Gentleman Junkie and Other Stories of the Hung-Up Generation

by Harlan Ellison

  “Did you say something, Doctor?” Rita Berg turned her blond head against the couch.

  Caulder, an intense, short man with a heavy floss of prematurely grey hair, started abruptly at the sound of the woman’s voice.

  “What?”

  “I asked if you’d said something, Doctor Caulder?” she repeated, sitting up on one elbow.

  Caulder lay his head against the cool window frame. “No, nothing. Go ahead, Mrs. Berg. Please, it’s getting late.”

  The tone of incipient annoyance brought her to a sitting position on the consultation couch, animosity in the line of her body, the tilt of her chin. “Well, I’m sorry I asked you to see me this evening, Doctor, but after all, I did have a committee meeting all day at Mt. Sinai, and that is public service work, and…”

  Wearily he broke in, “Yes, yes, I know, Mrs. Berg. I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry I snapped. Please go on.”

  “…and I am! paying you considerably more than your usual rate, there’s no need to be snippy, Doctor,” she concluded.

  The wealthy woman: a tone.

  Walter Caulder, who was a psychiatrist, who was a man of deep sensitivity and deeper perception, who was a drug addict desperately in need of a firestream shot in his body, turned away from the window with weariness.

  “Mrs. Berg. I’m terribly sorry; I’ve been working very hard of late, and…and really. I’m very tired. Perhaps we had best conclude for this evening.”

  Rita Berg smoothed the expensive shantung skirt over her hips and stood up. The chill that had descended over her interrupted stream of consciousness persisted as she gathered her bolero jacket and handbag, and cursorily said goodnight to the small psychiatrist.

  He walked her to the office door, through the darkened reception room and said meaningless mouthings—“Please call Enid for your next appointment…We’ll add an extra twenty minutes to the next session…You’ve been very kind, thank…”—then she was gone, and he locked the door.

  Oh, God, God, rotten God in Heaven or Hell…it hurts!

  He doubled over and lay on the deep pile rug, clutching his stomach. Oh, God.

  The shakes took him then.

  Flinging him up and bending him terribly, a wild stallion, invisible and fire-snorting, tossing him, sending him down, shaking him with brutal ferocity.

  Abruptly, it passed, and his mouth was pumice-filled. He rolled over and lay there, panting. He needed a fix!

  After a long time, and it might have been a second, he climbed unsteadily to his feet and weaved to the heavy leather chair behind the desk. For a moment he thought he was through it (how like labor pains, spaced, growing closer together, more passionate) as he fell into the seat; then the black breakers hurled over him and he reached into the wastebasket.

  There was water in the desk pitcher, but he could not take it. The effort was too great.

  I’ve got to have a fix!

  Night had settled slowly from above, like a great dusty radioactive curtain, filled with a million motes whose staggering numbers melted together to produce a sheet of dark. Now neons came alive outside and below the fourth floor window of the Professional Building.

  Walter Caulder lifted the receiver of the phone and dialed a number from memory.

  After a short space, during which beads of sickly, greasy perspiration had sprung to his upper lip and temples, he spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “Nancy, that’s you?”

  The familiar voice he had not heard for several months reversed his words.

  “I—I want to see you,” he said.

  “About what?” she inquired. There was calculated hardness in the way the words were spoken.

  “I—I think I’d like to see you—I—I need a…a fix.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  Then: “What’s a’matter, Doc, the boys from Shakesville got to ya?”

  His voice became urgent, violently demanding. “Nancy! Don’t do this. I’m sick, Nancy. What can you do for me?”

  “You been makin’ yourself a stranger lately, Doc. Been almost two months since I saw ya.” There was more than spite in her voice. There was hurt, and desire, and the need to hurt.

  “Enid found out I was seeing you after she took my narcotics license, she—”

  The girl’s voice spat, even across the wires. “Enid! That goddam bitch! You still gonna marry her?”

