Harry was still driving when the sun started to come up. Damn, we been ridin all night an there still be snow on the mutha fuckin groun jim. How far south you got to go before they be no snow? Very far man. This panic and cold spell goes right down to Florida. They stopped for coffee and dropped a couple more uppers, then went to the mens room, one at a time, and got off, got a couple of containers of coffee and split. Tyrone got behind the wheel and Harry stretched out in his seat, trying to rest his arm and get the son of a bitch to stop hurting. It wasnt so bad now that he had just gotten off, but it still throbbed.
Tyrone still looked at the odometer, announcing how much closer they were to Miami, when all of a sudden it dawned on him how far away they were from New York. They dropped some more uppers and drank more coffee, and thought about the distance between them and home. They had driven all night and they realized they couldnt just jump on the subway or grab a cab and get to where they wanted to go. However they may have felt when they left they were now committed, they had passed the point of no return.
The radio continued to play, but the car was quiet, Harry continually rubbing his arm trying to soothe it. Tyrone leaned the elbow of his left arm against the door and stroked his chin with his hand. Neither one of them had ever left the state of New York before, and the only time Harry had left the city was when he was a kid and he went to the Boy Scout camp. They were becoming more and more overwhelmed by the strangeness of the countryside. They became increasingly quiet. The uppers and the heroin fought for control. The area around the highway seemed to be getting closer somehow. They squirmed, trying to find a comfortable spot in their seats. They stared through the windshield. They tried to numb their minds with the uppers and heroin, but still the desperateness of the situation forced itself upon them. Separately they each felt increasingly aware of the fact that what they were doing was insane. They were half a world away from the neighborhood. They were strung out, a fact that they pussy footed around for a long time, but now it thrust itself right in their guts. They were strung out and they were driving through some asshole fuckin state trying to get to Miami and find the big connections. They could smell them. They knew they were following the connections. But what the fuck were they going to do when they got there? What the fuck was goin on? They squirmed. Adjusted. Harry soothed his arm. The fuckin pain was suddenly so bad he was goin blind. They were scared shitless. But they were just as scared to cop out in front of the other one. They both wanted to turn around and go back. Scufflin those fuckin streets in this mutha fuckin panic was like death man, but it was better than this. Where the fuck were they goin fa krists sake? What was comin down? Suppose they run outta shit before they got back? Suppose they got busted down here in the fuckin South? Each almost prayed, or came as close to praying as they knew how, that the other one would suggest turning around and going back, but they just continued to stare through the windshield and squirm as the car continued going straight ahead. Tyrone stopped looking at the odometer. Harry was unable to sit still for more than a few minutes. From time to time he was almost doubled over with pain. He rubbed his arm, trying to soothe the pain away. I dont think Im gonta make it man. This fuckin arm is killin me. He squirmed out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeve and blinked a few times as he looked at his arm. Tyrone glanced at it from time to time, frowning, Sheeit, that really looks bad baby. Around the hole in Harrys arm a huge greenish white lump had formed with red streaks spreading out toward his shoulder and wrist. I can hardly move the son of a bitch. Im gonta have ta do somethin man.
Big Tim told Marion he would arrange for her to pick up a nice taste for a few hours work, Though its more like play baby. What do you mean by a nice taste? Big Tim laughed his Santa laugh, Damn, you sure is greedy for scag. Marion smiled and shrugged. They be six of you cutting up a piece. An its good, and he smiled as Marions eyes widened and sparkled. When? His smile broadened, Tomorrow night. He waited for a moment, wondering if she would ask what she had to do but he was sure she wouldnt. Its a little party for some people ah know. AMI take you there. Who will be cutting up the piece with me? Five other bitches. Youll be the entertainment . . . you know, kind of enjoy each others company, you dig? and he smiled then laughed his Santa laugh as he saw what he meant register on Marions face. And the men? They come later, and Tim laughed so hard Marion started chuckling. What time? You be here by eight. Marion smiled and nodded and Big Tim laughed his Santa Claus laugh.
