Requiem for a Dream (20 page)

Sara looked at it. How you say this? Valium. Valleyum? It sounds
more like a disease. The girl chuckled, See you in one week. And take
one as soon as you get home. Sara nodded and left the office. They
all went back to Adas and had a glass tea with a prune danish. Sara
took a small piece of the danish, but couldnt eat it. Maybe tomorrow.
Now . . . and she shrugged and sipped her tea. She sat with Rae and
Ada, waiting for the pill to do something, but not knowing what she
was waiting for. But she somehow sensed that she would soon feel
better.

When she got back to her apartment the refrigerator and television
set were where they should be and were acting properly. She turned on
the television and put the bottle of pills on the table next to the
others then noticed herself as she passed a mirror. She had on the
red dress. It was wrinkled. It had already some stains. She blinked
her eyes for a moment and stared at her reflection. She vaguely
remembered trying on the dress, like every morning, but she never
wore it out before. Only once, at her Harrys bar mitzvah. She shook
her head and puzzled over it for a moment, then shrugged and smiled
and changed her clothes before going back to the kitchen and taking
another "one of the new pills then sitting in her viewing seat.
She felt calm inside. Sort of nice. Her eyes felt a little bit heavy.
Not much. Just relaxed. The chair seemed softer. She sunk down. The
shows were nice. The people behaved. She sipped a glass of tea. She
reached over to the table next to her chair, but it was empty.
Nothing on it. Then she realized she was rubbing her fingertips on
the table and she looked at it, her fingers, shrugged and then went
back to looking at the show, whatever it was. Whatever it was it was
nice. They all seemed nice. They stayed on their side of the screen.

Tyrone tried to be as cool as possible, but the only way to find
out where the good dope was at was to get out there where it was, and
when youre there theres always heat. Everybody and his brother was
willing to take his money and promise him theyd be back with some
boss shit; or they could get weight that was dynamite; or they could
set up a meet. . . . Everybody had a story. Tyrone smiled and
chuckled and told the dudes to go to Jersey to peddle that boolshit.
He hung tough and loose for a few hours, staying away from doorways,
hallways and alleys, and finally ran into a cat he knew and copped a
couple of bundles. He was making his way down the street to get a cab
when he was stopped by a couple of narcs. They frisked him, felt the
dope in his pocket but didnt take it out. They took out his money and
counted it, Twenty bucks. Thats a lot of money to be carryin around
this time of night. They chuckled and Tyrone remained silent. He had
over a hundred dollars left but said nothing. They shoved him in
their car and one of them got in the back with him. Tyrone knew what
he was supposed to do and he did it as quickly and smoothly as
possible. He eased the dope out of his pocket and pushed it down the
side of the seat. When they got to the station house they asked him
if he was ready and he nodded. When they got inside Tyrone asked them
what the charge was and they smiled and told him, Consorting. Tyrone
nodded and waited to start the drag ass process of being booked. The
holding tank was filled mostly with dope fiends, and winos. When he
got his phone call he called Harry, but he was still out so he told
Marion what had happened and where he was and to have Harry bail him
out. He also asked her to give Alice a call before he was hustled off
the phone. A short time later an old time dope fiend, who looked like
he was a hundred and four, was thrown in the tank and made himself at
home as if he had been born and raised in jail. He had needle tracks
on the side of his neck where he had been shooting heroin into his
vein. Thats why he always wore a tie. It was old and ratty and looked
like shit but it served its purpose. Beautiful. Just go into a public
toilet, cook up your shit, pull the tie tight and hit the
sonofabitch. Cant miss it. Big as a fuckin rope. He also wore a
jacket with padded shoulders that looked like a Salvation Army
reject, but that too was part of his equipment. Every time he got off
he shot a little dope into the pad of his left shoulder. You can
always dig up a set of works in jail and so he would take some of the
padding out, cook it up, and have one last fix before going wherever
he was going. And I'll still have a little somethin waitin for me
when I get out. Probly get a six month bit on the Island. He bummed a
cigarette from a young guy nearby and nodded to him as he lit it.
