Requiem for a Dream (31 page)

Tyrone tried to look at a magazine, but he kept
feeling like getting up and running out of the office. There was
something wrong, but he didnt know what it was. He glanced at the
nurse out of the corner of his eye from time to time, and she always
seemed to be staring at him, and looking like he had just killed her
moms or something. It made him feel creepy. He went back to the
magazine and turned his head so he couldnt see her and just stared at
the pictures, occasionally glancing at the words and wishing he was
back in the neighborhood, panic or no panic, cold or no cold. It was
too mutha fuckin hot here an he didnt like it. He wondered what was
happening with Harry. He felt Harry had passed through that door into
something else. He sure as hell didnt like the way he was feeling or
the way that bitch was lookin atim. Damn, he wished he was back in
the Apple. He'd be happy to jus lay down in the mutha fuckin snow if
he were back there right now. What was he doin here anyway. Sheeit,
he never wanted to be in no mutha fuckin South. Gahd-damn, he wish
Harry would hurry up an get his arm fix so they could get their asses
outta here and back—he suddenly became aware that somebody was
standing beside him and something in his stomach dropped to his
knees. Before he turned his head he knew it was the man. What you
doin here, boy? Tyrone slowly turned his head and looked up into the
face of a cop.

His partner walked into the room where Harry was
waiting. As he heard the footsteps and then the door starting to open
a feeling of relief started to flow through Harry and he almost
smiled as the door started to open—the cop stood staring at him,
then moved into the room. Harry died. Where you from? Harry blinked,
his head shaking uncontrollably, Huh? Uhhh a what???? Whats the
matter with yawl? caint you talk? and he grabbed Harry by the chin
and stared into his eyes for a minute, then shoved Harry from him, Ah
said where you from? The Bronx ... a, New York. New Yawk, eh? He
pounded Harry in the chest with his finger, knocking him against the
examination table, Yawl want to know something? we don't like no New
Yawk dope fiens aroun here. Especially white nigga dope fiens. Harry
started to say something and the cop hit him hard, on the side of the
head, with his open hand, knocking him down, Harry falling on his
arm. He grabbed his arm and moaned with pain, trying desperately to
catch his breath and hold back the tears that the pain had brought to
his eyes. Ah dont want to hear one fucking word from you, nigga lova.
The cop grabbed Harry by the bad arm and dragged him, half fainting,
to the car, cuffed his hands behind his back, and shoved him in.
Tyrone was already sitting there, his hands cuffed behind his back.

When they got to the station Harry asked the booking
officer if he could see a doctor and he laughed, Yawl want room
service? My arm. I gotta get it fixed. Plenty time. Yawl wont have no
use for that arm anyways for a while. There most probably will be a
doctor here on Monday. Maybe he might be up to seeing you.

Tyrone sat in the corner of the cell watching Harry
pace and thinking of the old time dope fien he was locked up with,
who cooked up his shoulder pads. They didnt have nothin. Just
themselves and their habits. A million miles away from the
neighborhood. What the fuck was he doin here? It was that goddamn
Harry. Him and his mutha fuckin ideas. Lets follow the fuckin
connections. Lets go to Miami. Cop a nice tase and cool it until the
weather gets warm. Even if they giveim a phone call, who he goin to
call? Mutha fuck that Harry! Got me all fucked up down here in some
funky ass town. Sheeit! He watched Harry holding his arm and trying
to sit. A couple of drunks were sprawled on the floor. The shitter in
the corner was covered with puke. It stank. Sheeit! Friday. Wont be
shit before Monday. We'll fuckin die before then. Tyrone hung his
head between his knees and wrapped his arms around it. What happened
man? What the fuck happened?

