I will forever remain proud that it was I who introduced A.J. to crystal meth. I knew I’d found a true friend when, the first time we met, he took me back to Camp Bowery and proceeded to blow fat lines of coke from the—yes, THE—black table. (Or so I recall it being a certain black table.) When I declined his offer of South American goodness and instead set down a line of my own favorite drug, I was more than happy to share. One year later, we would once again indulge in a fat bag of meth that had unexpectedly resurfaced in my apartment. A.J. and the two others—whose names will go with me to the grave—helped polish it off one Friday night. I would later learn that eighteen hours, A.J. found himself sitting in the bathroom, unable to sleep, unable to masturbate, with an irrepressible urge to shave his body. Completely. Ask him about that one.