Shit, I know fuckin Rikers inside an out. Been there so many fuckin
times I own stock in it. The others laughed and Tyrone sat down on
the floor a few feet away from the old guy and listened, along with
most of the others in the cell, to the old guy tell stories about
Raymond Street, the old Tombs, Rikers, all the joints upstate and
especially Dana-mora which is really a fuckin Siberia. I been in some
fuckin hellholes, but that fuckin place is the asshole of the world.
Even worse than that fuckin chain gang in Georgia. Did three months
on the mutha £ucka too. For a couple of hours he continued about
the times he made it to Fort Worth and K Y, but only made that fuckin
Lexington once. Got out and started to make it back to the Apple with
this dude and he wanted to stop off in fuckin Cleveland to see some
relatives, the fuckin asshole. We cop for some paregoric an we're
cookin it down and cold shakin it and get off a little taste and the
next thing you know the fuckin man is breakin down the door of the
hotel and we're back in the fuckin slammer and we get two and a half
to five for fuckin traces. Aint that some shit? That asshole started
givin them some shit—he didn't know how to do time—an he did the
whole fuckin nickel. I did a deuce and I aint never been near that
fuckin Ohio since. Aint never goin to either. The others were
laughing and chuckling, Tyrone with them. You know something, that
fuckin Ohio they got the fuckin death penalty for dope. But I hooked
up with a young guy when I gets back here—jesus he was a good tief.
He could steal ya blind and ya wouldnt even seeim, everybody joining
in the laughter. The circle of guys drew closer to the old guy and
there was a feeling of camaraderie among them as they listened to the
man of years, of scraggly dead hair, gray skin and a few broken and
brown teeth tell of the golden days o £ the past when you could
stay high forever on a three dollar cap. Shit, they used to have some
fuckin stuff that was so fuckin good it got ya high while it was
still in the fuckin cooker, hahaha, and when ya got off it tightened
ya ass hole right up man. Shit, you couldnt even tink a takin a shit.
Ya couldnt even remember what it was like. Ya tought the shitter was
fa washin ya feet, the others laughing loudly, all the energy of
their frustration and fear going into their laughter. Before the war
the fuckin Germans was sending stuff over here that was pure
stuff—you tink ya know what pure stuff is?—an ya could get a
pound of pure for fuckin nothin practically, but thats all we had was
nothin, everybody laughing louder. I guess the fuckin Germans figured
theyd turn on the whole fuckin country an win the fuckin war like
that, eh? But nobody gave much of a shit then. Ya could cop all the
fuckin p.g. ya wanted an all kinds a shit had opium in it. Laudum.
Great shit. If ya sick. Just gulp down a fuckin bottle a paregoric
and dump some goof balls then chew some guinea bread real quick. Best
way ta keep it down. In those days it was practically legal ta have
pot. It used ta be growin in empty lots—there was lots of empty
lots then, not like now. All these fuckin empty lots all over the
fuckin city—lots a times no body even knew what it was. Can ya
imagine what would happen now if ya had a whole fuckin lot full of
fuckin pot? The fuckin animals would break ya fuckin head ta get it,
eh? everybody laughing and straining to hear more. They used ta
burnem every now an then, but they had to notify the people—
somethin about fire laws—I dont know. So they put notices in the
paper—I aint shittin, right in the fuckin paper—that such an such
a lot is gonna be burned on such an such a date, you know, the time
an everything. I remember one, I was just a young punk—hadnt even
had my first real habit yet, not a real one—an they was gonna burn
this lot in the neighborhood, eh? So the night before the guys pick
as much as they can, right, an the next day when theyre gonna bum all
these fuckin weeds every head in the neighborhood and from all ova
the fuckin city is standin a few yards down wind, breathin hard man .
