Requiem for a Dream (23 page)

After dinner they went to the small apartment Arnold
kept in the city. Marion sat in the very familiar surroundings trying
to feel comfortable, trying not to feel threatened, but every time
Arnold spoke she wanted to shout into his face but she just continued
to stare and try to smile, trying desperately to remember how she had
acted and what she had done and said all the other times she had been
here with him, but nothing came to mind except the urge to scream in
his face. She kept adjusting herself in the chair trying to find a
familiar position, did she usually look at the bookcase when she was
here or the painting over the couch? How did she hold her cigarette?
It suddenly felt large and conspicuous and when she tapped the ashes
into the ashtray she found herself wondering if she should have
rolled the ash off instead. She sat up suddenly and stretched her
neck and back, then quickly uncrossed her legs and pulled her skirt
down then blinked her eyes and felt herself flush as she wondered if
Arnold was appraising her behavior. She tried to talk herself into a
feeling of familiar comfort, but failed. Everything continued to feel
strange. She tried to scare away, or at least obscure, the feeling by
telling herself it was all the same, all the same, the same as all
the other times, but the feeling persisted. Arnolds voice continued
over the music and she could feel her facial muscles responding, and
could hear her voice answering his, but she somehow felt oddly
detached from that, too, as she did from everything else. She seemed
to be waiting for something, perhaps to have the phone ring and hear
Harrys voice tell her to forget the money and come on home, I got
some stuff, but Harry didnt know this number, or that she was here.
He thought they were at a show or some such place. He had no idea she
was here, waiting to go to bed with Arnold. He didnt know. If he did
he wouldnt have— She tried, desper- ately, to continue, but an
inner voice was mocking her and the truth wormed its way through
every inch of her being ... she knew and Harry knew. They were in
love, but they both knew she was there waiting to go to bed with
Arnold. . . .

Marion sat on the edge of the bed, her back to
Arnold, agonizingly trying to orient herself. Her feeling of
alienation increased—its all the same, its all the same—and she
blinked as she glanced around, the sound of Arnolds voice droning in
her head. She looked at the floor and knew she had to undress. The
light from the bedside lamp was so dim she could barely see the wall,
but it bothered her and she asked Arnold to turn it off. He frowned
for a moment, Why do you suddenly want the light off? You never did
before. She swallowed a scream and almost started crying. She tried
to sound normal, whatever that was, but the annoyance in her voice
was obvious, I just do. Please Arnold. He shrugged and turned off the
light. She almost felt secure for a moment in the sudden darkness and
she quickly undressed, conscious of each piece of clothing coming off
her body, and felt her arms crisscross her chest as she quickly
slipped between the sheets— its all the same, its all the same—they
felt slimy.

In the light of the apartment Arnold noticed the
pallor under the makeup and her gauntness. Having been to bed with
Marion many times over a period of a couple of years Arnold was aware
of the difference in her body and attitude, but more noticeable,
after he was accustomed to the dim light, were the needle marks on
her arms. Marion had naturally enough worn a long sleeved dress to
hide her arms, but it was impossible to do so forever. Arnold almost
asked her about them but suddenly changed his mind and tried to
pretend that they did not exist. He rolled over on his side and
started kissing her and Marion responded as warmly as she could,
continually reminding herself, Its the same. Its the same. She had
been in bed with Arnold before. It was all the same. There was no
difference. She went through the motions, making what she hoped were
the proper movements and sounds as she tried desperately to remember
what they were, but somehow everything seemed foreign and incongruous
and then she tried thinking of Harry but that quickly started to
destroy everything and she froze for a second until his image was out
of her mind and she grabbed Arnold even harder and just flailed
around hoping she was acting the same way she had all the other times
she was with Arnold but no matter how much she reminded herself that
it had been many times she still felt dirty and over and over she
told herself It was the same. It was the same. It was the same. But
she couldnt convince herself and all she could do was try to convince
Arnold and so she chanted her mantra it was the same and though it
did not make her feel clean it allowed her to do what had to be done
and she just reminded herself, from time to time, that
Harry
needed the money and she was really doing it for him and not for the
money and it was the same, it was the same, it was the same. . . .

