The 1980s saw one of the most memorable anti-drug commercials ever made: This is Your Brain on Drugs. It was short, direct and, many feel, effective. In it, a man held up an egg and said, “This is your brain,” then picked up a frying pan and added, “This is drugs.” He then cracked open the egg, fried the contents, and said, “This is your brain on drugs.” Finally, he looked up at the camera and asked, “Any questions?”

I have observed and socialized on occasion with a few individual members of a group of crusties, who have now begun to make home in one particular area of Washington Square Park. For many young people, the nihilistic lifestyle is seductive. Most are severely addicted to drugs such as heroin and are on methadone programs. I have seen many drug addicts sleeping in a severely slumped type of position on a park bench in New York City, like that in today’s photo.

On July 8 and 12, 2011, I published a two-part story featuring crusties and Morgan Maginnis ( see Part 1 here). In the photos and video interview, Morgan had a certain charm. She said she had two college degrees at age 23. But all is not well with her. She has violent outbursts and manic episodes, hits others, and has been hit herself in what appears to be a popular recreation among crusties. Morgan always seems to be bleeding somewhere.

This was Morgan. Today, we have Morgan on Drugs. Any Questions?

(see Part 1 here)

“Brian only speaks the truth.”

Around 1973, I answered an advertisement for a freelance carpenter (see Part 1 here) to work on a retail store restoration on 3rd Avenue in the 20s. I arranged to meet and interview with Max, the new shop owner. For some reason, he took an immediate liking to me with an inexplicable level of confidence, in spite of my lack of experience.

In the course of the interview, he became fixated on knowing whether or not I had ever fallen on my head. His assertion was that this typically opened a person’s “third eye,” apparently something he was looking for. I decided to play my cards carefully and responded in a vague enough manner to let him believe what he wanted. I was immediately hired and soon promoted to be in charge of the entire construction project – something I was clearly not qualified for in any way. No matter, however, since this project was to derail rather quickly.

I was introduced to the workers as their boss and that my word was to be followed without question. Max asserted that I could be trusted implicitly because “Brian only speaks the truth.” Apparently, this was a function of my 3rd eye being opened.

The entire project was the intersection of whimsy, folly, and insanity. After completion of one interior wall, Max decided a curved wall would be more to his liking. I was told to have the wall ripped out and to begin the construction of a curved wall.

Max always carried an attaché case. On one occasion, he took the time to make a very important announcement. If we ever were to notice his attaché case left behind accidentally, we were to take possession and contact him immediately. We were informed that he typically carried $10,000 in cash. He snapped open the case and revealed neatly bundled and stacked $100 bills. WOW. I had never seen that kind of money.

But most curious and odd was his possession of a book with a hole in it, which apparently contained arcane knowledge. From time to time in conversation, he would brandish the small black tome and speak to me while looking through the hole. Once, he said, “I was on a plane returning from Amsterdam, reading my book with the hole in it …” As he said this, he would lift his book and peer at me through the hole. I desperately wanted to see the inside of that book. Perhaps it contained the answers to life’s deepest and darkest mysteries. I was never allowed to look inside, nor did the book have any title or markings.

At one point, I came down with a severe flu and decided to tell Max in person that I would be out of work for several days. I met him at his apartment in Manhattan. When I arrived, his family was seated at a table, eating dinner. He was completely naked, head to toe, casually eating fried chicken. His wife and children were clothed. When I told him of my condition, he said that it was easily cured – I only needed to take 1000 milligrams of vitamin C per hour.

The project quickly went under, and I was owed $400. One day, I was called by a coworker, who said that Max was at the store with his attaché case and that if I wanted my money, I should get there quickly. I jumped in a taxi, a luxury I rarely indulged in. I arrived and told Max he owed me $400. He said that when I had the exact numbers for him, he would pay me. I told him the numbers were exact. He opened his case and gave me $400 in cash. I returned home and felt rich, drawing from that stack of money for living expenses for some time.

The last I heard of Max was when the same coworker called and said Max had last been seen lying in the street on 3rd Avenue, singing Delta Dawn (a big hit at the time) and stopping traffic. An ambulance had picked him up and he had been placed in a psychiatric institution. I will never know what lay in the pages of The Book With the Hole In It …

Note: I recently located Samuel Weiser Books in York Beach, Maine, one of the largest dealers of occult books in the world (previously located in Manhattan). I called and spoke to someone very knowledgeable. I described this book with a hole in it. He assured me he was familiar with virtually every occult book, that he had never heard of such a book, and that it was highly unlikely that such a book on an occult or spiritual subject existed.

Other Related Posts: Never Cut a Board, Shows Me Here, Because I’m the Best Part 2, Because I’m the Best Part 1