. . whata fuckin sight man. . . . Theres gotta be hundreds a guys
standin in the street lookin like theyre doin some kindda deep
breathin exercises and laughing their asses off and the fuckin
firemen are lookin at us like we're fuckin crazy as we just stand
there man an get high all over, even our fuckin teet an hair was
high. Everybody was roaring with laughter so much that one of the
guards cruised by to check out the cell. Tyrone found himself hooked
on listening to the old dope fiend who sat like a guru in the corner
dispensing his stories of glory and enlightened wisdom. Yeah, Ive
known some fuckin winners man. Guys that would—we had this one guy
in Danamora that was really sometin. He—they called him Pussy
McScene —he would fuck anythin. This here guy would fuck anythin he
could get his cock into. He was in that fuckin Siberia so long man he
forgot what a woman looked like, but you know the joints, theres
always plenty a assholes ta play. So Pussy McScene gets out an he
hooks up with some broad by Needle Park an—I tink her fuckin name
was Hortense—so they get together—shes about fifty because Pussys
gotta be in his sixties by this time, but he can still get it up—so
he writes back that hes fuckin a woman. Naturally nobody believes
him. Hes fucked so many guys we figure he dont know how ta fuck a
woman so theyre takin bets all over the joint if Pussys really fuckin
a broad so they gotta get somebody to find out to settle the bets,
eh? So a guy gets paroled and he looks up Pussy and he writes back
that Pussys really got himself an old broad an he takes a picture of
her with Pussy holdin up her dress showin her snatch an—you know
what? that old fuckin broad was turnin tricks for Pussy for krists
sake. Yeah, about once or twice a month she'd get a fuckin John—outta
Bickfords, eh?—an then bring the money to Pussy an tellim, Here ya
are baby, everybody was laughing and giggling and slapping each other
on the shoulder, Youre toomuch ol man. Youre one fuckin pisser pops.
Yeah, Ive been around. Ive seenem come an go. A lotta big time fuckin
junkies, eh? But I'm still here. Theyre all fuckin dead. Potters
field or some fuckin place. Its not easy to make it in this racket,
eh? Ive seen a lotta good guys get blown away or hot shotted. He
bummed another cigarette. I'll tellya how to make it. I'll tellya why
Im here an all those other fuckin guys aint. Sure, Ive had some ups
and downs, but the reason I made it, and am still makin it, is
because I never got fucked up with a cunt. Theyre fuckin cancer, the
kiss a deat. Hey pops, whatch yoe talkin about? Aint nothin wrong
with a little pussy now an thain, hehehehe. Yeah, eh? I'll tellya
somethin—I usually charge for my advise, but I'll tellya for
nothin, eh? Pussy is like quicksand, ya fall in and itll suck ya
right down, an the harder ya fight the deeper ya sink until ya drown.
Sheeit, whatta way to go. Im with you pops. Fuck them bitches jim.