Marion took her clothes into the bathroom with her.
After she bathed she got dressed, fixed her hair and makeup then went
back in the bedroom. The light was on but she felt safe. Arnold was
sitting on the side of the bed smoking. She smiled at him hoping it
was the smile he was accustomed to, but more concerned about getting
back to her place than anything else right now. Does the money have
anything to do with the marks on your arms? What? Those marks. Needle
marks. Is that why you needed the money? Are you??? he shrugged—
What are you talking about? her eyes flared. Arnold smiled
professionally, Dont get upset. If youre in trouble maybe I can help
you. Her eyes relaxed, Im not in any trouble Arnold. Everything is
just fine. He looked at her for a moment, a puzzled expression on his
face. May I have the money Arnold? I really have to go home. Its
late. He con- tinued to look at her for a moment, I really would like
an answer. I mean are you—what are those marks on your arm? O for
Gods sake Arnold, do you always have to beat around the bush? Cant
you simply ask me if Im using drugs? Isnt that what you want to say?
Isnt it? He nodded. Yes. Well, if it will make you feel any better, I
am. He looked hurt and shook his head slightly, But how could you be?
Its impossible. Nothings impossible Arnold. Remember? But youre so
young and bright and talented. I mean, youre not like those . . .
those people who roam the streets mugging old ladies for enough money
to get dope. Youre cultured and delicate and have been under
therapy—and the therapist—they looked at each other for a few
moments, Arnold becoming more and more confused and pained. But why?
Why? Marion stared at him for a moment, then sighed loud and long,
her body responding as if it had been squeezed tighter, Because it
makes me feel whole . . . satisfied. The pain and confusion in
Arnolds eyes started to glint with anger. May I please have the money
Arnold? I really do have to go. He got up stiffly and went into
another room and came back with the money and handed it to her, I
guess I may just as well give it to you— I'll repay you in a couple
of days. No, thats alright. After all, youve earned it. He walked to
the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Marion stared at the
door for a moment, then left the apartment. She walked down the
stairs, anger and disgust building and fighting, her eyes starting to
tear, and when she thrust herself out into the street, and was hit
with a shock of cold air, she suddenly stopped, dizzy, and leaned
against the building and vomited, and vomited. . . .