  “Nancy, she’s my nurse, we’ve known each other a long time—I, Nancy, I need a fix—”

  “Yeah, sure. When ya want a fix, it’s Nancy, good old Nancy, but when ya wanna—aw, crap! All right. I’ll meet you at Puffy’s Diner on East 50th, you know where it is?”

  He said he didn’t, but he hastened to add he would find it. She said nine o’clock; his agreement was quick. It was now seven thirty-seven.

  At ten o’clock, hunched into a booth at the far end of Puffy’s Diner, 50th and the waterfront, Walter Caulder saw his life flaking to pieces. She had not come, and it was so bad, so terribly, so ohithurtshere bad.

  A dozen cups of steaming, black coffee had gone down his tortured throat while he had waited, from eight o’clock till now. But she had not come.

  She was punishing him.

  He had known it was madness to involve himself with this girl, this acknowledged junkie, but when Enid had stumbled on the truth, that he was using his narcotics license to obtain drugs to feed his own habit, she had taken steps. Drastic steps. She had confiscated the license proper, and threatened to leave him if he did not turn himself over for medical aid.

  Caulder remembered the night at her apartment when he had cried, and crawled on hands and knees to beg her. “Let me do it myself,” he had pleaded. “Let me do it cold turkey,” and her nostrils had flared, and contempt had shown in her eyes for a split instant.

  “You’re even using the language of a dope addict,” she had observed, and it had cut worse than the knowledge that he was, yes, hooked!

  But he had convinced her: it hadn’t taken much—merely a complete renunciation of his manhood. So he had started to “cold turkey” a cure. It had gone badly from the first. At least she had been nearby. He had called her many nights, and she had come to help him. But then, one night she had not been there, and he had needed it, and he had gone where he could find it—where he had found Nancy.

  For a while she had sold him what he needed, and Enid had known nothing of it. But she had found out. The strange bird tracks that ran up the insides of his arms. Then he had stopped seeing Nancy.

  It had taken more talking, more crying, more begging, and this was his last chance with Enid. She was too good, really, too sensitive, too understanding. She had given him his second, his last chance to “cold turkey” himself back to respectability.

  Tonight.

  Enid visiting her sister in Minnesota. The chills, the pains, the visions, and Rita Berg describing her inane frigidity. If she had not demanded a late appointment, if he had been allowed to go home, where he would have locked himself in and sunk into a hot bath—perhaps.

  But he had been alive, electric, and hungry.

  Now he sat in a diner, and she had not come.

  He clutched himself and rocked back and forth, like an old Hebrew praying, dovening for deliverance. That was the word…deliverance.

  The tremors passed, and before fresh ones could replace, he slid out of the booth and paid the fat man who must be Puffy, of Puffy’s Diner.

  The cab deposited him in front of Nancy’s leprous-faced brownstone. Inside. The dark hall, the odor of dead rodents, peculiarly the smell of cosmoline, wetted burned paper. Nancy.

  The door was locked. He knocked then knocked louder then called then screamed and there was no answer. He took two steps backward long-legged and hit the door with his shoulder. He was a small man; the door hung on years-rusted hinges, silent and discolored. He was thrown back.

  His shoulder was bruised raw when the door finally flew open inward and banged against the inner wall. The building was quiet, had n
o one heard? It was possible; this was a neighborhood of fear. Many things can not be heard if the incentive is great enough.

  The smell of sweetness. She had been tooting pot.

  More. The mugginess of bedsheets. The closed dry of dust settled in gloom.

  He raced through the railroad flat and she was there, in the bed with a man. His tousled hair was all that showed from under the sheet. Caulder pulled back the filthy covering. They were both fully dressed. So it had been a shoot-up session, no sex. It had never been that way with him, he mused. Nancy felt gratified to have a well-known, respectable psychiatrist making love to her; that had been something else. Desire was killed by the drug.

  He had to have a fix!

  He pulled her out of the bed by her hair and dragged her across the room, into the hall, down to the bathroom. There he propped her on the toilet, and threw great handfuls of water in her face. It seemed to have no effect on her. He slapped her wrists, massaged pressure points at her neck and shoulders.

