Requiem for a Dream (2 page)

Mr. Rabinowitz shook his head as he watched them push
the set into his pawn shop. So look, the table too already. Hey, what
do you want from me? I cant schlep it on my back. You got a friend.
He could help already. Hey mah man, ah aint mah lepers schlepper.
Harry chuckled and shook his head, Whatta jew. Anyway, it makes it
easier to get it home. Thats mah man, always thinkin of his moms. Oi,
such a son. A goniff. Shes needing you like a moose needs a hat rack.
Come on Abe, we're in a hurry. Just give us the bread. Hurry, hurry.
All the time in a hurry, shuffling around behind the counter,
inspecting the pencils carefully before picking one out to use. You
got such big things to do the voild is falling apart if everything
isnt dont yesterday. He clucked his tongue, shook his head, and
slowly counted the money . . . twice . . . three times—Hey, comeon
Abe, lets get with it. You dig this dude jim? Hes lickin them fingers
and countin that braid ovah and ovah like its gonna change numbers.
He dont even trus his ownself. Damn.

Mr. Rabinowitz gave the money to Harry and Harry
signed the book. Do for me a favor and veel it over there?

Sheeit. You know somethin jim, evertime I see you I
work mah pretty little ass off. They pushed the set to the corner and
split.

Mr. Rabinowitz watched, shaking his head and clucking
his tongue, then sighed, Somethingks wrong ...it just aint kosher
already, it just aint kosher.

Sheeit. Why you wanna go there man? Why do I wanta go
there? Because they give blue chip stamps with the dope. You know
somthin Harry? You is simple minded. You shouldnt fuck aroun when you
talkin about somethin serious like dope man. Aspecially when you be
talkin about mah dope. Yours I'm not carin about. Just mine. And
whats so great about the dope here? O man, what you mean? Theys just
as many connections right here as there. We could even try somebody
new. New? Yeah baby. We could jus ease on down the street and see who
have the most fingers up their nose and noddin out an we know where
the good dope be, ah mean the outta sight shit jim. An anyways, we
save the cab fare. Cab fare? Who died and left you rich? This moneys
goin for dope man. It aint goin for no cab. Ya gotta take care a
necessities before ya fuck with luxuries.

Sheeit. You aspect me to ride them mutha fuckin
subways with all them poiverts and winos? Damn. You outta your mine.
They rip you off before you gets anywheres. Hey man, dont go pulling
that lazy ass ol black joe shit on me. Tyrone chuckled, Man, if ah
gotta do some travelin then let me call mah man Brody and see what he
got. Gimme a dime. Goddamn it man, since when do you need a dime to
make a call. Hey baby, ah dont fuck with no phone company. Harry
leaned against the phone booth as Tyrone hunched himself around the
phone and spoke conspiratorially. After a minute or so he hung up the
phone and stepped, forth from the booth, a huge grin on his face. Hey
man, close ya mouth, its hurtin my eyes. You pale-assed mutha fucka.
You shure wouldnt make it in no cotton fields. Tyrone started walking
and Harry fell in alongside him. So whats happenin? Mah man got some
dynamite shit baby an wes gonna get us a spoon. They walked up the
stairs from the subway separately. Harry looked around for a moment
as Tyrone continued down the street, then went to the coffee shop a
few doors away. The neighborhood was absolutely and completely black.
Even the plain-clothesmen were black. Harry always felt a little
conspicuous in the coffee shop sipping light coffee and eating a
chocolate doughnut. This was the only drag about copping from Brody.
He usually had good shit but Harry couldnt go any further than the
coffee shop or they would blow the whole scene, or what was almost as
bad, he might get his head laid open. Actually the smart thing to do,
the really smart thing to do, would be to stay uptown, but Harry
couldnt bear to be that far away from the money and the shit. It was
bad enough sitting here feeling his stomach muscles tighten and that
anxiety crawl through his body and the taste twitch the back of his
throat, but it was a million times better than not being here.

