year, my tenth birthday, and the summer the Saint disappeared.
   But that was many years gone and eight-hundred-miles north. 
   My mother called my father the Junkie. Sometimes, that piece-of-shit Junkie. My brother and I called him, the Patron Saint of the Needle. 
   He was a heroin addict, but not the piece of shit she made him out to be. Before he vanished in the summer of 76’ he drifted through the streets of South Brooklyn, grinning, and waving at everyone, high as a kite. 
   That man loved garbage. His favorite saying was one man’s junk was another man’s treasure. Some days he would take my little brother and I scavenging behind M&M’s grocery and various apartment buildings. We thought it was a grand adventure. We never noticed the red puncture marks climbing up the crook arms. 
     In our eyes, The Patron Saint of the Needle was a great man. 
   He took us to the park, taught us to ride bikes and catch a baseball. What we didn’t know was that he was flying-high during these formative moments. Even now, fifty years later, I still ask myself, did it matter? 
    We had a father who was physically there for us, even though he was sailing the skag river, he was great fun. Some of our friends didn’t have fathers. 
    We did. 
    That is until the morning of June 30th, 1976, when he vanished.      
    My brother and I were sitting on the carpet, bowl of cereal in our laps, in front of the television watching The Brady Bunch. The Saint had been gone all night on an adventure, probably searching garbage in far-off lands. My mother was sitting at our second-floor apartment window scanning the streets for his holiness. 
    When we heard the scraping of a key at the door, and the Saint stumbled in. 
    My mother stormed past us, red-rimmed eyes, bared teeth like a wild animal. 
It was on.
    We made a mad dash for our high riser, chased by the screams, and burrowed under the covers. Even the layers of cloth couldn’t dull the roar. It was that day we came up with the name ‘Hate’ for her. She was always so angry when he was around. We had no idea what she had endured. Our fledgling minds couldn’t possibly understand how the man who took us to the park and brought home penny bags of candy, could be so bad. Cause such chaos.
    That fight ended with her telling him to get out and never come back, he simply replied, ‘Fucken A’ and closed the door behind him. My mother ran to the window and screamed, ‘Don’t take my car’ He jumped into the 76’ and tore off. 
    That was the last time we ever saw the Saint. 
    That is. . . until North Carolina and the 1976 Lincoln Town car. 
   I saw the wreck about a hundred yards beyond the roadblock. An eighteen-wheeler had rolled onto its side, tossing its load of live chickens. It was going to be a while.
    “Officer, can I pull off the road here, I wanna check out the classic” I asked, pointing at the Lincoln.        
    The bored Deputy shrugged his indifference. So, I pulled onto the shoulder and cut off the engine. I was excited to finally get a closer look at the beast. 
    Rust had eaten away the chrome lining the doors and front grill. The vinyl had disintegrated, leaving a flat sheet-metal roof and the once sleek fender had fallen to time. With a herculean pull, the door swung open with a screech. 
    Stale air wafted out - old leather, animal feces, and cigarette smoke. The interior had been torn to shreds, seat nothing but springs. A beaded seat cover remained over the driver’s seat. Hopefully, it would protect my rump. So, I carefully sat behind the warped steering wheel. 
    Pulling the massive door closed, even in its derelict state, the Town Car quieted the world. Lowering the sun visor, a single key fell into my lap: a squared head marked Lincoln, with teeth dulled to rounded humps. Just for kicks, I slid the key into the ignition and gave it a turn. 
    The great monster growled to life.
    “W-Nnnn-BC! This is your cousin Brucie!  Get your spot early, it’s gonna be some show tonight cousins!” the dashboard radio glowed to life. Elton John and Kiki Dee faded in with “Don’t go Breaking My Heart”
    Through the suddenly spotless windshield, I saw a blue sky and boardwalk, a black and white sign that read Astroland. On the right rose the famous roller coaster, the Cyclone, the tick, tick, tick as the coaster climbed the rise, then roared past. 
    Was this an illusion? A stroke? Was I dead? The engine sputtered and died, everything faded and was gone.
    The deputy was knocking on the dirty window.
    “Roads open. Gotta move your car.” He walked away.
    I pulled the handle, shouldered the door open and reluctantly got out. I stood staring at the old Lincoln, wondering what the hell had just happened when a siren and voice over the PA ordered me to my car. 
    I drove off but couldn’t stop thinking about the Lincoln. Maybe there was an exhaust leak and I hallucinated everything. Either way, I had to find out. I’d be back after work tomorrow for sure.
    When I approached the next day, I noticed the Lincoln was surrounded by full-grown pines. I hadn’t considered that yesterday. It had to have been sitting there for more than twenty years. There was no way this behemoth was driven between the trees. Also, this copse of woods spread out for fifty yards in all directions.
    Strange.
    Time to find out if yesterday was a cerebral event and I would need a neurologist appointment.
   The driver’s door swung open like a bank vault door. The key was still in the ignition, gearshift in park. I hopped in and pulled the door closed behind me. Shrugging, I turned the key and the engine rumbled to life and returned to that same day.
    “Hey cousins, here’s Boston’s new smash hit ‘More Than a feeling’ on W-N-BC” the dash lit up and windshield wipers swished.
