“Sir?”
“Are you, ah, at home with his little volume on the aspects and vagaries of the opium-eater’s existence?”
“No, sir.” God, not this.
“Well, De Quincey was an addict himself, you know, an opium addict. And he wrote a fascinating little study of his addiction, entitled Confessions of an English Opium Eater. Fascinating.” He glanced over at me to make sure that I was with him, and I nodded. “And in the course of his account, he makes some extraordinary observations.” Looking at me again. “For instance, at one point, he remarks that ‘opium eaters never finish anything.’ That’s a wonderfully, oh, to-the-point remark, don’t you think, Harkness?”
“Telling it like it is,” I murmured.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Yes,” he said, “I quite agree. Well, do you see the connection, then, do you see what I’m driving at?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I think I do.”
“Uh-huh,” fumbling with his pipe, which had as usual gone out. “And do you have any, ah, comment on the matter? Does it strike a responsive chord, I should say.”
“I don’t believe so,” I said.
“None at all?” he queried. Man, he was begging for it.
“Only an intellectual one,” I said finally.
“Ah-ha,” he nodded. “And what is that?”
“Artaud,” I said. “You’re familiar with Artaud, I take it?”
The Senior Tutor blinked. “Well, he’s not in my field, you understand, but yes, I think that I’m familiar with the rudiments of the man’s work.” That got his goat, the old turd. I was playing it his way, and it hurt.
“Artaud was also an addict, an opium addict, that is, and his comment on the matter was that …” I paused, trying to get it out right “… his comment was that as long as we haven’t been able to abolish a single cause of human desperation, we do not have the right to try to suppress the means by which man tries to clean himself of desperation.” I paused and looked at the Tutor. “Those were his words on the subject. Of course, Artaud was himself a desperate man when he wrote them, desperate in a sense probably unknown to De Quincey. Because when he wrote his little essay on opium they were getting ready to cart him off to the madhouse. And not for being an addict,” I added.
“I see,” said the Tutor, who looked as if he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. “Yes, I see. Artaud. I’ll have to look into him. He was one of those Cruelty fellows, wasn’t he?”
I nodded.
“Yes. Well.” He stood up again and held out his hand. “It’s been good talking to you, Harkness, and remember, if you should think of anything that you want to discuss, or perhaps if you should just feel like a chat, don’t hesitate to let Miss Burns know.”
“I will,” I said, “and thank you, sir.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, showing me to the door.
33
TWO DAYS OF EARNESTLY ANEMIC study went by and then John marched into my room and plunked down on the bed.
“How’s it going?” he said, which I did not bother to respond to because John didn’t give a goddamn how it was going and never had. All he meant was that he had something on his mind. He pulled out a joint. “Want to blow some?”
I shook my head. I was feeling virtuously studious, and I knew that the dope would kill that. I also knew that I couldn’t sit around and watch him smoke too long, so I said, “What’s happening?”
“Well,” John said, “I’m thinking about this Lotus, it’s in beautiful shape and the cat who’s selling it is the original owner. I’m going over to look at it tomorrow.” He took a deep drag. “Want to come?”
“Sure,” I said, “but you didn’t come in here to lay that down.”
He laughed, and took another hit. “I can see the studying has brought your mind to a keen edge, Peter,” he said. “Well, what I wanted to know—” another hit “—fine dope, you sure you don’t want any?”
“You wanted to know.”
He laughed again. “Quite right,” he said. “All business. I wanted to know if this chick is still up for doing it.”
Then I remembered. “I meant to tell you,” I said. “She called last night and said she’d love to go to New York with you, but she’s used up all her overnights.”
“No, no,” John said, “I meant—is that right? The little bitch. She called last night? I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you get hold of me?”
“You were in the rack with Sandra.”
“Oh yeah,” John said, remembering. “Oh yeah.” He thought about it some more. “She can’t go overnight? Jesus, that screws the whole weekend.”
“Tell her that,” I said.
He laughed, and then was silent, and finally said, as if remembering suddenly, “No, listen, I was talking about something else—that California chick, what’s-her-name, does she still want to make a trip?”
That was surprising, even shocking. John’s head was bent, but on one thing he was firm: he never changed his mind. Never, under any circumstances. I didn’t know whether it was from obstinacy, or pride, or his Old Boston upbringing, but whatever the reason, it was true.
“Yeah, she’ll do it.” I didn’t hesitate. I knew I could talk her into it—I’d almost done as much when the run wasn’t even a sure thing. It was a way to come out and she wouldn’t worry about it, if I said it was cool.
But I was interested in John’s change of mind, in his sudden acceptance of Sukie. Hell, last time I’d talked to him he hadn’t even considered the possibility.
“What happened?” I said. “Couldn’t you find anyone else?”
John shrugged. “Well, let’s see. You can’t go because you fucked your exam. And everyone else’s wonking their ’nads off for exams.” He laughed. “Not doing a fucking thing, really, just sitting around chewing their nails. But if they’re going to worry, they’re going to do it here.” He shook his head pityingly, then looked up at me. “The other thing is that Musty called and said he was leaving town for a while. He said if I wanted anything more before July, I had to do it now. So here we are.” He smiled and took out another joint, lit it, passed it to me.
