Requiem for a Dream

by Hubert Selby Jr.

  Marion and Alice were all for not using and so all went to sleep that night with a grim resolve. They got up about noon, smoked a joint with their coffee, feeling good about the fact that they werent giving any thought to, not using, and sat around for a while, watched a little television, talked about maybe eating something, but not really feeling like it, then sort of moped around thinking and talking about the various things that should be done that day and making plans for doing them, then watched a little more TV, and more coffee, and more grass, spending much of the time dabbing at their running eyes and noses, and by three oclock they realized they were making a big deal out of nothing, that if they really wanted to stop using they certainly could, they were proving that right then, but it was stupid to panic and to think the world was coming to an end just because they couldnt score for any uncut weight right now, so they got back into the spoon. Their noses and eyes cleared up and they listened to music as they ate.

  A week later they still couldnt score for any uncut weight so they tried again to stop using, but this time they were back in the spoon before they were dressed. They awoke earlier than usual with panic roiling their stomachs, their eyes burning and their noses running, and the magic of the dope healed all their ills immediately. It wasnt that they couldnt stop using, it was just that this wasnt the time. They had too much to do and they werent feeling well. When everything was straightened out they would simply cut the whole scene loose, but for now theyd take an occasional taste to hang loose.

  Sara finally developed a morning schedule that enabled her to accomplish a few very necessary things. She took her purple, red and orange pills at once, drank a pot of coffee, then tried on the red dress and golden shoes and spun around in front of the mirror looking so zophtic and feeling so good and trying to force from her mind how she would be feeling by noon. She kept the dress on and sat in her viewing chair and watched the shows, no longer spinning the selector, but watching the entire show. She saw the announcer, the audience, the prizes, and heard the laughter and applause, then forced herself, with much effort, to cross the stage to where the announcer was waiting, a big smile on his face, and listened to the applause, but now she couldnt control herself and she left the screen and came into the room and walked around the apartment, looking at the old, old furnishings, the lack of light and life, then tried to get back into the set but couldnt quite make it and eventually seemed to disappear somewhere, Sara wasnt quite sure where, maybe in the back of the set or under the bed, someplace. It puzzled Sara. She looked all over the house, but couldnt find the little red riding hood. The next time she paid closer attention to where she went and asked her what she was doing and where she was going, but she just looked up at her and tossed her head and shrugged her shoulders and gave her a So who are you? look and went her merry way and again disappeared. For days she was stepping right out of the set and walking around. She didnt jump down to the floor, but just sort of stepped out of the screen and was on the floor and very obviously and noisily ignored Sara as she roamed around looking down her nose at the apartment, occasionally looking over at Sara disapprovingly and gave a huff and a humf, and continued on her way inspecting everything and finding fault with everything and giving Sara that look of looking down while looking up. Finally Sara got upset and angry and stared right back at her, Who are you to be telling me? Who do you think you are? and Sara turned her nose up at her, and when she lowered her gaze she had disappeared. For many mornings the same thing until one morning the announcer left the set too, and little red riding hood led him around the apartment showing him this and that, the both of them shaking their heads with overwhelming disapproval, then looking up at Sara, shaking their heads again, then back at the spot of inspection, back to Sara, another shake of the head and off to another area to continue the inspection and the disapproving glances and shakes. For three mornings it happened and each time Sara felt worse as she watched them look at the shabbiness of her apartment, What do you expect? You could do better