Harry and Tyrone pulled into a small gas station and got out of the car and stretched. The attendant was in the back talking to the mechanic. They looked at Harry and Tyrone for a moment, then the attendant put down his bottle of Coke and strolled out to them. Harry was leaning against the car holding and soothing his left arm, Fill it up with regular, eh? An wheres the mens room? We're fresh out of gas. O shit. Thas alright jim, we got enough for a while. Harry nodded at Tyrone, May just as well use the mens room. The attendant stared at Harry, Its out of order. Harry looked at him for a moment and noticed the hostile expression on the guys face. A car pulled up to the other pump and the attendant went over to it, Good morning Fred, filler up? Yup. The attendant started pumping gas into the car and the mechanic came out from the back and leaned against the wall and stared into Harrys face provokingly and spit. Harrys pain and confusion started to turn to rage and Tyrone opened the door, Lets cool it baby. Harry looked at Tyrone for a moment, then got into the car. The mechanic continued to stare at them, and spit, as they drove away. What the fuck was that shit, man? Thas the solid South baby. Jesus krist, its like a bad fuckin movie. I thought the fuckin Civil War was over. Sheeit, not to these muthas. They both looked at the gas gauge. What the fuck we gonta do man? How the fuck ah know jim? We jus be cool an get us some mutha fuckin gas, what the fuck else we gonna do? Harry nodded his head and clutched his arm closer to him and they drove in silence, each holding on tight, not wanting to blow his cool and wishing to krist they were somewhere else. The time seemed to drag as they stared ahead, not noticing the trees and poles rushing by. They kept glancing at the fuel gauge and then ahead at the horizon where the sides of the road pinched together and remained unreachably ahead of them. Harry rubbed his arm and, from time to time, Tyrone reached up and rubbed and scratched his head, then leaned his left arm against the door and rested his chin in his hand. Theres one. Yeah. They became increasingly aware of the sweat running down their backs and sides as they pulled into the station. They stayed in the car and Harry leaned out slightly and told the guy to fill it up. Regular. The guy leaned against the pump, ignoring them, as the gas was pumped into the car. When it was full Harry paid him and they drove off, the silence unbroken for many long minutes until Tyrone turned on the radio. The tension started to ease from their bodies along with the sweat. Damn, I could sure use a tase. Yeah, you aint shittin. Theres gotta be a diner pretty soon.
They stopped at a small roadside place and went into the mens room one at a time, the other one sitting at the counter watching carefully. After getting off they relaxed and thought theyd get something to eat, as well as coffee, and Harry called to the waitress who was standing at the other end of the counter talking to a customer, but she ignored him. He called again and the cook jammed his head out and told him to shut up. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, breathed deeply, exhaled slowly, then looked at Tyrone, shaking his head. Tyrone shrugged and they got up and left.
Sara finished her series of shock treatments. She sat on the side of her bed and stared out the window, through the gray glass at the gray sky, the gray ground and bare trees. From time to time she would twist off the bed and shuffle, in her paper slippers, to the nurses office and lean against the wall opposite the door and stare. Do you want something? Sara blinked and stared. Do you want something Mrs. Goldfarb? Saras face twisted slightly and she almost smiled, then she blinked a few times before resuming her staring. The nurse shrugged and went back to her work. Sara slid down the wall and crouched on the floor, still trying to get, and keep, a smile on her fac
e. Her cheek muscles twitched, the corners of her mouth trembled. Eventually she stretched her mouth in a tight, torturous looking wide-eyed grin. She fumbled to her feet and shuffled across to the door of the nurses office and stood grinning until the nurse looked at her. Thats very good, now go back to your bed, and she once more turned her back on Sara and continued working. Sara turned and shuffled back to her bed and sat on the side and stared through the gray windows.