I took a long hit. “Musty’s leaving town fast, huh?”
“That’s the riff,” said John.
“Far out,” I said, and then laughed. Things had worked out better than I had hoped. I’d known that John would be pressed for a runner, but I didn’t think he’d offer to let Sukie do it. I thought I’d have to cudgel him into it—and then here he was asking me if I thought she could make it. I laughed again. “Yeah, she’ll do it.”
“Good enough,” said John. “Everything’s set up, you’ll send the money to Sukie and Musty’s got the bricks ready. So all you’ve got to do is call the chick and let her in on it.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you, John.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact. But John didn’t take it that way. He waved the joint in my direction and said, “You were pretty sure of yourself, Peter.” I guessed that he’d been figuring things out with Musty, and laughed.
“Yeah, I guess I was. But what the hell. She’s coming. When will she fly in, anyway?”
“Saturday, around two.”
I thought that one over and then realized what he had said.
“Saturday, good God. Not Saturday. I’m supposed to go to the Piggy Picnic on Saturday.”
“Please. Garden Party.”
“Well, the hell with that. Annie Butler can blow her mind at me all she wants, I’m just not going to be able to make it. I’d better let her know as soon as I talk to Sukie—”
“Peter,” said John. Nothing more.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not going to tell Annie anything. I may have to let this chick make the run, but I don’t have to let you two lovebirds fuck things up by prancing around Logan together, for every one of Murphy’s pigs to see and admire.”
“What the hell—”
> “Murphy busted you in Berkeley, with the chick in the same room, right? And I expect that your mugs are fairly well known by the vice-squad pigs by now.”
“Oh for Chrissake, get off it. Maybe my mug—maybe, if you really stretch it—but Sukie’s, never. I’m going to go down and pick her up, and Annie Butler can go to hell.”
John puffed slowly on what was by this time a dark roach. Finally he said, “This is my run and we’re going to do it my way or not at all. You can tell the chick on the phone why you’re not going to be there to meet her—but that’s all. I’m not going to have this thing fucked up just to please your absurd sense of decorum, and that’s all it is, Peter, so don’t go making those bullshit faces at me. When the chick lands in Boston you’re going to be having the time of your life at the Piggy Club Garden Party. Period. I will be down at Logan waiting for her, and she’ll be in the room about the time that you and Annie fondly bid each other farewell.” He paused and looked at me. “Understand?”
There was nothing to say. I left the room to find a pay phone.
A surprised voice answered, sounding very far-away. It was a lousy connection. “Peter?”
“Yeah. How you doing, baby.”
“Fine, just fine. Peter, God, it’s good to hear from you.”
I didn’t say anything for a minute, just got stoned out of my mind on her voice, on the sound, knowing that in a few days the sound would be next to me and not coming through a piece of plastic that demanded more money every three minutes. Then I said, “Listen, honey. I’ve just been talking to John.”
“John?”
“Yeah, you remember, my friend John back here, the guy I scored the bricks for when I was in Berkeley?”
“Oh.” It wasn’t noncommittal. It was just that she was beginning to understand. I had to keep it moving.
“Well, you remember that conversation we had, after my exam?”
“Yeah, I remember. Is this where John—”
“Just listen, honey, just let me finish. Things haven’t been going too well for me around here. I mean, I’ve been trying to get some bread together so I could come out and see you again, or so you could come out here—you know, like the summer’s getting here, and if we could get together we could do up the summer—”
“I’ll do it, Peter.” That was all she said.
“You don’t mind? I mean, you know what I’m talking about—”
“I’ll do it. I mind, but I’ll do it. I want to see you.”
I took a deep breath and it felt good. The chick was very, very together. “Okay, beautiful, honey, that’s beautiful. That’s so beautiful, I can’t even tell you. Listen, soon as you get here I’ll take care of things, you know, a place to stay and eat and that whole riff, you don’t worry about it, I’ll work it all out. And then if you dig it around here we can do up the summer, you know, and—”
“Don’t, Peter. You’re blowing my mind. Just don’t talk like that till I’m with you, okay?”
I knew what she was saying. “Okay, yeah, okay, you’re right. Well, listen, I’ll be sending the bread out to Musty tomorrow, and Musty’ll know the details so he’ll lay that end of it on you. The only other thing is that I won’t be able to meet you at the airport.” I had expected her to wonder about that, but all she said was, “That’s cool.”
“Out of sight. John’ll meet you, he doesn’t want me around ’cause of the bust but John’ll meet you, and as soon as you get back to Cambridge I’ll see you.”
“That’s cool.”
Suddenly I didn’t have anything more to say. I just wanted to see her, and talking business like this was only making it worse.
“Well—” I started to lay down something mindless, but she cut me off and said, “Peter. Take care of yourself.”
I laughed at that. “I will baby. You do the same.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “You just be good.” And then the operator was demanding more bread and she was saying goodbye and it was over.
As soon as I got back to the room I asked John where he’d put the dope.
“Gonna can the studying for a bit, Peter-old-boy?”
“Not can it, just enjoy myself before I get back on it.”