all alone? Its an old building. Ten years no painting, maybe more. Im old. Alone. You do it. Im trying, Im trying, and Sara could feel a hot twisting in her gut and a wave of nausea clutch her throat, Please . . . please. I'll explain. But they didnt stay to listen but went right back into the set and waved at the audience and then hundreds of people followed them out of the set and around the drabneses of her tiny apartment and the television followed with their cameras and other equipment, the thick cables stretched across the floor and Sara could see herself sitting in her viewing chair looking at the set surrounded by the lifeless gloom of her apartment and it seemed to be getting smaller and smaller as she watched it on the screen and felt it happening around her and she was feeling a sensation of being crushed, not by the walls, but by her shame and despair. She didnt know what they were finding and seeing, but she knew it was bad ... o so very bad. She should have looked before they got here. What was there? She was cleaning the other day. No? She wasnt sure. She changed the channel, but the picture was the same. Every channel, again and again, the picture the same. Millions of people were watching her stand in front of her set trying to change the channel, to change the picture, and she felt something crawling within her. Everybody knew her shame. Everybody. Millions. Millions of people were already knowing, but she didnt know. The tears whirled around in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She didnt even know. She only knew that they knew and that she was overwhelmed with shame and despair. And now she could see the little lady in red and the announcer leading the people around her dingy little apartment, on the screen she could see them and they were looking out at her with expressions of disgust. Sara clung to the television set trying to hide the screen and slowly, ever so painfully slow, she folded into herself until she was kneeling in front of the set and leaning against it, her head hanging low, her tears staining her red dress that she wore at her Harrys bar mitzvah, curling into a ball as the screen filled with people looking down on her disapprovingly and she hugged herself as a huge wave rolled from her stomach up to her throat and she felt herself drowning in her tears, O please, please ... let me on the show . . . please . . . please. . . .

  Brody got burned. Snuffed. Tyrone couldnt find out exactly what happened—he asked a half dozen people and got a half dozen answers—but how it happened was unimportant, the fact that he was cold stone dead was. He was found in an alley either shot, stabbed, shoved off a roof, or by what they call misadventure. His pockets were empty so it was obvious he was done in. Whenever he was out of the pad he was either holding or had the bread to cop. Tyrone listened to the stories and boolshit for a while then split. All the way back to the pad he bugged himself about not having a good backup connection. They had looked around half assed, but Brody was getting such dynamite shit they knew they couldnt do better if they went to France. Then when he ran out they just couldnt seem to get around to looking for somebody else, being convinced that the dynamite would be back soon, that if there was anything good in town that Brody would sniff it out. Now they were fucked . . . s.o.l., just plain shit out of luck. Jesus krist man, thats a fuckin drag. Getting himself fuckin killed an leavin us high and dry like this. It just dont figure. Not Brody. Not after all these years. Well baby, seem like we gotta do somethin. Caint just sit aroun here. Yeah. Thats no fuckin lie. Shit! What a lousy fuckin break! Just my fuckin luck! Hey mah man, cool it. Aint gonna do no good sittin aroun here nose wipin our selves. Yeah, yeah, I know man. It just gripes my shit is all. Well it dont make me feel like doin no tip toe through the mutha fuckin tulips jim, but we gotta get our little asses out there an see what we cain do. Harry finally chuckled slightly, Yeah, I'll go to the front of the bus an youll go to the back. Yeaahhh, ah always did like mah business in black and white. Sheeit, we'll latch on to some-thin baby. We jus be cool an somethin will break.

  Sara had to go to the store. For days she had to go, but couldnt move. Couldnt get out of the house. She didnt get the sun. If there was a sun. Maybe its cloudy outside too. Inside its like night.