They get you all fucked up. Yeah, I'd rather feed my habit than some
fuckin broad. The old man adopted an attitude and expression of
fatherly concern and leaned forward with a grave countenance, Like I
said, its not easy to make it in this world, but ya can do it. I know
because Im making it. Remember that kid I told ya about, the guy who
was such a good tief. He coulda been a success just like me, but he
fucked up. He gets himself hooked up with some bimbo, eh? I tellsim
at the time ta cutter loose, but he laughs at me, Shes a high class
hooker he tells me. Brings in a lot of bread, he tells me. Keeps him
in fine clothes an dope. So he gets lazy an lives off her money an
that turns into a full time job, eh? Hes gotta be sure shes bringing
home all the bread an not givin any free samples, eh? Right on pops—
laughter—Then hes gotta protect his investment. She starts chippin
with some guy—there aint no cunt in the world that wont chippie
onya, take it from me—an hes gotta straighten it out, eh? So what
happens? He takes three slugs right in the fuckin head. Just like
that. Its a fuckin shame too. He was a good fuckin tief, he didnt
need no fuckin bimbo grief. I tellya kid, stay away —shit, even
poor ol Pussy got fuckin burned because a that old fuckin Hortense
broad. Sheeit, yoe mean somebody wanna steal that ol woman? Hahaha,
fuck no. That crazy ol broad burned a connection an told him it was
Pussys idea an poor old Pussy didnt know from shit and the guy ranim
down. I wasnt there but they said it knocked him from Bickfords to
Needle Park, hahahaha. But I'll tellya kid, if ya wanna make it out
there an feed ya habit, ya stay away from the broads an ya dont go
for nothin too big. Small stuff so that if ya get busted ya —listen,
ya gotta get busted every now an then. Thats the law of averages an
it gives ya time ta rest an clean up so ya can go out there an get
off with just a taste again. But stay to the petty thefts. No
felonies. The only way. You can make it good that way. You can boost
just as much that way without takin no chance of doin big time. I got
some heavy bits, but I got fucked up by the man. They fuckin framed
me because I wouldnt rat out my connection. Shit, I dont rat out no —
Tyrone was gradually leaning back more and more, as he laughed along
with the others, until he was leaning against the side of the cell
and looking at all the other dudes listening to the old man, the
young guys, like him, leaning forward and grabbing in every word, the
older dudes sitting back and nodding their heads and slapping their
legs and laughing along with the rest. Something funny was happening
inside of him that he couldnt put his finger on. There seemed to be
something between him and the rest of the dudes in that cell. He
gradually became aware of a sense of identification, like they had
something in common. But he quickly buried the feeling because he
knew he was different than the old man and the other dudes in the
cell. He became aware of knots in his gut and a pain in the back of
his head. He looked at the old man. He stared. Hard . . . He look
like a fuckin rat jim. Thas what he look like. A fuckin rat. His skin
be so fuckin tight an gray an he got tracks all up an down his arms,
his legs an his neck an he sittin back fat mouthin while he gettin
ready to do some more time. Sheeit, that aint no fuckin way jim. Ah
aint gonna marry no habit. No mutha fuckin death do us part with me
an no jones. Uh uh. You aint gonna catch Tyrone C. Love boostin no
steaks outta no store or sneakin down no cellar to cop their coffee.
Sheeit, when ah gets out an we gets straight we jus gonna wheel an
deal an not go fuckin with any penny boolshit. We gonna make it good
jim. Things get straight an we get us a pound a pure an we gonna be
back jus like we was, sittin back jus countin those bucks, an me an
Alice gonna live high offa that hog jim. He looked at the old man
sitting in the corner, taking another butt from somebodys pack, the
rest of them grouped around him. No man, ah aint gonna do no time.
Even a teeny bit a time. Ah doan need to go to no fuckin joint to
clean up. Ahm doin jus fine like this jim. An anyway, ah aint got no
habit. Not like he be talkin about. Ah could cut it loose any time ah
wanted an when the time come ah jus kiss this old shit goodbye an—
LOVE . . . LOVE, TYRONE C. 735. Get your shit together an comeon. The
guard opened the door and Tyrone followed him down the corridor to
another room. The guard handed a slip of paper to another guard
behind a counter and the process of leaving started. When he finally
got all his possessions and signed the necessary papers he was let
loose. Harry was waiting for him on the other side of the door.
Whatta ya say man? Sheeit . . . les go jim. Harry chuckled, Im with
you man. They hailed a cab and headed for Tyrones place. I got down
here as soon as I got back. Ah sure do preciate that baby. He smacked
Harrys hand, and Harry hit his. You got something at your place?
Yeah. Ahm straight for a while. Howd you do? Nothin spectacular. You
know. But some decent shit. Could only get bundles, but itll do for
now. I can get weight like that so that we can do alright. But only
in bundles. Tyrone shrugged, Betteran nothin jim. You aint shittin.
At least until we can get back into real business. What happened with