My New York City Junky Days

January 19, 2026

Michael Cline, Author

Tom O'Connor, Publisher

Author Michael Cline is an American nomad living in Barcelona, Spain. Michael wrote a fascinating book titled New York City Junky Days. His book describes a wild ride into the rabbit hole of heroin addiction in old-school New York City. 

It encompasses a glimpse into a man's descent into madness as he falls deeper into addiction, hitting new lows and eventually finding redemption. Poignant, raw, and honest, this memoir lets you experience a dark world few have ever encountered. Set against the gritty backdrop of the East Village in the 80s and 90s, it includes stories of random meetings with three of the four Ramones, working for Michael Alig, a hilarious encounter with Allen Ginsberg, and a darker one with Herbert Huncke. 

According to Michael Cline:

Avenue B

One day, we walked down Avenue B, a street notorious for its drug trade, heading downtown towards Houston Street while getting to know each other better. His story was similar to mine. He was a few years younger than me and had moved to the neighborhood a few years prior. It was the usual story, just like ours. 

Out of curiosity, he tried heroin once, liked it, couldn't keep it under control, and wound up addicted—same old story. We copped at the same spots, and although we didn't know each other, we always said hello or waved to each other when we happened to cross paths.

While walking down Avenue B, we came to the block where I usually bought my work. I had some at home, so I intentionally didn't make eye contact with any of the usual sellers, who were all patiently sitting in doorways or on upside-down plastic pails —the types street musicians use as drums. In the middle of the block, across from a vacant garbage-strewn lot, were three or four young Latino kids kicking a can. They couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve. My friend and I continued talking and ignored them as we walked by their game of kick the can. Just as we passed them, one called out to us.

"Hey, Mister," he yelled directly at us with the most angelic child's voice. "You dropped your heroin needle." He innocently pointed to the sidewalk as if trying to be helpful. We both spun around and looked at the ground as he and his friends started to laugh. Even knowing that I didn't have a needle on me, I still instinctively looked to the ground and patted my pockets to make sure I hadn't, in fact, dropped one. My friend did the same. I just laughed and said, "Yeah, kid, ya got me on that one," as we turned around and continued heading downtown.

We crossed busy Houston Street and formally entered the Lower East Side. Walking further downtown on Clinton Street, we turned left onto Stanton. I had butterflies in my stomach. This part of town was so downtrodden and sad, and gave me the heebie-jeebies. The energy here was way off. Although it was relatively quiet, with few people on the street, that quietness gave the feeling that something could happen at any moment. And that something did happen.

We hadn't even walked a whole block on Stanton Street when an empty beer bottle smashed at our feet, sending broken shards of glass in all directions. Somebody had accidentally, or perhaps intentionally, dropped it from a window or the roof of the building we were walking by. I didn't see it falling, but the second it hit the sidewalk with a loud crash, I instinctively leaped to the side to avoid the shards of glass. The sudden noise had broken the quiet side street and scared us. Looking up at the building to our side, there was no one to be seen. It could have innocently been accidentally knocked off a window ledge, or maybe it was an upset neighbor who recognized two white boys heading into the hood to buy drugs.

We shrugged it off and continued walking eastbound on Stanton. Off in the distance, maybe a block or two away, we heard firecrackers. Being close to the Fourth of July, this was normal, and as each passing day went by, the frequency of bangs and booms increased. As we continued down the street, we got closer to their source. Suddenly, we heard the loud whistle of a bottle rocket that zoomed right by us, inches above our heads, coming at us in a downward and slanted direction. Seconds later, two more whizzed by us just as hundreds of firecrackers went off, raining their shattered paper on us like rain. 

It seemed surreal, as if we were in a war zone rather than New York City. Unlike the bottle that crashed down next to us, this attack was definitely intentional. Looking skyward, we saw the silhouettes of five or six people on the building's roof directly in front of us. They were probably local teenagers who thought it was funny to rain hellfire on the defenseless junkies below. I should have taken the firecracker assault and the dropped bottle as a sign that we were not welcome, but the need for dope far outweighed any logic or common sense. If I had to go into a warzone to cop, I'd dodge the bullets and take my chances.

