Requiem for a Dream (22 page)

Now the shit really hit the fan. It must have hit
something because it sure as hell wasnt floating around the city.
There no longer was any thought, or even desire, to make money, but
just an unending effort to get enough for themselves. some days it
was a case of just copping enough for right now and then going out
again to take care of the rest of the day and have that wake up shot
nice and secure.

And the streets were getting tougher. All the
neighborhood streets were rilled with dope fiends, even in the snow
and sleet, looking for something, anything. Every hallway was
cluttered with sick faces with runny noses and bodies shivering with
the cold and junk sickness, the cold cracking the marrow of their
bones as they broke out in sweats from time to time. The deserted
buildings that stretched for miles and made the city look like a
battleground of WWII, that gave it the pathetic and devastated look
that froze on the faces of the people that inhabited them, were
spotted with tiny fires as shivering bodies tried to keep warm and
survive long enough to get some dope, one way or another, and make it
through one more day so they could start the same routine again. When
someone did cop he then had to make it safely to his pad, or some
place, where he could get off without someone breaking down the door
and stealing his dope and maybe getting killed, or killing, if he
didnt want to part with something more precious, at that particular
moment, than his life, for without it his life was worse than hell,
far worse than death, death seeming to be a reward rather than a
threat, because this process of lingering death was the most fearful
thing that could happen. And so the city became even more savage with
the passing of each day, with the taking of each step, the breathing
of each breath. From time to time a body would fall from a window and
before the blood had a chance to seep through the clothing hands were
going through his pockets to see what might be found to help them
through another moment of being suspended in Hell. Cabbies were
avoiding certain neighborhoods and carrying guns. Deliveries werent
made. Some services discontinued. The sections were like cities under
siege, surrounded by the enemy trying to starve them into submission,
but the enemy was within. Not only within the boundaries of the
cities, of the neighborhoods, the deserted buildings and piss stained
doorways, but within each and every body and mind and, most of all,
soul. The enemy ate away at their will so they could not resist,
their bodies not only craving, but needing the very poison that
ground them into that pitiable state of being; the mind diseased and
crippled by the enemy it was obsessed with and the obsession and
terrible physical need corrupting the soul until the actions were
less than those of an animal, less than those of a wounded animal,
less than those of anything and everything they did not want to be.
The police increased their personnel on the streets as the number of
insane robberies increased and men and women were shot as they broke
store windows and tried to run down the street with a TV set, the
sets exploding as they fell to the ground, the bodies sliding on the
ice leaving a trail of blood, and freezing, stiff, before being
picked up and disposed of. For every bit of dope that was put on the
streets there were thousands of eager and sick hands reaching,
grabbing, stabbing, choking, clubbing, or pulling the trigger of a
gun. And if you did rip somebody off and get away nice and clean you
werent sure you would ever get to see it flow into your veins. And
maybe you wouldnt even know that you didnt as you concentrated on
cooking it up, not wanting to spill a drop, and somebody bashed in
your head before the needle ever got in your arm.

Harry and Tyrone were slowly absorbed by the
cesspools they were spending more and more time in. It was a gradual
progression, like most diseases, and their overwhelming need made it
possible for them to ignore much of what was happening, distorting
some, and the rest accepted as part of the reality of their lives.
But with each day more and more of the truth was impossible to ignore
while the disease instantly and automatically rationalized the truth
into an acceptable distortion. Their disease made it possible for
them to believe whatever lies it was necessary for them to believe to
continue to pursue and indulge their disease, even to the point of
them believing they were not enslaved by it, but were actually free.