    The Coney Island boardwalk appeared, packed with people. The smell of sunscreen, sweat, and marijuana tainted the air. The Cyclone roared by with screams of excitement and a train conductor’s mechanical voice called out from across the street, “West 8th street, Astroland, Coney Island, watch the closing doors.” 
    “Well cousins, it finally here, July 4th, 1976” Cousin Brucie’s voice spoke up after Boston faded, “don’t miss the fireworks in Coney Island tonight” he faded replaced by the drums and sultry female voices singing, You make me feel like dancing. 
    This was incredible. This was real.
    Pulling the latch, I shouldered the door open and...it was gone. 
    Looking to the front windshield, it was grime covered again. 
    I pulled the door closed and the beach and crowds reappeared across the windshield like a movie theatre screen. 
    Opened the door.
    Gone.
    Closed. 
    Back.
    I don’t know what to make of this. The Lincoln only took me to this day and time. Maybe I had something to learn.
    I could feel the heat of the noon sun on my arms and smell the ocean salt, yet, if I opened the car-door, it was all gone. 
    “Come on man, you’re gonna miss the show.” A long-haired teenager called to me.
    “Yeah man, the Blue Angels are gonna fly over the beach.” A sunburned redhead with nails painted red, white, and blue touched my arm.
    A long-haired man stuck his head through the passenger side window, I could see my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses.
    “Hey man, you lookin for grass?” he dangled a little baggie of what looked like marijuana. 
    So, they can reach in, but I can’t open the door. Maybe the door is the key. 
    I slid over the leather seat to the passenger side, shooed him out, and climbed through the window. 
    The hippie said something like hey man and walked away in a cloud of pot smoke. 
    I sat on the door, feet dangling, so far so good. 
    I was afraid to hop down, I didn’t want whatever this was to end. 
    I remember coming here as a kid. I would take the F train from avenue N, 13 stops to West 8th street and run down the concrete ramp to the boardwalk. Then a mad dash across the burning sand to the water’s edge. All summer long, southbound trains and cross-town buses from across South Brooklyn, filled with happy children and their sun-browned parents, trudged to ‘the beach’. 
    It was a better time, an easier time in the world.  
    Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and hopped off the door. 
    Feet landed on a solid surface.
    Standing. Eyes squeezed shut, I could still hear the amusement park and noise of humanity. 
    I opened my eyes. 
    I stood in the parking lot facing the Aquarium and boardwalk that ran along the shoreline from Brighton to Seagate. Reaching behind me the car was still there, I moved forward into the flow of pedestrians and was swept in their motion. 
   Separating from the flow, I stopped on the boardwalk looking down at the beige sand. The beach was covered with umbrellas, blankets, and humanity, from the boardwalk to the ocean. 
    Behind was a mass of concrete and twenty story apartment buildings that were popping up across Neptune Avenue and Ocean Parkway. 
    This is real, I could feel the sun on my face and smell the sea salt. 
    I was admiring the human traffic when I saw him.
    The Saint. 
    My father, sitting on a bench facing the beach. 
   White dress shirt open and blowing in the breeze. White tank top and his faded blue jeans. He was smoking a Salem cigarette and holding a rolled-up newspaper. 
    And he was young.
    The Saint, in all his holiness.
    I hadn’t seen my father in forty-three-years. 
    As I stood amidst the crush of humanity on the boardwalk, I recognized something I had not as a child. 
    The junkie in his face. 
    Sunken eyes, nervous twitch, and the insatiable itch that kept the body moving until the hunger was satisfied through a spike in the arm.
    We never knew what happened to him. He disappeared without a trace that morning. My brother and I imagined he was off somewhere in the world, digging through trash, gathering a fortune. We believed he would return to us, loaded with loot. 
    He didn’t.
    Now, there he stood, mere feet away. 
    He was indeed hunting treasure, just not the kind we thought.
    Two uniformed police officers patrolling the board walk, twirling their nightsticks like cheerleaders their shoes thumping on the wooden planks. My father caught sight of them and quickly stood up moving off in the opposite direction, expertly fading into the crowd. He glided between a large black man and a group of folks holding a sign that said Jesus saves. 
    He was a very skinny nondescript white guy, so he faded into a sea of humanity. Blending and becoming invisible. I had to run to keep an eye on him; fear of jail and missing a fix giving him superhuman speed. He was thirty-three and completely absorbed in his addiction, so, he moved with purpose. 
    At West 12th street he turned right and left the boardwalk for the street. 
    With a furtive glance behind him to ensure the police hadn’t followed, he slowed, returning to his junkie-bop down Stillwell Avenue. 
   After all these years maybe, I would find out what happened to him. I had always blamed my mother; she drove him away with her constant nagging and screaming. 
    “What’s the matter Rich, on the nod?” she would scream into his semi-conscious face. 
    “I’m just resting my eyes.” He would reply without opening them.
     In my child’s mind, she ran him off.  
    He crossed Stillwell Avenue, deftly dodging the B9 bus and several oncoming cars. Oblivious to the screeching tires, curse words, sights set on a fix. 