John laughed. “Enjoy yourself, huh? You already look like you’re enjoying yourself. You look like you just balled a nun, for Chrissake.”
34
I WAS BEING SHAKEN, QUITE hard, not a friendly shake at all. I opened my eyes and there was Annie Butler, all dressed up and looking very pretty except for her face, which was turned down.
“You’re late,” she said, as I opened my eyes.
“What?” I rubbed them.
“Late, you’re late.”
“What time is it?”
“One o’clock.”
“Christ.” I fell back in bed and groaned. I’d been up all night doing a paper and hadn’t gotten to bed until dawn. I was wrecked.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Going back to sleep.”
“But the party,” she said.
The party, Jesus. It all came back to me. I’d been so intent on finishing the paper, so I wouldn’t have to mess with it while Sukie was around, that I’d almost managed to forget about the party, the Piggy Club, the whole mess. I sighed.
“I’ll wait in the living room while you dress,” Annie said, and walked out. I sat up again and coughed. That’s Annie. Three months later, she’ll wait outside while you dress.
“Are you getting up?” she called from the living room.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You going to shave?”
“Yeah, I’m going to shave.”
“Good. You need it.”
Charming as ever, dear Annie Butler. I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
“There isn’t time for a shower, we’re late already.”
“I always shave in the shower,” I said.
“Then hurry,” Annie said. And finally, trailing afterward, like a dropping from a lame duck: “Please.”
The garden party was held on a huge, rolling lawn, fenced in from the street and sheltered from its noise and plebeian curiosities by thick bushes. It was a gay scene, full of good cheer, and well stocked with food and drink. The lawn was dotted with colorful tables of food and booze; there was also a small army of polite, discreet, red-jacketed caterers.
The whole scene made me want to blow lunch. Since everyone in the Club knew that Annie Butler was Percy Pratfall’s honey—or whatever the hell his name was—we’d had to make a great show of trotting around, greeting everyone, just to make sure they all understood on what grounds she’d managed to get in. She held my arm just tightly enough to show that I was her escort, and just loosely enough to show that I was her escort only for the afternoon. The pressure on my arm never changed, except when I would come out with something particularly obnoxious, when she’d give me a little squeeze of reproof. But I didn’t really give a damn after the first half hour, since by then I had lost Annie and was doing my single-handed best to break the Piggy Club’s liquor account wide open. And from the acid looks that the older members gave me, I knew that my efforts were not going unnoticed. After I’d discreetly managed to knock over five open hooch bottles and watched them gurgle and seep into the grass, one of the older members came over to demand that I produce my invitation card. This happened a number of times in the course of the afternoon—more often than would have been considered polite, in fact—and each time I produced my card, said something about boorish manners, and walked off. I got very drunk and a number of the members got very red in the face, and that was how it went. But I didn’t mind the embarrassment of feeling that I didn’t belong there; in fact, I rather enjoyed it. For the occasion I was wearing a pair of greasy blue jeans, a rumpled, plasticly-freaky shirt I’d gotten in the Village a few years before, a tired old blazer, and sneakers. Annie didn’t care much for that, of course, but then, she could always have chosen not to go. She’d made her decisio
n, and I’d made mine.
But as the afternoon wore on, the fun of hassling the old dudes wore off, and I was forced to hunt the really big game, which were the chicks. The chicks were all there, colorful dots on the rolling green lawn, just like the tables—and set up with the same cunning social design: to look so good that you’d want to take a bite, without knowing what you’d really bitten into. It was their only hope of survival, these chicks; they were like the kinds of insects you read about who have no natural defense except their bodily camouflage.
So I’d wander over to one of these chicks, and she’d go through her whole I’m-so-polite-and-interested-in-you routine, pausing to Ohh and Ahh whenever I said something that she figured was supposed to rate an Ohh or Ahh, and asking me if she could get anything for me at the buffet? This went on for as long as I could tolerate it. Then I would break down and start in on the old routine. It’d start when one of them stared at my clothes—politely, you understand, painfully politely, as though I’d been selected top boy in my Head Start class and been awarded an invitation to the Piggy Club Garden Party—and it would go on from there.
“My,” she’d say, trying to giggle. “That certainly is a, well, a unique outfit you’ve got on there.”
“Oh, you dig it? Hey, that’s groovy to hear. You seem to be one of the few perceptive people here. Most of these creeps just stare at me like I’m some kind of bum.”
Nobody had ever told her in her life that she was even remotely capable of being perceptive. “Oh,” she’d say, “why, well ah …”
“You dig this scene?”
“Ah, well, you know …”
“That’s what I thought. You’re no dope. You’re hip to what these creeps are putting down, I can see that.”
“Well, I don’t know, I don’t know what to say, I mean …”
“What’s your hustle around here anyway, honey? You dig? Who’s throwing in the chips? You don’t have to jive with me, baby. Just put it on me.”
“Well, I, ah … I don’t think I understand your question.”
“Oh, a sly one, huh? Coming on slow, just to make me show my hand, huh? Come on, you’re hip. What do you do around here?”
Dealing or The Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-Brick Lost-Bag Blues Page 12