They climbed crumbling old staircases to shattered apartments
shielding shattered people where old plaster was peeling off walls
that had huge holes in them with broken beams and gigantic rats, as
desperate as the other inhabitants of the building, bursting from the
darkened holes and corners, sniffing and attacking the unconscious
bodies sprawled on the floor. Harry and Tyrone went together now, no
matter what the color scheme, because a loner was an open invitation
to being ripped off of your dope and your life. Everyone looked like
a muskrat and smelled like a skunk, that peculiar and overwhelming
junk sick smell penetrating the clothes and the frigid air. At first
Harry and Tyrone stayed on the fringes of the devastation, seeing the
campfires in the hollowed buildings from a distance, but it became
progressively necessary to go deeper and deeper into the desolation
to fulfill their needs, the urgency of the need being the first
concern of their lives. At first their forays were tentative and
timid, now they were cautious but assertive, realizing the necessity
of getting to where the action was as rapidly as possible before it
was just no mans land with empty bags, broken bottles, unconscious
bodies and an occasional corpse. Whatever chances they had to take
they took automatically as their disease ordered and they obeyed, a
small part of them wanting to try to resist, but that part shoved so
far down that it was no more than an ancient dream from a previous
life. Only the insatiable and insane need of the moment had any
bearing on their lives, and it was that need that gave the orders.

They were really scuffling and barely making it from
one day to the next, one hour to the next, and with each day they
became more desperate. Many times they were ripped off for a hundred
bucks here, a few hundred there, but that was all part of that world
and all they could do was get more bread and scuffle and hustle until
they got the dope they needed. Many times they could only get a
couple of bags and they would shoot them up and continue to try and
cop more so they could have enough for Marion and Alice, but
sometimes it was a long time between fixes for them. After they got
off Harry and Tyrone would affirm that they would take the next stuff
back to the pad, even if it was only a couple of bags, so their old
ladies could have a taste, but each time they got only two bags they
shot them up immediately knowing it would be better for everyone
involved if they got off and stayed up here where the action was so
they could get some weight and then give the girls a real taste. They
knew, and believed, that it was better to have nothing at all than to
have less than enough and who knows what might come down while they
were away from the scene. And when they got back to their pads the
lies came out easily and believingly. From time to time they would
think of the old man but as quickly as possible they would dismiss
him from their minds knowing that they would never get like that,
that they would do something about it before that would happen to
them. And whenever they saw cats scufflin the streets trying to sell
somebody elses glasses for a fix, or dipping into a toilet bowl to
get the Water to cook up their stuff, they knew they would never
stoop to shit like that. Shooting dope was one thing, but only a
fuckin animal would do that. Yet somehow everything that was
happening became progressively easier to ignore. They were walking
with a few other cats to cop from a connection when some dude came
out of a doorway and shoved a gun against the connections head and
blew half his fuckin head off and grabbed the dope and split
muttering something about no mutha fucka goin burn him. The others
dropped and scattered when it happened and when the guy split they
looked at the connection for a brief moment, the blood pumping from
the hole in his head, then scattered. The frozen body was found eight
hours later.

Sara took another Valium before going to visit Ada.
They sat drinking tea, talking, and watching and listening to the
television. Maybe now the holidays are over youll hear what show
youre going on. Theres more holidays coming. Theres always more
coming. Right now we're between. Maybe when I call later theyll have
my card. Maybe they found it and are waiting for me to call. Ada
shrugged, Could be, who knows. But you should eat. And you should sit
still so I can get the roots. I dont like the way you look so thin.
The red dress fits nice. It fits nice, it fits nice. But you dont fit
nice. You should eat. Eh, you sound like my refrigerator. Ada looked
at her with both her eyes, completely forgetting about the
television, Now I sound like a refrigerator? What does a refrigerator
sound like? besides rattling and groaning and sometimes just stopping
like mine? Sara shrugged, They need a rest. Sara, youre alright? Of
course. Why shouldnt I be? Why shouldnt you be? Because you dont look
good. You look tired and — Im zophtic already. You should see the
red dress and the gold shoes. Sara, theres something wrong. Im happy
the dress is fitting, but Im worried. Your eyes dont look good dolly.