He ordered another cup of coffee and doughnut and
turned in the stool slightly as a cop, blacker than his doughnut and
bigger than a goddamn Mack truck, sat next to him. Jesus krist, just
my fuckin luck. Try to relax and enjoy a cup of coffee and a fuckin
baboon has to sit next to me. Shit! He sipped his coffee and looked
at the gun in the holster wondering what would happen if he suddenly
yanked the gun out and started shooting, pow, pow, and blow the
mother fuckers head right the fuck off then toss a bill on the
counter and tell the chick to keep the change and stroll out or maybe
just ease the gun out and then hand it to the cop and ask him if it
was his, I just found it on the floor and I thought maybe you
misplaced your gun, or what would really be a gasser would be to
sneak the fuckin thing out and mail it to the commissioner with a
little note how a couple a guys got burned with it and maybe he
should take better care a his toys . . . yeah, that would be a gasser
and he looked at the huge son of a bitch sitting next to him as he
fat mouthed with the chick behind the counter and laughed his big
black ass off and Harry chuckled to himself and wondered what the cop
would think if he knew that his life was in Harrys hands and then
Harry noticed the size of the hand holding the coffee cup and
realized that it was bigger than a fuckin basketball and he stuffed
the rest of the doughnut in his mouth and swished it down with the
coffee and strolled out of the coffee shop, slowly, still feeling
that mountain of a fuzz behind him, as Tyrone bebopped his way down
the subway steps.

Tyrones pad wasnt much more than a room with a sink.
They sat around the small table, their works in a glass, the water
tinged pink with blood, their heads hanging loose from their necks,
their hands hanging loose from their wrists, their fingers barely
holding their cigarettes. Occasionally a finger probed a nostril.
Their voices came low and weak from their throats. Sheeit, thats some
boss scag baby. I mean dyn a mite. Yeah man, its really somethin
else. Harrys cigarette burned his fingers and he dropped it, Shit,
then slowly bent over and looked at it for a minute, his hand hanging
over it, then finally picked it up, looked at it, then gradually
worked a fresh cigarette out of his pack and into his mouth and lit
it with the old one, dropped the butt in the ashtray, then licked the
burned spot on his fingers. He stared at the tip of his shoes for a
moment, then another . . . they looked good, sort of soft the way
they—a huge roach attracted his attention as it belligerently
marched by, and by the time he thought of trying to step on it it
disappeared under the molding. Just as well, that sonofabitch mighta
put a hole in my shoe. He tugged his arm up and then his hand and
took a drag of his cigarette. Harry took another long drag on his
cigarette and inhaled it slowly and deeply, tasting each particle of
smoke and savoring the way it seemed to titillate his tonsils and
throat, krist it tasted good. There was something about smack that
made a cigarette taste so fuckin good. Ya know what we oughtta do
man? Huh? We oughtta get a piece a this shit and cut it and off half
of it, ya dig? Yeah baby, this stuffs good enough to cut in half and
still get you wasted. Yeah, we'd just take a taste for ourselves and
off the rest. We could double our money. Easy. Thas right baby. An
then we buys a couple a pieces an we got somethin else goin man. It
sure  would be righteous baby. All we gotta do is cool it with
the shit, you know, just a taste once in a while but no heavy
shit—Right on baby—just enough to stay straight an we'd have a
fuckin bundle in no time. You bet your sweet ass. Those bucks would
just be pilin up till we was ass deep in braid Jim. Thats right man,
and we wouldnt fuck it up like those other assholes. We wont get
strung out and blow it. We'd be cool and take care a business and in
no time we'd get a pound of pure and just sit back and count the
bread. No hustlin the fuckin streets. You goddamn right mutha fucka.
We get it right from the eyetalians and cut it our ownselves and get
us some runy nosed dope fiens to hustle it for us an we jus sit back
countin them bucks and drivin a big ass pink mutha fuckin El Dorado.
Yeah, and I'll get a chaufers uniform and drive your black ass all
over town. An you better hold that mutha fuckin door jim or I'll burn
your ass. . . . O yeah, mah names Tyrone C. Love and I loves nobody
but Tyrone C. Well, it ain't no Tyrone C. Im gonta love. Im gonta get
me a fine pad by Central Park man and just spend my time sniffin all
that fine quiff walkin by. Sheeit . . . what you gonna do with that
man. You done doogied out your dong. Im just gonta lay down beside it
and pet it man and maybe just sort of nibble on it once in a while.
Damn. Now aint this a muthafuckin shame. This dudes gonna lay up in
some fine pad with some fine fox and hes gonna go stickin his nose in
that nasty thang. So what do you want from me, I like to knosh. A
little chopped liver, a little smoked fish, a— Gawddamn, but you a
nasty mutha fucka. Thas the trouble with you ofays man, you dont know
what to do with a fox. Shit man, we know what to do. Its you fuckin
Africans who dont have any table manners . . . why do ya think the
Jewish guys get all the broads? It aint got nothing ta do with money.
Its because we're knoshers. Sheeit, you just a missin dick fool man.
Afta ah has mah tailor measure me for a few more suits ahm goin back
to the pad and have me a stable of foxes jim that make your knees
buckle. Ah mean theys gonna be real fine. An Im gonna have a
different color for everyday in the week. How long ya figure itll
take us before we can go for a pound of pure? Sheeit man. That aint
nothin. We get out there an hustle up a couple a yards for a piece an
we on our way. By Christmas we be sittin back countin those bucks and
talkin that trash. Merry Christmas man. Harrys cigarette burned his
fingers, Shit, and he dropped it, son of a bitch.