Maybe worse. Night, you put on the light and its cheerful. Now its gray. Gray. She had to get to the store. For days she had to go. If Ada would come. Maybe then? Maybe she should call? Ada would take her. She'd ask her why she cant go? What could she say? She didnt know. Its just the store. Yes. Just the store. But she couldnt go. She knew it was wrong not to go. Something bad. She could feel inside it was bad. Crawly. How could— LOOK OUT!!!! no no no no ahhhh. hh—How could she tell her? Whats to say? Whats to say???? She had to go. For days now. No toilet paper. No sugar. Now its all gone. Now she had to go. She had to get out. Just get up and walk across the room. That's all. Up and out the door. Little red riding hood. Ipsy pip—LOOK OUT! Nothing. Nowhere. Nothing. She was going. The refrigerator was changing shape. It was nearer. With a huge mouth. Closer . . . She got up. Her pocketbook. Where? Where? She found it. She clutched it with both hands. She was moving toward the door. The refrigerator moved. Closer. Out of shape. Almost all mouth. Her gold shoes clicked on the kitchen floor. The red dress was wrinkled. She yanked at the door. The refrigerator got closer. The television was bigger. The screen got bigger and bigger. She yanked at the knob. People came out of the set. The door opened. She banged it behind her. She wobbled on her gold shoes. The high heels clicked on the tile. The breeze was a little cool. It was gray here too. Nobody by the house. She walked down the street. Swaying. Wavering. Holding on to the wall. She reached the corner. Stopped. The traffic. Traffic! TRAFFIC!!!! Cars. Trucks. Buses. People. Noise. Movements. Whirls. She was dizzy. She clung to the light post. Desperately. She couldnt move. The light turned green. She clung. Knuckles white. The light continued to click from green to yellow. To red. To green. Over and over. Many times. Many, many times. The people passed. Some looked. Shrugged. Continued. Sara clung. She looked across the street. Up and down. Waiting for the light. Safe to cross. She tried. She stopped looking. Hid face in pole. Hung on. Hung on. The noises blurred. Flashes of light stabbed her closed lids. She hung on. The pole was cold. She could feel the clicking in the pole. She hung on ... So whats happening? Ada and Rae looked at her. Youre holding up the pole? Sara slowly moved her head. She looked at them. Sara, youre not looking so good. Sara just stared at them. They looked at each other for a moment, then each grabbed an arm and helped Sara to Adas apartment. Sara trembled slightly and they gave her a glass tea and Sara sat mutely sad gripping her glass with both hands, occasionally lowering her face to it and sipping the tea as she stared dully in front of her. I thought you were just a antsy pants, but now Im wondering. Ada and Rae smiled and chuckled and Sara started to respond, To just be antsy pantsy would be a pleasure. Maybe you got already a virus. Why dont you go to see your doctor? He can give you a anti something. My appointment isnt for two days. For two days? Whats the matter, you get sick by appointment? Whats he going to say? stay well now and get sick in two days? They all chuckled and Sara frowned inwardly because she hadnt thought of going to the doctor. She puzzled it for a second, then let it go away to some place and listened to the chuckles, felt herself chuckling, and sipped the tea until the glass was empty.

  The waiting room was filled like always and Ada and Rae talked as Sara just sat. When she got to see the doctor she told him she wasnt feeling so good. And just what seems to be the problem? Your weight seems to be doing very well, and he smiled at her. The weight is fine. Im not so good. The television people are coming out and—LOOK OUT! and Sara whirled around and looked behind her, around her, under the chair, then at and around the doctor. He kept his teeth hanging out in a smile. Something wrong? Things are all funny. Mixed up. Confused like— Well, thats nothing to worry about. He wrote something on a slip of paper, You just give this to the nurse and make an appointment for a week. See you then. She was alone in the room with a piece of paper. She stared at it for a few moments, then forced herself out of the room. She handed the paper to the girl. He said one week. I have an appointment in two days. O fine. We'll cancel that and put you down for one week from today. Lets see now, how about three oclock. Sara nodded. Good. My pills? I'll give you another weeks supply. Sara and her body sighed with relief. Good. Thank you. Now lets see what we have here. Okay. The girl got a bottle and dumped out a handful of capsules and counted twenty one and put them in a small bottle and put a label on it. You take one capsule three times a day. I have it on the label. Whats this? O, just something to help calm you down.

  Sara looked at it. How you say this? Valium. Valleyum? It sounds more like a disease. The girl chuckled, See you in one week. And take one as soon as you get home. Sara nodded and left the office. They all went back to Adas and had a glass tea with a prune danish. Sara took a small piece of the danish, but couldnt eat it. Maybe tomorrow. Now . . . and she shrugged and sipped her tea. She sat with Rae and Ada, waiting for the pill to do something, but not knowing what she was waiting for. But she somehow sensed that she would soon feel better.