  Finally, the girl’s eyes opened to thin slits.

  The pupils had a message. The message was simple: I’m gone. “How many caps?” he demanded. “How many, Nancy! I waited for you…you knew I needed a shot, and you—”

  He was speechless. She had shot up with a customer, leaving him to withdraw and suffer.

  “H-hi, Pops,” she mumbled. Her eyes closed.

  “Nancy! Nancy, I need a fix, now! I’ve got pain, Nancy.”

  Eyes closed, the thirsty lips opened. “Tough, Pops.”

  “Nancy, where is it, where’s the stuff, Nancy! I’ve got to—Nancy, I’ve got to have a fix, Nancy!” His hands were busy, his terror rising as the pains shot through his stomach, as the lost Arctic chill came to him again. She laughed lightly and lolled against the tiled wall.

  There was nothing he could do. So he searched. With the frantic wildness of a man who is dying painfully, he searched. The man in the bed did not stir. He was far out on a cloud of goldspun and nothing. When Caulder finally came back to the bathroom, he was convinced that if she had a boodle somewhere—

  He would never find it.

  “Tough, Pops,” she said, softly, nastily. “Guess you’ll have t’tough it out solo.” Her eyes closed again, and she rolled her forehead against the chill tile of the bathroom wall.

  Then Walter Caulder was slumped on the rim of the bathtub, crying. Holding his head in his feverish hands, his grey, floss hair falling over the fingers, he wept softly, because it hurt and it hurt so much he could not help himself.

  From far away he heard her say, “Oh, Doc, don’t do that, for Chrissakes! I—I ain’t got any more snow here…I’m—I’m sorry, s-sorry…he came over at the last minute…Doc! Please! Look, why don’t we go inna other room an’ get together, we can—”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, his hands biting into her flesh: “Where can I get a fix? Where can I get a shot, damn you!”

  He shook her; her blond hair swirled about her like amputated bird’s wings, and she gasped, “I d-don’t kn-know, I d-don’t know, maybe Spadesville, there’s u-usually a g-game going in one of the garages on Ardmore Boule-boulevard.”

  He pressed her, and she came up with a number, an approximation of a remembrance, and he left her, slumped on the toilet, her head hanging, her senses plastered to the ceiling, whispering to them high above, “You was nice, Doc, so n-nice, stay with m-me…”

  7103 was wrong.

  It was 7003, and the garage was silent when they saw his white skin. They held the dice, bleached squarenesses on black flesh, the ebony of the dice-eyes matching their own hues.

  “What you want?” the bearded one asked, settling back on his haunches.

  Walter Caulder took three steps into the garage, and the pains hit with mule-kick ferocity. He staggered, clutching his belly, and stumbled clangingly up against the side of the Oldsmobile. He squealed in anguish, and the dice players stared with open wonder.

  “Hey, Andus,” the bearded one rib-elbowed the man beside him, “close them damn doors before we got the whole damn neighb’hood in heah.” Andus rose and, catlike, glided around Walter Caulder, aswim in a sea of pain.

  “Who is he, Beard?” asked a little yellow-skinned Negro on the far side of the craps circle.

  Beard turned abruptly and gave the little man a hard glance. “Now how the hell am I supposed’ta know who he is? You think I know ev’body in this yeer city?”

  Walter Caulder’s mouth was filled with alkali dust.

  “H-help m-me…” he mouthed the words with rubber lips and splintered tongue.

  The Beard jerked a thumb in signal and two of the gamblers went to Caulder. They lowered him to the cement and one of them pulled a flask from an inner coat pocket. He unscrewed the jigger cap and offered it to Caulder’s mouth.

  “N-not th-that…” Caulder whimpered. “Shot, I need a…a…”

  He did not finish the sentence, and there was no need for him to finish the sentence, because the sentence had been finished years before by another mouth and by many mouths down through the hungry, devastated years.

  They stared at one another.

  “Who ah you, Tom?” The Beard asked.

  “I’m a guy who, who c-can p-pay for a shot, I n-need a, I’m dying please PLEASE!”