Harrys guts were squirming. The first half hour or so
after Marion left he just sort of sat back and hung loose with the
dope and watched the tube. He kept telling himself that she would be
back in a couple a hours and that everything would be cool, but as
the minutes accumulated slowly something seemed to tighten and grow
in his gut then swelled and rolled up to his chest and tugged at the
back of his throat so that he was resisting a vague feeling of
nausea. In a way he didnt mind the physical discomfort because he
could dwell on it and avoid the things that were going on in his
head, the things that were progressively growing and developing into
images as well as words, images and words he didnt want to see or
hear. After an hour he was really getting fidgety. He looked at his
watch several times in less than five minutes, each time amazed at
the time, feeling certain that more time than that had passed, then
directing his eyes back to the tube, then thinking again about the
time, not believing that he had looked at his watch correctly and so
he would look at it again and be annoyingly disappointed at the
reality of the time and so go back to the tube again, repeating the
same procedure many times before getting up and changing the channel
on the fuckin set from one station to another, each fuckin show
looking worse than the one just flicked off and so he went through
all the stations several times before tuning in an old movie, and sat
back on the couch and consciously fought against looking at his
watch. He smoked half a joint figuring it would settle his stomach
and when he finished he leaned back and unconsciously put his right
hand over his watch and tried to develop an interest in the show by
staring at the tube, but it wouldnt even absorb the energy in the
surface of his mind, and he was becoming increasingly aware of the
images and words forming in his head so he directed his attention to
his physical discomfort and when he thought he might be going to puke
he got a box of Mallomars and started munching on them as he stared
at the tube and fought the images that seemed to be churning in his
gut and flashing across his mind and he kept shoving them down and
out or some goddamn fuckin place but his sickness was reaching up to
his head and soon every part of his body was sick with, and from, the
fight, and he fought as long and as hard as he could but eventually
he looked at his watch again and the sonofabitch had stopped and he
felt like tearing it off his wrist and throwing it out the fuckin
window but then he realized that that was great, that it must be a
hell of a lot later than he thought so he dialed the time number and
listened to the taped voice and the beep, a terrible sadness flooding
his body as he looked at his watch and continued to listen to the
voice tell him the time again and again and each time his watch was
exactly right and no matter how long he listened to the voice and the
tone and stared at those fuckin hands the time wouldnt change and now
the sadness was welling up behind his eyes and he felt like a flood
of tears was trying to force itself out and his body was bent as he
hung up the phone and sat on the couch and stared at the tube while
he remained painfully crushed by the hands on his watch and no matter
how slowly time moves it is inevitable and now there had been hours
that elapsed since she had left and the images and words no longer
just vaguely floated around within him, gently pushing against his
consciousness, now they would suddenly flash in front of him, almost
as if they were outside him thrusting themselves at him and he could
see Marion in bed with some big fat fuck who was fuckin the ass off
her and he would quickly turn his head and groan and turn and squirm
in his seat and he'd curse the fuckin tube and change the channel
hoping there would be some fuckin thing on that he could watch and he
kept telling himself they were just going to dinner and that you cant
just borrow bread and split, but you have to sit and drink wine and
bullshit and smile and suck his—what kindda fuckin show is this?
and he spun the fuckin dial and he could no longer stop the image of
some hulking fuckin guy shovin it in and he quickly tried to clothe
them and put them in a restaurant drinking coffee and talking, but he
couldnt hold on to the image and even while he did a little voice in
the back of his head was mocking him and whispering, Bullshit,
Bullshit, Bullshit, and he tried closing his eyes tight and shaking
his head but that didnt do any good, it only put a spotlight on the
bed they were in and even if he could get them at a table she was
reaching under the table and Harry went to the bathroom and used one
of the bags he was going to save for tomorrow, but fuck it man, I
need it now, that last bag was cut too much, the shit just aint too
tough and I sure as fuck dont wanta get sick and not be able to get
out there and make it, yeah, thats what I'll do, I'll get off and see
whats happening in the street, maybe theres somethin happenin now and
I can cop some-thin decent, I cant sit around here all night watchin
the fuckin tube, thatll drive me up a fuckin wall, and he suddenly
felt sick and he bent over the bowl and dumped the Mallomars he had
just eaten and watched the puke, almost hypnotically, as it flowed so
easily from his mouth into the bowl, splashing over the sides
slightly, the dark chocolate, the white marshmallow and green bile
mixing so beautifully that he smiled at the small ocean below him,
dotted with small islands and snowcapped mountains, and he smiled and
chuckled and flushed it and tossed some cold water on his face and
rubbed it with a towel and felt better and sat on the side of the tub
enjoying the flush of reassurance that flowed through his body, the
calming peace that descended over him and through him, erasing images
and obliterating words, then walked slowly back to the living room
and finished off the rest of the joint and leaned back and dug the
flick and finished off the rest of the Mallomars, feeling mellow and
cool for a while, and then he started noticing the time, and now time
was registering in hours and that muthafuckin image was coming back
and he tried to squeeze that voice out of his head but it just mocked
him and continued its insidious whisperings and giggling and soon the
restaurant was well lighted and the walls were down and he couldnt
get them back up no matter how hard he tried and soon he stopped
trying and just watched the games unfold themselves as Marion and the
sonofabitch rolled around in bed and he was fuckin her every which
way and Harrys stomach kept getting more and more hollow and it
seemed to be wide open and the wintering winds were tearing through
him and at the same time his gut seemed to be alive with twisting and
turning maggots and rats and angry and sad tears moistened the back
of his eyes and his head felt like it was going under water and the
terrible sickness grew and grew within him as he stared at the images
and now he was helping them along and feeding them energy, energy
that came from someplace within him and drained him even more and the
pain increased and the nausea continued to build up but somehow he
knew he wouldnt puke, that he would just hang on to the nausea, and
he unconsciously had a hand on his crotch and he drew his legs up on
the couch and was slowly, but inexorably, folding himself into a
fetal position and he kept shoving the nausea down with cigarettes
and the more he watched the images on the screen inside his head the
more his heart seemed to grow in size and threaten to just push his
ribs apart and ooze out of his chest while some goddamn fuckin thing
swelled in his throat and he had to force the air down and he
suddenly jumped up and changed the fuckin channel and spun through
all the stations a few more times then sat back on the couch and
stretched his eyes open as wide as possible and tried not to fight or
indulge the images, but the sickness persisted and he slowly stopped
fighting and just surrendered to that hollow, sick, dead thing inside
him and all the pain and dread and anguish became one enveloping veil
of despair that was almost a comfort now that the struggle was over,
and he just sat back and stared at the tube, almost interested in
what was happening, trying to find the ability to believe in that lie
so he could believe the one within.