  When she got back to her apartment the refrigerator and television set were where they should be and were acting properly. She turned on the television and put the bottle of pills on the table next to the others then noticed herself as she passed a mirror. She had on the red dress. It was wrinkled. It had already some stains. She blinked her eyes for a moment and stared at her reflection. She vaguely remembered trying on the dress, like every morning, but she never wore it out before. Only once, at her Harrys bar mitzvah. She shook her head and puzzled over it for a moment, then shrugged and smiled and changed her clothes before going back to the kitchen and taking another "one of the new pills then sitting in her viewing seat. She felt calm inside. Sort of nice. Her eyes felt a little bit heavy. Not much. Just relaxed. The chair seemed softer. She sunk down. The shows were nice. The people behaved. She sipped a glass of tea. She reached over to the table next to her chair, but it was empty. Nothing on it. Then she realized she was rubbing her fingertips on the table and she looked at it, her fingers, shrugged and then went back to looking at the show, whatever it was. Whatever it was it was nice. They all seemed nice. They stayed on their side of the screen.

  Tyrone tried to be as cool as possible, but the only way to find out where the good dope was at was to get out there where it was, and when youre there theres always heat. Everybody and his brother was willing to take his money and promise him theyd be back with some boss shit; or they could get weight that was dynamite; or they could set up a meet. . . . Everybody had a story. Tyrone smiled and chuckled and told the dudes to go to Jersey to peddle that boolshit. He hung tough and loose for a few hours, staying away from doorways, hallways and alleys, and finally ran into a cat he knew and copped a couple of bundles. He was making his way down the street to get a cab when he was stopped by a couple of narcs. They frisked him, felt the dope in his pocket but didnt take it out. They took out his money and counted it, Twenty bucks. Thats a lot of money to be carryin around this time of night. They chuckled and Tyrone remained silent. He had over a hundred dollars left but said nothing. They shoved him in their car and one of them got in the back with him. Tyrone knew what he was supposed to do and he did it as quickly and smoothly as possible. He eased the dope out of his pocket and pushed it down the side of the seat. When they got to the station house they asked him if he was ready and he nodded. When they got inside Tyrone asked them what the charge was and they smiled and told him, Consorting. Tyrone nodded and waited to start the drag ass process of being booked. The holding tank was filled mostly with dope fiends, and winos. When he got his phone call he called Harry, but he was still out so he told Marion what had happened and where he was and to have Harry bail him out. He also asked her to give Alice a call before he was hustled off the phone. A short time later an old time dope fiend, who looked like he was a hundred and four, was thrown in the tank and made himself at home as if he had been born and raised in jail. He had needle tracks on the side of his neck where he had been shooting heroin into his vein. Thats why he always wore a tie. It was old and ratty and looked like shit but it served its purpose. Beautiful. Just go into a public toilet,
cook up your shit, pull the tie tight and hit the sonofabitch. Cant miss it. Big as a fuckin rope. He also wore a jacket with padded shoulders that looked like a Salvation Army reject, but that too was part of his equipment. Every time he got off he shot a little dope into the pad of his left shoulder. You can always dig up a set of works in jail and so he would take some of the padding out, cook it up, and have one last fix before going wherever he was going. And I'll still have a little somethin waitin for me when I get out. Probly get a six month bit on the Island. He bummed a cigarette from a young guy nearby and nodded to him as he lit it. Shit, I know fuckin Rikers inside an out. Been there so many fuckin times I own stock in it. The others laughed and Tyrone sat down on the floor a few feet away from the old guy and listened, along with most of the others in the cell, to the old guy tell stories about Raymond Street, the old Tombs, Rikers, all the joints upstate and especially Dana-mora which