Sara was put in a wheelchair and taken from the ward, down an elevator, through a long, gray tunnel to a waiting room where other patients docilely sat, their attendants in a corner smoking, joking, keeping an eye on their patient. Sara looked at those in front of her and blinked a few times, squinted, then stared. From time to time someone would open a door and call a name and one of the attendants would wheel the patient through the door, and they seemed to disappear, yet there always seemed to be just as many people in front of Sara. Time continued to be time and Saras name was called. Her attendant wheeled her through the door and Sara tried to smile. In front of her a man sat behind a desk. There were others in the room. The man behind the desk was called your honor. Someone stood up and opened a folder and read some things to the judge. He looked at Sara. She tried to smile and her face started to stretch in her wide-eyed grin as little bits of spittle dribbled down her chin. He signed his name to a piece of paper and handed it back to the man. She was committed to a State Mental Hospital.
Sara was awakened early and hustled out of bed and taken to the basement of the hospital where she was put on a bench to wait. And wait. She asked if she could have something to eat and was told it was too early. When she asked again they said it was too late. Eventually she was checked through one line, then she waited. She sat on the bench and stared. She went to the next line. And waited. She was given her clothes. She looked at them a long time. They told her to dress. She stared. They put some clothes on her. She struggled into the rest. They led her to another bench. She waited. They put her on a bus and she sat and stared ahead as the others were placed in their seats. They drove through the streets with a lifetime of familiar sights and sounds and Sara stared in front of her.
They were led off the bus and their names were checked off a list and then they were led through a gray, moist and freezing tunnel that connected with other tunnels and eventually to a building on the remote part of the grounds and locked in a ward jammed with others shuffling, sitting, squatting, standing, staring. Sara stood still and stared at the gray walls.
Ada and Rae made a visit. They sat in a corner of the visiting room and stared at Sara as she shuffled toward them. They knew it was Sara, yet they didnt recognize her. Bones stuck out everywhere. Her hair hung dead from her head. Her eyes were clouded and didnt see. Her skin was gray. Sara sat and Ada started taking food out of a large shopping bag. We got some lox and cream cheese and bagels and blintz with sour cream and some danishes and pastrami and chopped liver on rye with mustard and onions and a container hot tea and. . . . How are you dolly?
Sara continued to stare, Yes, and tried to smile and took a big bite out of the sandwich and made a grunting clacking sound as she chewed, the mustard oozing out of the corners of her mouth. Ada blinked and Rae gently wiped the mustard, and spittle, away. They looked at their friend of so many years, trying hard to understand. They stayed for an endless hour then reluctantly, but with a sigh of relief, left. They stared at the gray walls and lifeless trees and grounds as they sat waiting for a bus, tears flowing from their eyes. They hugged each other.
Harry and Tyrone stared silently through the windshield, their fear and apprehension increasing with each mile. Harry was almost doubled in a fetal position. The pain and panic had almost cut off his breath. The closer they got to Miami the more deeply the distance between them and the neighborhood was drilled into their minds. They still had plenty of stuff and uppers, but the fear was so intense that it was a tangible substance in the car. Harry would try to close his eyes and forget everything except the fact that the connections were in Miami, but as soon as he did he saw his arm, a naming red, then green, and he could hear someone sawing his arm off and he jerked himself up in his seat and grabbed his arm and tried rocking back and forth as much as he could. Man, I cant cut it. I gotta get some penicillin, or somethin, for this fuckin arm.
They parked the car around the corner from a small medical building and went into the first office they saw. There were a few people in the waiting room and Tyrone went over to the nurse to tell her about Harry. Yawl have an appointment? Tyrone just shook his head, No. Its an emergency. Why dont yawl go to the hospital? Ah doan know where it is an he— Harry came over, I got a bad infection in my arm and Im afraid I'll lose it. Cant the doctor see me? Please. Harry shoved his arm forward and she glanced at it for a moment, then at them, Sit down. After a few minutes the nurse came back and opened the door to the examination room and called Harry, This way.