Harry rocked back and forth with his pain. It had
been a couple of hours since their last fix and that was it. If only
he had known that was going to be his last fix. He wouldve dumped a
couple of bags in the cooker and got wasted. If he just had a fuckin
cotton. Balls! His body strained from the more than twenty four hours
without sleep and the combination of uppers and dope and the
overwhelming pain in his arm. Now that he knew he couldnt get any
more dope the junk sick descended rapidly. He stared at the steel
walls until his eyes burned and started to close, but they quickly
opened as nightmares started even before he was asleep. His head
burned. His tongue was so dry it stuck to the roof of his mouth. He
tried to stand to keep pacing, but his head was woozy and his knees
buckled. He leaned against the side of the cell and slowly slid to
the floor and sat with his head between his knees, rolling back and
forth, his eyes burning and closing and opening, closing and opening,
his gangrenish arm swinging in front of him like a pendulum.

From time to time a drunk was thrown in the tank, but
Harry and Tyrone stayed alone in the small cell, wrapped in their
separateness and pain, Harry slowly, but progressively, going deeper
and deeper into delirium, Tyrone trying to warm the coldness within
him with his anger. A couple of drunks fought over the toilet, one
hanging his head in the bowl, puking, the other one puking all over
him, the both of them eventually passing out and lying in their own
and each others puke. The stench filled the cell. Harry and Tyrone
stayed wrapped in their separateness and pain. Tyrone started to get
stomach cramps and diarrhea and he tried to clean up the gahddamn
shitter enough to use it, but as he wiped the fuckin thang with
toilet paper the stench got him so sick he started puking and as soon
as he stopped he had to turn around, almost sliding in the slimy puke
on the floor, and stand over the fuckin bowl and let the foul
smelling liquid pour out of his cramping body, and even as he stood,
bent, he started to feel the nausea rising and he had to clamp his
mouth closed as his body contorted with spasm. Eventually he finished
for a while and he staggered back to his spot on the floor and leaned
against the cold steel, bone cracking chills going through his body,
and then he would double with cramps and sweat oozed then poured from
his pore.., burning his nose with the smell that comes only from long
use of dope, a sick smell that clouded his head with the feeling of
death.

Harry tried to huddle within himself, clutching his
legs, but he could only hug himself with one arm and as the sweat
from the dope and his fever poured from his body he shivered and
shook with uncontrollable chills and agonizing pain. From time to
time the pain became so bad that he passed out for a while and then
his body and mind would drag him, reluctantly, back to consciousness
and he would huddle in a ball, trying to force some warmth into his
body, desperately trying to find something to do with his arm so the
pain would stop, and the fever would burn and chill him and he would
go into the relief of deliriums.

Sometime Monday morning the cell was cleaned out. The
drunks went first, Harry and Tyrone last. Harrys arm was starting to
turn green and smell. The guard grabbed him by his bad arm and spun
him around to cuff him and Harry screamed out with pain and passed
out and slumped to his knees, the guard continuing to twist his arm
until he had cuffed Harrys hands behind his back. When Harry screamed
Tyrone reached to grab him and one of the other guards hit him on the
head with a small club then kicked him in the ribs and stomach as he
lay on the floor, Dont you ever raise yoe hands to me, nigga. They
cuffed his hands behind his back and dragged him to his feet and
stuck a patch on his head before they took him and Harry to the
court. They were shoved into chairs and Harry continued to moan and
fall forward and the cop told him to shut up and slammed him back in
the chair. A guy dressed in a suit sat next to Tyrone and started to
explain that he was appointed by the court to represent them and read
off the numbers of the charges and Tyrones body continued to spasm
with pain and nausea and cramps and the sweat stung his eyes and he
tried to wipe the sweat from his eyes with his shoulder, but every
time he moved the guard smacked him on the side of the head and
Tyrones vision blurred and his head hung forward and this guy told
him if he would plead guilty to vagrancy that he would only have to
serve a few weeks on the work gang. When you get out theyll give you
a bus ticket back to New York. Where our money? Did you have any?
Tyrone looked at him for a moment, blinking his eyes, trying to see
him clearly, We had over a thousan dollars jim. Not according to this
report. Tyrone stared for another moment then inwardly shrugged. What
about Harry? He sick. O, youll both be examined by the doctor before
you are sent to the camp. O sheeit, how he wished it was las summer.
No fuckin hassles. Things be goin smooth an every day be like a
holiday. Sheeit!