is really a fuckin Siberia. I been in some fuckin hellholes, but that fuckin place is the asshole of the world. Even worse than that fuckin chain gang in Georgia. Did three months on the mutha £ucka too. For a couple of hours he continued about the times he made it to Fort Worth and K Y, but only made that fuckin Lexington once. Got out and started to make it back to the Apple with this dude and he wanted to stop off in fuckin Cleveland to see some relatives, the fuckin asshole. We cop for some paregoric an we're cookin it down and cold shakin it and get off a little taste and the next thing you know the fuckin man is breakin down the door of the hotel and we're back in the fuckin slammer and we get two and a half to five for fuckin traces. Aint that some shit? That asshole started givin them some shit—he didn't know how to do time—an he did the whole fuckin nickel. I did a deuce and I aint never been near that fuckin Ohio since. Aint never goin to either. The others were laughing and chuckling, Tyrone with them. You know something, that fuckin Ohio they got the fuckin death penalty for dope. But I hooked up with a young guy when I gets back here—jesus he was a good tief. He could steal ya blind and ya wouldnt even seeim, everybody joining in the laughter. The circle of guys drew closer to the old guy and there was a feeling of camaraderie among them as they listened to the man of years, of scraggly dead hair, gray skin and a few broken and brown teeth tell of the golden days o £ the past when you could stay high forever on a three dollar cap. Shit, they used to have some fuckin stuff that was so fuckin good it got ya high while it was still in the fuckin cooker, hahaha, and when ya got off it tightened ya ass hole right up man. Shit, you couldnt even tink a takin a shit. Ya couldnt even remember what it was like. Ya tought the shitter was fa washin ya feet, the others laughing loudly, all the energy of their frustration and fear going into their laughter. Before the war the fuckin Germans was sending stuff over here that was pure stuff—you tink ya know what pure stuff is?—an ya could get a pound of pure for fuckin nothin practically, but thats all we had was nothin, everybody laughing louder. I guess the fuckin Germans figured theyd turn on the whole fuckin country an win the fuckin war like that, eh? But nobody gave much of a shit then. Ya could cop all the fuckin p.g. ya wanted an all kinds a shit had opium in it. Laudum. Great shit. If ya sick. Just gulp down a fuckin bottle a paregoric and dump some goof balls then chew some guinea bread real quick. Best way ta keep it down. In those days it was practically legal ta have pot. It used ta be growin in empty lots—there was lots of empty lots then, not like now. All these fuckin empty lots all over the fuckin city—lots a times no body even knew what it was. Can ya imagine what would happen now if ya had a whole fuckin lot full of fuckin pot? The fuckin animals would break ya fuckin head ta get it, eh? everybody laughing and straining to hear more. They used ta burnem every now an then, but they had to notify the people— somethin about fire laws—I dont know. So they put notices in the paper—I aint shittin, right in the fuckin paper—that such an such a lot is gonna be burned on such an such a date, you know, the time an everything. I remember one, I was just a young punk—hadnt even had my first real habit yet, not a real one—an they was gonna burn this lot in the neighborhood, eh? So the night before the guys pick as much as they can, right, an the next day when theyre gonna bum all these fuckin weeds every head in the neighborhood and from all ova the fuckin city is standin a few yards down wind, breathin hard man . . . whata fuckin sight man. . . . Theres gotta be hundreds a guys standin in the street lookin like theyre doin some kindda deep breathin exercises and laughing their asses off and the fuckin firemen are lookin at us like we're fuckin crazy as we just stand there man an get high all over, even our fuckin teet an hair was high. Everybody was roaring with laughter so much that one of the guards cruised by to check out the cell. Tyrone found himself hooked on listening to the old dope fiend who sat like a guru in the corner dispensing his stories of glory and enlightened wisdom. Yeah, Ive known some fuckin winners man. Guys that would—we had this one guy in Danamora that was really sometin. He—they called him Pussy McScene —he would fuck anythin. This