Laundromat

Looking back on this moment in time after 25 years clean, I see that this was the moment I made my biggest mistake. Back then, in New York City, while making my first heroin purchase, I felt as if I had joined the 'Big Boys Club,' a term we used to describe the feeling of being part of a group that was in control, that had power. It felt like an accomplishment. Little did I know of the years of pain and suffering it would cause. Nobody thinks they will get addicted. Everyone says they can keep their heroin use under control.

From my experience, there are no casual heroin users. It's an all-or-nothing experience.

I walked through Tompkins Square Park and exited at the corner of East 7th and Avenue B. Anything further east of Avenue B was considered the war zone, an area of Alphabet City known to be rough. Back then, there were plenty of abandoned buildings that were being occupied by squatters, drug dealers, or both. Further east was Avenue D, where the projects were. I had heard stories that kids who lived in these buildings regularly threw rocks at passing city buses. Just behind the projects was the East River. Brooklyn was on the other side of the eastern banks of the water.

As I exited the park, I could already see a line of people that led to the stoop of a building. This was obviously a Laundromat. It's a quiet residential street with no businesses. There was no other reason that there'd be a line of people in front of an apartment building unless they were waiting to cop. Everyone was lined up against the wall patiently waiting their turn to buy. On top of the stoop was a tough-looking Latino guy, maybe forty years old, wearing a black waiter's apron, the type with two pockets on its front. He was halfway inside the building's door as he took customers' money with one hand and dispensed bags of heroin with the other. 

There were all types of people waiting in that line of 15. Men and women all standing quietly in line, some well-dressed and others looking beaten up and broken. To my naive eyes, this scene looked out of place. Seeing a line of people standing on a block like this seemed too obvious about what was going on, but this scene played out every night and had probably done so for years.

As I approached the end of the line, I was startled when I heard someone from father down the block yelling, "Aqua! Aqua!" Suddenly, the dealer in the doorway darted inside and slammed the door shut as those waiting in line quickly scattered and tried to blend into the dark, quiet, empty block. 

Seconds later, a police car drove by, the officer behind the wheel not paying attention to the dozen of us milling around trying to look natural. He stopped at the stop sign on the corner and then mashed on the gas and quickly took off toward Avenue A. My heart was beating a mile a minute. Feeling like a deer in the headlights, I stood there motionless, not sure what to do. I felt certain that the whole lot of us were about to be arrested, and, if not, certainly questioned.

A moment later, I heard the same voice from down the block yelling, "Gato! Gato!" Those who had stepped away rushed back over to the building just as the dealer opened the front door again. My heart was pounding as I took my place at the end of the line. This was my first lesson in the rules of copping at Laundromat. The words aqua and gato. meant, respectively, "the police are coming" and 

Apparently, we weren't going to be detained by the police, and it was back to business as usual. No one said a word about what had just happened. While waiting for my turn, I watched each person buy so that I knew what to do. When I was near the front of the line, the dealer angrily returned money to a willing customer. "No singles," he said and thrust the money back into someone's hand. "You know the rules, no singles, no fives." 

This was rule number two. You can only pay with tens, or a larger bill if you are buying more than one bag. This was an exact change in the type of business. I assumed this was to make counting money easier and to avoid ending up with literally hundreds of single-dollar bills, not to mention less counting while dealing to keep the line moving.

"One D, please," I said with a smile. I handed him a ten-dollar bill as he deposited a packet into my outstretched hand. I said thank you, put it in my pocket, and walked away quickly. My politeness was out of place and unnecessary, but it came across as natural. As I walked through Tompkins Square Park, I kept that bag in my front pocket and fumbled with it with my right hand. Halfway through the park, 

I walked by a rather bored-looking uniformed police officer. "How ya doing, officer?" I said with a smile as I passed him. He completely ignored me. Little did he know that I had a controlled substance, which stupidly made me feel like a badass. Copping was so easy, and I quickly learned the rules. The entire experience was exhilarating, with its own high. 

I felt like an outlaw as I walked home. This was not a good thing.

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Michael Cline can be contacted at Michaelcline2323@gmail.com.NEW YORK CITY JUNKY DAYSNEW YORK RECOVERY DAYS: From Addiction to Ayahuasca: Finding Freedom and My Higher Self (Coming soon)MY ADVENTURES IN TUVA

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