Marion sat on her couch, alone, watching television.
When the entertainment had finally finished and she was on her way
home she had to fight hard to deny what she was feeling. She had been
naive. She had no idea what she was supposed to do with the other
girls. She knew what she was supposed to do with the men, but the
girls came as a shock. She almost puked. But she knew why she was
doing what she was doing and it made everything possible. It wasnt
until after it had started that she remembered the little books she
had read, and the photographs she had giggled over. It wasnt only
what she had done that was disturbing her, but the ease with which
she had done it. And when she got her share of the piece she knew it
was all worth it. When she got home she got off and any disquieting
feelings were immediately dissolved by the heroin and she didnt even
bother bathing, that could wait until morning. She just stretched out
on her couch, in front of her television, ignoring the smell from her
body and lips, thinking over and over that Big Tim was right, this is
good stuff. That taste will last a long time. She smiled to herself.
And theres more where that came from, and no one to share it with. I
can always have as much as I want. She hugged herself and smiled, I
can always feel like this.

Harry and Tyrone were waiting on line with a dozen
others in a back room of the jail. They had been given three months
on the work gang instead of a few weeks. The bus to the work camp was
parked outside the open door. The prisoners shuffled, one at a time,
up to the guard, standing next to the doctor, holding a clipboard
with a typewritten sheet of names. The doctor and the guards kidded
each other and laughed and drank Coke as the prisoners shuffled along
in their chains. They gave their name and number to the guard and he
checked their name on the list and the doctor looked at them and
asked them all the same question, Can you hear me? Can you see me?
They nodded and the doctor slapped them on the back and okayed them
for the work camp. As usual, Harry and Tyrone were last. Harry was in
an almost constant state of delirium and kept stumbling and whenever
Tyrone tried to support him he was hit or shoved. When Tyrone stood
in front of the doctor the doctor looked at the bandage on his head,
the lumps and discolorations, and smiled, Have a little trouble, boy?
The guards laughed. Can you hear me, boy? Can you see me, boy? Tyrone
nodded and the doctor slammed him on the face as a guard jabbed his
stick in the small of his back, Say sir, nigga. These here New Yawk
dope fien niggas aint got no manners. They laughed, We'll learn him
some soon enough. Tyrones body twisted with rage, frustration, as
well as his junk sickness as he shuffled out to the waiting bus. He
wanted to smash their mutha fuckin haids in, but he knew they were
just waitin for him to try so they could hang his ass, an he didnt
want to make it any worse than it was, wantin to do his time and get
on home, and his junk sick made it easier to try nothin . . . he
could hardly move.

Harry was held up in front of the doctor. This heres
another New Yawk dope fien. Hes a nigga lover, ain yoe boy? Harry
moaned and his legs started to buckle and the guard yanked him up,
Say hes got somethin wrong with his arm. Yeah? The doctor yanked the
sleeve of Harrys shirt up and Harry yelled and collapsed and they
yanked him up again, Cant yawl at lease act lack a man an stan up?
The doctor glanced at his arm then chuckled, Ah dont think yoe goin
to be puttin any more dope in that arm, boy. He nodded toward the
other guards, Looky here, aint that somethin? The guards looked and
twisted their faces in disgust, Damn, it smell worse than he does.
Yeah, he smell worse than a nigga, and they all laughed. Yawl better
get him over to the hospital before he stink up your jail. More
laughter. Ah dont expect he'll live out the week. Any more? No, thats
it doc. Good, Ah have to get ovah to mah office. See yawl next week.

Sara shuffled along the medication line with the
others. She stood still for a moment, then shuffled forward a little,
stood still for another moment, then shuffled forward again until she
stood in front of the attendant who put the Thorazine in her mouth
and watched her swallow it before letting her leave. She stood in the
corner, her arms wrapped around her, watching the others shuffle up
and get their tranquilizers. Then the area was cleared. Empty. She
continued to stare in front of her, then slowly turned her head and
looked in various directions, then she, too, left. She kept her arms
wrapped around herself as she shuffled, in her paper slippers, into
the television room. Some of the others were sitting with their chin
on their chest, already feeling the effects of the medication. Some
were laughing, some were crying. Sara stared at the screen.