Please, please, let me fix something for you . . . some soup. I just
made fresh. Sara shook her head and waved her hand, No, no, no. Not
now. Later. Sara got up, I have to call. I can feel they found my
card. Ada looked sad as well as worried, You said that already a
hundred times. I know, I know, but this time its for real ... I can
tell . . . I can feel it.

Harry and Tyrone had been scuffling the streets and
alleys for many, many hours. The wind was strong and gusting from
time to time with sleet and hail. Whenever they stood still for any
length of time it became almost impossible to initiate movement
again. Their feet were beyond numb and seemed to be frozen to the
ground and the pain went from their soles up through their legs,
almost shattering their knees. They tried to keep their backs to the
wind, but it seemed to always be blowing in their faces no matter
what direction they faced. They huddled as deeply as possible into
their jackets, but they were still so cold they could barely talk,
but only nodded toward each other. Their eyes and noses were
constantly running and freezing, their faces stiff with a thin layer
of ice. They looked at the glow from the campfires in the distance
and wanted to just hang over one for a while, but they knew if they
went near one they would be ripped off for everything they had,
including their clothes, so they lived with their pain and the ice
until they finally scored for a dozen bags and then, as rapidly as
possible, split from the scene. They went to a public toilet in a
subway station, locked the door and burned some toilet paper to warm
themselves, then filled their droppers with water from the stained
and cruddy toilet bowl and got off and just leaned against the walls
of the cubicle feeling the heat of the dope crack the ice in their
blood and bones, then wiped the water off their faces and smiled at
each other and slapped each others hands, Thats some good shit man.
Yeah baby, thas jus fine, jus fine. They left the toilet and went
down the steps to the subway feeling warm and safe. The word was out
that in a couple of days there would be dope on the streets.
Everybody nodded and uh uhed and went on their way trying to survive
another day. But the story persisted that Harlan Jefferson had sent
word to let go a couple a keys for the Christmas season, he being a
good Baptist boy an not wantin anybody to be wantin during this
glorious season. With the persistence of the story people started to
believe, mostly because they wanted to and also because that sounded
like Harlan Jefferson. There was a feeling of expectancy, a tension,
in the air, a reason to hang tough and make it through till they cut
loose with the shit. When the word came down that the price would be
doubled and you had to cop for weight, then everybody was a believer.
The word came through subway, bus and Hudson tubes that the next
night, at ten, in a huge area of deserted and crumbling buildings,
there would be shit but you have to cop at least half a piece and it
was going for five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars for a half a
fuckin piece was insane man, but what you gonna do? The man aint goin
to lay no nickel bag on you, thas for damn sure. The cats in the
streets were generating steam trying, desperately, to dig up the
bread to cop, but how can you boose enough to be able to go for five
hundred bucks? Hustlin, scufflin and boosin enough to cop a couple a
bags a day was a bitch, but five hundred???? Sheeit, aint no fuckin
way ah cain do that, but the race was on anyway. If they couldnt get
the bread to cop from the man, maybe theyd get enough to cop from the
guys who did, but the price of a bag was damn sure goin up jim.Harry
and Tyrone wanted desperately to cop a piece but they only had seven
hundred between them. They tried to think what they could hock or
steal but they couldnt think of anything that would give them a few
hundred bucks. Then Harry thought of Marions shrink. You mean Arnold?
Yeah. I havent seen him in months. So what? Hes still callin, aint
he? Yes, but I dont know. Look, tellim we'll give it back toim in
twenty-four hours. Thats all itll take ta get the bread back. Marion
frowned and looked worried, upset. Harrys voice and expression were
urgent, Look we get this and off some and we're back in business.
This probably means the panics over and therell be stuff on the
streets again and we wont have ta scuffle and make that scene every
fuckin day anymore. I'll tellya honey, its a fuckin drag. I know
Harry, I know. I dont like whats happening either. Then whats the
problem? I dont know, I— Look, you can get him to part with a few
hundred bucks. Whats that to him? Hes loaded for krists sake. There
was a hint of pleading in Marions eyes and voice, I just wish there
was some other way to get the money. Look, I dont care how we get it.
