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 plan
s.
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 an
d 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.
Requiem for a Dream Page 20