here guy would fuck anythin he could get his cock into. He was in that fuckin Siberia so long man he forgot what a woman looked like, but you know the joints, theres always plenty a assholes ta play. So Pussy McScene gets out an he hooks up with some broad by Needle Park an—I tink her fuckin name was Hortense—so they get together—shes about fifty because Pussys gotta be in his sixties by this time, but he can still get it up—so he writes back that hes fuckin a woman. Naturally nobody believes him. Hes fucked so many guys we figure he dont know how ta fuck a woman so theyre takin bets all over the joint if Pussys really fuckin a broad so they gotta get somebody to find out to settle the bets, eh? So a guy gets paroled and he looks up Pussy and he writes back that Pussys really got himself an old broad an he takes a picture of her with Pussy holdin up her dress showin her snatch an—you know what? that old fuckin broad was turnin tricks for Pussy for krists sake. Yeah, about once or twice a month she'd get a fuckin John—outta Bickfords, eh?—an then bring the money to Pussy an tellim, Here ya are baby, everybody was laughing and giggling and slapping each other on the shoulder, Youre toomuch ol man. Youre one fuckin pisser pops. Yeah, Ive been around. Ive seenem come an go. A lotta big time fuckin junkies, eh? But I'm still here. Theyre all fuckin dead. Potters field or some fuckin place. Its not easy to make it in this racket, eh? Ive seen a lotta good guys get blown away or hot shotted. He bummed another cigarette. I'll tellya how to make it. I'll tellya why Im here an all those other fuckin guys aint. Sure, Ive had some ups and downs, but the reason I made it, and am still makin it, is because I never got fucked up with a cunt. Theyre fuckin cancer, the kiss a deat. Hey pops, whatch yoe talkin about? Aint nothin wrong with a little pussy now an thain, hehehehe. Yeah, eh? I'll tellya somethin—I usually charge for my advise, but I'll tellya for nothin, eh? Pussy is like quicksand, ya fall in and itll suck ya right down, an the harder ya fight the deeper ya sink until ya drown. Sheeit, whatta way to go. Im with you pops. Fuck them bitches jim. They get you all fucked up. Yeah, I'd rather feed my habit than some fuckin broad. The old man adopted an attitude and expression of fatherly concern and leaned forward with a grave countenance, Like I said, its not easy to make it in this world, but ya can do it. I know because Im making it. Remember that kid I told ya about, the guy who was such a good tief. He coulda been a success just like me, but he fucked up. He gets himself hooked up with some bimbo, eh? I tellsim at the time ta cutter loose, but he laughs at me, Shes a high class hooker he tells me. Brings in a lot of bread, he tells me. Keeps him in fine clothes an dope. So he gets lazy an lives off her money an that turns into a full time job, eh? Hes gotta be sure shes bringing home all the bread an not givin any free samples, eh? Right on pops— laughter—Then hes gotta protect his investment. She starts chippin with some guy—there aint no cunt in the world that wont chippie onya, take it from me—an hes gotta straighten it out, eh? So what happens? He takes three slugs right in the fuckin head. Just like that. Its a fuckin shame too. He was a good fuckin tief, he didnt need no fuckin bimbo grief. I tellya kid, stay away —shit, even poor ol Pussy got fuckin burned because a
that old fuckin Hortense broad. Sheeit, yoe mean somebody wanna steal that ol woman? Hahaha, fuck no. That crazy ol broad burned a connection an told him it was Pussys idea an poor old Pussy didnt know from shit and the guy ranim down. I wasnt there but they said it knocked him from Bickfords to Needle Park, hahahaha. But I'll tellya kid, if ya wanna make it out there an feed ya habit, ya stay away from the broads an ya dont go for nothin too big. Small stuff so that if ya get busted ya —listen, ya gotta get busted every now an then. Thats the law of averages an it gives ya time ta rest an clean up so ya can go out there an get off with just a taste again. But stay to the petty thefts. No felonies. The only way. You can make it good that way. You can boost just as much that way without takin no chance of doin big time. I got some heavy bits, but I got fucked up by the man. They fuckin framed me because I wouldnt rat out my connection. Shit, I dont rat out no — Tyrone was gradually leaning back more and more, as he laughed along with the others, until