Two young kids from the neighborhood went to the hock
shop with Sara. Mr. Rabinowitz shuffled around the counter, Good
evening Mrs. Goldfarb. Good evening Mr. Rabinowitz, though I'm not so
sure how good it is. And you? Uh, he half closed his eyes, hunched
his shoulders and tilted his head, so vat could I say? Im alone in
the store all day and mine wife is shopping mit our daughter Rachel
for little Izzy something and still not home yet. For lunch Im having
cold tongue, mit out da rye. . . . Im having some mustard and
harseradish, but mit out da rye already, oi . . . he shrugged, tilted
and peered again, but for supper maybe Im having cold soup if she
still not home, are you vanting your TV? How old is little Izzy now?
O, hes so cute I could just take hunks and bits out of those chubby
little legs. Yes, if you dont mind. I have these nice young boys to
push it home for me—such nice boys to help a poor mother—thank
God he took the stand too so it makes it easier to get back. I only
have three dollars now but next week I'm— So take it, take,
shrugging and tilting his head, and veal hope he doesnt take it again
before you pay for this time, not like the time he stole already the
set three times in vun month and it vas how long before youre paying
it off? Izzy is being a whole year next week, Tuesday. Oooo, Sara
sighed long and deep, it seems like only yesterday Rachel was playing
dolls and now . . . Sara gave the three dollars, that had been folded
and carefully tucked in the corner of her blouse, to Mr. Rabino-witz,
and he shuffled behind the counter and put it in his cash register
and carefully made an entry in a small book with the title, SARA
GOLDFARB'S TV, on the cover. There were endless pages of entries and
dates, covering the last few years, of money given Harry for the set
and the payments his mother made after redeeming it. The two kids had
started pushing the set, and the table, out to the street. Mrs.
Goldfarb, can I ask of you a question, you vont be taking git
personal? Sara shrugged, How many years we know each other? He nodded
his head up and down up and down up and down, Whos to count? Vy dont
you tell already the police so maybe they could talk to Harry and he
vouldnt be stealing no more the TV, or maybe they send him somewhere
for a few months he can tink and ven hes coming out hes already a
good boy and takes care of you and no more all the time taking the
TV? Oooo, another long and deep sigh, Mr. Rabinowitz, I couldnt,
clutching her breast most fervently, Harolds my only child, and only 
relative. Hes all I have. Everyone else is dead. Theres only Harry
and me . . . my son, my boobala. And who knows how much time I have
left— Ah, a young voman—she waved away his remark, to help my
son. Hes the end of the line. The last of the Goldfarbs. How could I
make him a criminal? They would put him with such terrible people
where he could learn such terrible things. No, hes young. Hes a good
boy my Harold. Hes just a little mischief. Someday he'll meet a nice
young Jewish girl and he'll settle down and make me a grandmother.
Goodbye Mr. Rabinowitz, waving as she walked toward the door, say
hello to Mrs. Rabinowitz. Be careful going out the door boys. Abe
Rabinowitz nodded as he watched her go out, the two boys pushing the
set, then watched them go slowly up the street, past his cloudy
windows, and then out of sight. He stopped nodding and shook his
head, Oi, such a life. I hope she gets home already. Im not vanting
cold soup. A man my age is needingk hot food for his stomach and hot
water for his feet. Oi mine feet. Ahhhhhhh . . . such a life. Tsouris
. . . tsouris . . .