If you got some other idea, great, but Im fuckin lost and we need
that bread. Getting the money is not the problem Harry— Then whats
the problem fa krists sake? Marion looked at him almost pleadingly, I
just dont know what I'll have to do to get it. What Marion said was
obvious and inevitable, but Harrys need forced, and allowed, him to
quickly sidestep the obvious before the truth registered enough to
alter his desires and he shrugged the suggestion away, Dont sweat it.
You can handleim. Marion looked at Harry for endless seconds, hoping
something would suddenly, and happily, change the words and
situation, a deus ex machina would emerge from the ceiling and the
dilemma would be instantly solved. Either you get the money from the
shrink or we dont get no stuff. Its that simple. Marion got her wish.
The dilemma was solved. She nodded and called his office. At Marions
request they met in a small, quiet restaurant that had a feeling of
privacy and was dimly lighted. She got there fifteen minutes late to
be certain she would not have to wait for him and feel conspicuous
sitting alone. Her makeup covered her complexion, but the thin
haggard look was obvious even in the dim lighting of the restaurant.
Are you alright? Something wrong? No, no, Ive just had the flu
forever it seems like. Just cant seem to shake it. It goes away for a
few days and then its right back again. Have you been under stress?
You know unresolved emotional tension can precipitate viral
infection. Marion could feel her insides tensing and she struggled to
control herself and forced a smile on her face, No, its nothing like
that. Just been very busy. Getting a lot of work done lately. Well,
thats wonderful, Im glad to hear that you have been productive.
Marion did her best to keep the smile on her face as she toyed with
her food and sipped at her wine, Arnold commenting from time to time
at her lack of appetite, and surprised at the way she was neglecting
her wine, Its one of your favorites. She kept the smile in front of
her and nodded, I know, reaching over and touching his hand, but this
flu, or whatever it is, just seems to have killed my taste buds and
appetite. He smiled and touched her hand with his other hand, To be
perfectly candid, I was rather surprised to hear from you. Is there
something wrong? Marion fought back the urge to shove the candle in
his face and did her best to broaden her smile, No, why do you ask?
O, thats usually the case when someone calls whom you havent heard
from for a while, and who has been turning down dinner and lunch
invitations for a few months. Marion sipped the wine, then took
another drink, No, every-things fine, but I do have a favor to ask.
He leaned back a few inches and smiled knowingly. Marions gut was
yelling, You smug sonofabitch, but she lowered her face slightly and
looked at him through half opened eyes, I need to borrow three
hundred dollars. May I ask why? Its personal, Marion trying to put as
much warmth in her smile as possible, not caring what he thought just
as long as he didnt bug her. He looked at her for a second, then
shrugged. Thats no problem. Marion gave an inner sigh of relief. I'll
have to give you cash, you understand. She nodded, That will do just
fine, and she smiled a smile of genuine warmth and sincerity and
found herself eating a little food and enjoying the wine and being
thankful that Harry had been able to cop some good dope so she
wouldnt have to go through this feeling sick. She kept reminding
herself that this was no different than ail the other times she had
had dinner or lunch with Arnold. It was the same. It was the same.
Tell me, does this have anything to do with this fellow youre living
with? Marion had to fight the sudden heat of anger that inflamed her
and kept the smile on her face, No. He smiled and leaned forward and
touched her hand, Its not important. I was just curious. Whats he
like? Marion allowed her body to relax and the dope to once more
circulate through her system and fill her with its warmth and feeling
of contentment. Hes very nice. Rather wonderful actually. Marion
finished her wine and Arnold waited for the waiter to refill her
glass before leaning forward slightly. Hes quite handsome and
sensitive . . . poetic. You look and sound as if you love him.
Marions face softened even more, I do. And he loves you? Yes. And he
needs me. Arnold nodded and they smiled at each other. I can help him
accomplish great things. We have lots of plans.