Harry paced back and forth, holding his arm, trying, from time to time, to sit, but couldnt stay still for more than a minute. Eventually the doctor came and looked at Harry for a minute, Whats your problem? My arm, its killin me. The doctor grabbed Harrys arm roughly, Harry wincing with the pain, and glanced at it then dropped it. I'll be back in a minute. The doctor left the room and went to his office, closed the door, and called the police. Hello, this is Doctor Waltham. Over to Russell Street? Ive got a young man here I think you should see. Hes got an infection in his arm that looks to me like it came from a needle, and his pupils are dilated. I think hes a drug addict. He sounds like a gawd-damn New Yawk bum and hes with a nigga. He hung up then buzzed his nurse and told her the police would be there in a few minutes, so just keep your eye on that New Yawk nigga. The doctor waited a few more minutes before going back to Harry. He roughly grabbed Harrys arm again and twisted it, Harry gaggin and his knees bending from the pain. This is going to take time to clean out. Ah have one more patient to treat, then ahll be able to take care of you. He left before Harry could say a word, or even catch his breath.
Tyrone tried to look at a magazine, but he kept feeling like getting up and running out of the office. There was something wrong, but he didnt know what it was. He glanced at the nurse out of the corner of his eye from time to time, and she always seemed to be staring at him, and looking like he had just killed her moms or something. It made him feel creepy. He went back to the magazine and turned his head so he couldnt see her and just stared at the pictures, occasionally glancing at the words and wishing he was back in the neighborhood, panic or no panic, cold or no cold. It was too mutha fuckin hot here an he didnt like it. He wondered what was happening with Harry. He felt Harry had passed through that door into something else. He sure as hell didnt like the way he was feeling or the way that bitch was lookin atim. Damn, he wished he was back in the Apple. He'd be happy to jus lay down in the mutha fuckin snow if he were back there right now. What was he doin here anyway. Sheeit, he never wanted to be in no mutha fuckin South. Gahd-damn, he wish Harry would hurry up an get his arm fix so they could get their asses outta here and back—he suddenly became aware that somebody was standing beside him and something in his stomach dropped to his knees. Before he turned his head he knew it was the man. What you doin here, boy? Tyrone slowly turned his head and looked up into the face of a cop.
His partner walked into the room where Harry was waiting. As he heard the footsteps and then the door starting to open a feeling of relief started to flow through Harry and he almost smiled as the door started to open—the cop stood staring at him, then moved into the room. Harry died. Where you from? Harry blinked, his head shaking uncontrollably, Huh? Uhhh a what???? Whats the matter with yawl? caint you talk? and he grabbed Harry by the chin and stared into his eyes for a minute, then shoved Harry from him, Ah said where you from? The Bronx ... a, New York. New Yawk, eh? He pounded Harry in the chest with his finger, knocking him against the examination table, Yawl want to know something? we don't like no New Yawk dope fiens aroun here. Especially white nigga
dope fiens. Harry started to say something and the cop hit him hard, on the side of the head, with his open hand, knocking him down, Harry falling on his arm. He grabbed his arm and moaned with pain, trying desperately to catch his breath and hold back the tears that the pain had brought to his eyes. Ah dont want to hear one fucking word from you, nigga lova. The cop grabbed Harry by the bad arm and dragged him, half fainting, to the car, cuffed his hands behind his back, and shoved him in. Tyrone was already sitting there, his hands cuffed behind his back.
When they got to the station Harry asked the booking officer if he could see a doctor and he laughed, Yawl want room service? My arm. I gotta get it fixed. Plenty time. Yawl wont have no use for that arm anyways for a while. There most probably will be a doctor here on Monday. Maybe he might be up to seeing you.
Tyrone sat in the corner of the cell watching Harry pace and thinking of the old time dope fien he was locked up with, who cooked up his shoulder pads. They didnt have nothin. Just themselves and their habits. A million miles away from the neighborhood. What the fuck was he doin here? It was that goddamn Harry. Him and his mutha fuckin ideas. Lets follow the fuckin connections. Lets go to Miami. Cop a nice tase and cool it until the weather gets warm. Even if they giveim a phone call, who he goin to call? Mutha fuck that Harry! Got me all fucked up down here in some funky ass town. Sheeit! He watched Harry holding his arm and trying to sit. A couple of drunks were sprawled on the floor. The shitter in the corner was covered with puke. It stank. Sheeit! Friday. Wont be shit before Monday. We'll fuckin die before then. Tyrone hung his head between his knees and wrapped his arms around it. What happened man? What the fuck happened?
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