After the young boys left Sara Goldfarb chained the
TV to the radiator again. She turned on the set, adjusted the
antenna, then sat down in her viewing chair and watched a series of
Proctor and Gamble commercials and parts of a soap opera. She pulled
her lips back as people brushed their teeth and ran their tongues
over their teeth to be sure there was no telltale film, and felt a
joy when that cutie pie little boy didnt have any cavities but he
seemed so thin, he needs more meat on his bones. He shouldnt have any
cavities, thank God, but he should have more meat on his bones. Like
my Harold. So thin. I tell him, eat, eat, I see your bones. Fa krists
sake, thats my fingers. Whatta ya want, festoons of fat hanging from
my fingers? I just want you to be healthy, you shouldn't be so
skinny. You should dring hamalted. Malted, schmalted, eh? I wonder if
Harold has any cavities? His teeth didnt look so good. He smokes so
many cigarettes. He pulled his lips back from his teeth again. Such
nice white teeth. Maybe someday he'll grow up and smoke and have
yellow teeth like my Harold. They should never have cavities, and she
continued to stare at the set as boxes of detergent exploded into
dazzling white clothes and bottles of household cleaner exploded into
exotic fag characters who wiped all evidence of humanity off walls
and floors and the tired husband comes home from a tough day on the
job and is so overwhelmed by the dazzling clothes and sparkling floor
that he forgets all about the worries of the world and he picks up
his wife—O, is she thin. Youd have to be careful she doesnt break.
But shes so sweet looking. A nice girl. Keeps a clean house. My
Harold should find such a girl. A nice young Jewish girl like that.
The husband picked up his wife and spun her around and they ended up
stretched out on the sparkling and dazzling bright kitchen floor and
Sara leaned forward in her chair thinking that maybe something
interesting was going to happen but all they did was look at their
reflections in the linoleum; and then the TV dinners were
artistically arranged on the table and the wife smiled at Sara, that
sly, we have a secret kind of smile, when the husband exclaimed
enthusiastically what a great cook she is and Sara smiled and winked
and didnt tell that it was a TV dinner and the happy couple looked
into each others eyes as they ate their dinner, and Sara was so happy
for them, then checked her money and realized she would have to go
without lunch for a few days, but it was worth it to have the TV set.
It wasnt the first time she gave up a meal for her set; and then the
scene changed and a car drove up to a hospital and a worried mother 
hurried through the antiseptic and quiet corridors to a grave
countenanced doctor who discussed the condition of her son and what
they would have to do in order to save the boys life and Sara leaned
forward in her chair looking and listening intently, empathizing with
the mother and feeling more and more anxious as the doctor explained,
in painful detail, the possibilities of failure, O my God, thats
terrible ... so terrible. The doctor finished explaining all the
alternatives to the mother and watched her as she wrestled with the
decision of whether or not to allow the doctor to operate and Sara
was leaning as far forward as she could, clutching her hands
together, Let him. .. . Yes, yes. Hes a good doctor. You should see
what he did for that little girl yesterday. Such a surgeon. A
crackerjack. The woman finally nodded her assent as she wiped at
tears streaming down her face, Good, good. You have a good cry dolly.
He'll save your son. Youll see. Im telling you. Such a surgeon. Sara
stared as the womans face got  larger and larger and the fear
and tension were so obvious that Sara trembled slightly. When the
scene changed to the operating room Sara quickly looked at her clock
and sighed with relief when she saw that there was only a few minutes
to go and soon the mother would be smiling and happy as she looked at
her son with the doctor telling her its all over and hes going to be
alright, and then a minute after that we would see the outside of the
hospital again but this time the boy would be walking with the
mother—no, no, he would be in a wheelchair—to the car and
everybody would be happy as he got into the car and they drove off,
the doctor watching them from the window of his office. Sara sat back
and smiled, and relaxed with the inner knowledge that everything
would be alright. Her Harry is a little mischief some times, but hes
a good boy. Everything will be alright. Some day he'll meet a nice
girl and he'll settle down and make me a grandmother.