    He was heading toward massive apartment buildings that stood shoulder to shoulder. He was heading for the Luna Park Houses.
    He walked over to a group of six or seven black guys standing in front the building. They knew him. 
    “What up, Ghost?” one asked him. 
    Another street nickname, I guess. He was very pale, and his clothes hung like a shroud from a skeletal frame.
    I stayed back and waited from him to come back out. The guys out front also had a boombox and were jamming to The Sylvers’, Boogie Fever. However, they were dangerous men, I could see the look in their eyes, wary and ready. 
    He came back out looked right and cut left heading for the elevated train station. 
   At McDonald Avenue and avenue Z, he ran up the train stairs; waited until the booth clerk looked away, then slithered under the turnstile and dashed up the stairs.
    I pulled open the yellow exit gates and walked through to the ‘PAY YOUR FARE’ shouts. 
    I took the steps three at a time because a train came clanking into, the station. 
    We both got on the Coney Island bound train as the doors whooshed shut. 
    I knew he had copped because he kept nervously dropping his hand to the pants pocket with a small bulge. He’d tap it and move the hand, only to do it again a few seconds later. 
    He got off at West 8th street and walked the ramp back down to the beach. Rather than walk the boardwalk, he hopped over the rail and went beneath. 
    I watched at a distance as he took out his works. 
    Laying a handkerchief on the sand, he smoothed out the fabric and placed the works on it.
   With pharmaceutical expertise, he dropped a black ball onto a spoon and squirted some water on it. Placing a flame beneath the spoon the ball liquefied. The Saint added some cotton, waited a second, then drew the brown liquid into the needle.    
    I watched as my father stuck the spike in his arm. 
    I wanted to scream. 
    I wanted to run down there and beat the shit out of him or hug him and cry. 
    I did none of these things. 
    I stood leaning against the metal handrail as he stumbled past me. Eyes lidded, a smile from ear to ear as he walked the crooked line. 
    The sun was setting, and a cool breeze came in off the ocean. I followed as he wove back and forth. The thinning crowd making way for him and laughing as he waved and mumbled. He tried lighting a cigarette but gave up after the flame wouldn’t touch the tip of the smoke. 
    He turned left and walked across the sand heading toward the jetty. Climbing on, he negotiated the rocks without losing balance. 
    Junkies had the balance of a Weeble Wobble. They never fell.
    He walked out to the point and sat on the last rock. 
    I watched as his head nodded and he struggled to remain upright. 
    Taking a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, he tried the lighting thing again. 
    Eureka! He inhaled and blew a stream of blue-grey smoke, a look of extreme satisfaction on his face. 
    A wave reached up and washed him from the rock.
    The saint was gone. 
    This was why he disappeared! He didn’t leave us.
    I had to save him.
    I ran to the jetty and along the wet rocks. 
    I negotiated the rocks while searching the water. 
    He surfaced, sputtering, and waving for help.
    I called to him.
    He went under again.
    I was yelling for someone to help!
    He surfaced a hundred yards further out to sea.
    I dove in and swam as hard as I could toward him.
    The tide was forcing me toward the shore.
    I ran up on the shore, still screaming for help, ‘My Father’ I yelled pointing at the water. No one looked at me.
    I started to feel the wind growing in strength, pushing me away from the shore. I couldn’t fight it. 
    I tried.
    Digging my heels into the sand, it just knocked me on my ass and blew me across the sand.
    When I regained my feet, I was standing next to the Lincoln, back in the parking lot of the Aquarium. A police officer was standing next to the vehicle, ticket book in hand, looking over at me.
    “Yours” nodding at the vehicle.
    I nodded back and started to tell him about my father when he interrupted.
    “Time to go.” He opened the driver’s door.
    I tried to argue.
    “Son, the shows over.” He grabbed my arm and shoved me into the driver’s seat.
    With a slam of the door the scenery changed in an instant. 
    The dirty windshield was back, and the interior was shredded and moldering with age and neglect. I sat back against the seat cover and cried long and hard. Somehow, the universe had given me a glimpse of the biggest mystery of my life. I had wondered, ever since the morning in 1976; had he started a new life, did he care about me. 
    I blamed my mother for driving him away and it had affected our relationship. I remembered him as the funny, tired guy who took me to the park and bought penny bags of candies. I remembered her as perpetually angry and always yelling at him. He never yelled back, so in a child’s mind she was the aggressor. 
    Now, I know differently.
   For whatever reason I had been given a chance to see what had happened to my father. He hadn’t hated us; he’d been sick with addiction.      An addiction that had cost his life. 
    I gave the key one more turn.
    Nothing.
    I got out and tossed the key into the car.
    Let the Lincoln keep its secrets–and mine. 

​


My name is Richard J. Goff, and I am a lifelong writer, and proud father of four outstanding individuals. I found a relationship with writing in childhood, through trauma. What started as a tool for healing became a lifelong passion. The power of storytelling helped me find a voice. Through writing, came healing and freedom.


​Anti-Heroin Chic is a sponsored project of Indolent Arts, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit fiscal sponsor. Please consider making a one-time tax-deductible donation.

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