he was leaning against the side of the cell and looking at all the other dudes listening to the old man, the young guys, like him, leaning forward and grabbing in every word, the older dudes sitting back and nodding their heads and slapping their legs and laughing along with the rest. Something funny was happening inside of him that he couldnt put his finger on. There seemed to be something between him and the rest of the dudes in that cell. He gradually became aware of a sense of identification, like they had something in common. But he quickly buried the feeling because he knew he was different than the old man and the other dudes in the cell. He became aware of knots in his gut and a pain in the back of his head. He looked at the old man. He stared. Hard . . . He look like a fuckin rat jim. Thas what he look like. A fuckin rat. His skin be so fuckin tight an gray an he got tracks all up an down his arms, his legs an his neck an he sittin back fat mouthin while he gettin ready to do some more time. Sheeit, that aint no fuckin way jim. Ah aint gonna marry no habit. No mutha fuckin death do us part with me an no jones. Uh uh. You aint gonna catch Tyrone C. Love boostin no steaks outta no store or sneakin down no cellar to cop their coffee. Sheeit, when ah gets out an we gets straight we jus gonna wheel an deal an not go fuckin with any penny boolshit. We gonna make it good jim. Things get straight an we get us a pound a pure an we gonna be back jus like we was, sittin back jus countin those bucks, an me an Alice gonna live high offa that hog jim. He looked at the old man sitting in the corner, taking another butt from somebodys pack, the rest of them grouped around him. No man, ah aint gonna do no time. Even a teeny bit a time. Ah doan need to go to no fuckin joint to clean up. Ahm doin jus fine like this jim. An anyway, ah aint got no habit. Not like he be talkin about. Ah could cut it loose any time ah wanted an when the time come ah jus kiss this old shit goodbye an— LOVE . . . LOVE, TYRONE C. 735. Get your shit together an comeon. The guard opened the door and Tyrone followed him down the corridor to another room. The guard handed a slip of paper to another guard behind a counter and the process of leaving started. When he finally got all his possessions and signed the necessary papers he was let loose. Harry was waiting for him on the other side of the door. Whatta ya say man? Sheeit . . . les go jim. Harry chuckled, Im with you man. They hailed a cab and headed for Tyrones place. I got down here as soon as I got back. Ah sure do preciate that baby. He smacked Harrys hand, and Harry hit his. You got something at your place? Yeah. Ahm straight for a while. Howd you do? Nothin spectacular. You know. But some decent shit. Could only get bundles, but itll do for now. I can get weight like that so that we can do alright. But only in bundles. Tyrone shrugged, Betteran nothin jim. You aint shittin. At least until we can get back into real business. What happened with you? Sheeit, Tyrone chuckled and shook his head, Them two mutha fuckas, The Beas, bus me jim. He giggled then told Harry the story. He finished a few minutes before they got to his pad. When the cab stopped he thanked Harry again and they gave each other five, and he split. He was still feeling the closeness he felt for Harry when he saw him waiting for him as he stepped through the doorway, a closeness that increased as they shared the cab. It felt warm and good. He wasnt going to be like that old man. He had some good friens man. He an Harry be tight jim, real tight. He thought of how Harry got his ass right down to the jail, but his mind kept going back to the old man too. Everytime he tried to keep that good feeling going through him by thinking of how Harry got him out of the slammer, his mind pushed that aside and filled him with a picture of the old man. Sheeit, fuck you ol man. Ah aint no fuckin dopefien. You is a stoned out hope ta die dopefien. Ahm jus a dude what doan want no hassles an havin a good time an gettin some bucks together so we can get a pound a pure an then go into a little business. . . . Yeah, me an mah fox jim. Alice was all over him when he got in the door, O baby, ah was so afraid they gonna keep you there all night; and Tyrone hugged and kissed her an they smiled and laughed for a moment, then Tyrone started for the bathroom, Ah need a little tase baby ... git the tase a that jail out a mah pretty little mouth. . . .