  The sweat was cold as crystal tombstones on his face. His skin crawled. His belly heaved. His legs ached. His eyes burned. There were rivets in his nerve ends.

  “I think you with the nabs, Tom,” The Beard ventured, huskily.

  “Damn you, d-damn you black—”

  The line had been drawn, the chip had been put to the shoulder, the name of the Mother had been defiled, the war between the worlds had begun. “You don’t call things down here’n Spadesville, ofay Tom. You don’t call, ’cause we beat you futzin’ head in.”

  And the little yellow-skinned gambler took a sharp, short step across the circle. The sharp Italian point of his highly polished black shoe caught Walter Caulder high on the right cheek, tearing a raw gash in his chilled flesh.

  Caulder did not feel the blow.

  Yet there was a basic embarrassment in him: he had no hatred of Negroes. He was not prejudiced. It had been the aching driving gimme hunger of the shot he had wanted, and it had conditioned a reflex he had never known he possessed.

  “Listen to me, l-listen, I—I—”

  How to explain to black men that you don’t hate black men. When the wrong impression has exploded, how do you cover it, send it away like spring mist?

  They beat him terribly, cut him with small knives that left tearing hurts on the surface of him, and threw him into a gutter.

  Someone urinated on him.

  When the army ants had feasted on his corroded flesh; when the hobnailed boot of the moon had ceased to step and step on the exposed grey of his brain; when the spoon had quit its rhythmic clink-clink-clink in the coffee cup, he saw the red light.

  His eyes were frosted, winter glass on an opaque sea-surface. They showed things that were not. He tried closing them, then opening them again.

  It was the revolving angry red eye of a police growler.

  “No!”

  Then two men, burly and coats smelling of rain that had dried on them and perspiration that had not, lifted him—“Drunken bastard, book him and throw him inna tank with the other winos”—and tossed him into the back of a showroom-new smelling car.

  He remembered answering a name. It was his name, so he did not worry about it. (I hurt…here.)

  Here. Everywhere.

  Then the hard, unyielding, hard cold, hard surface of a trough. A cell trough, and the ripe, fetid smell that was on him, and that had come from someone else before he had known this cell. There was wetness in the trough. He looked across and there was another man in the cell.

  Walter Caulder’s God was a madman. Walter Caulder’s God had grown diseased and become warped. Yet Walter Caulder’s God made miracles; insane, unplanned miracles coming at the wrong times, brought about for
all the wrong reasons; gibbering miracles, neurotic miracles, damned miracles.

  The other man in the cell was a junkie.

  He was withdrawing a bent spoon, a pack of matches, and a safety pin from the inside lining of his pants cuff. As Caulder watched, eyes burning and mouth swollen, the man opposite withdrew several small paper packets from a slit cut on the inside of his shirt collar flap.

  He was about to bake down a shot: he was ready for a fix.

  Enid, where are you? Walter Caulder bleated in the lost valley of his mind. Faraway echoes reverberated the same cry; no answer, only the same cry.

  Aloud he said: “Hey…h-hey, l-listen…”

  The man turned his Irish face toward Walter Caulder and freckles danced before the psychiatrist’s eyes. The wide, brown eyes of the Irishman blinked at him rapidly.

  “I n-need a f-f-fix,” he mouthed, his face stretched taut and painful under the bandages. “Please help me…I don’t…I’ll die if you d-d-don’t—”

  The Irishman’s smile was a peculiar thing. He held it a moment longer than was necessary, and then said: “Okay, man, don’t sweat. I got some extra Horse for you. I’ll putcha up in the saddle…I get out inna morning. I don’t need the extra boom.”

  So it was, less than ten minutes later, a ragged, jagged fissure ripped in the soft flesh of his inner arm—a rip made by a dirty safety pin—that Walter Caulder got his fix that night.

  A long fix.

  A good fix.

  A satisfying fix.

  As he lay back down in the urine-smeared trough, hands folded across his chest, his mind and senses eased for the first time that day, in many days, Walter Caulder had a singular thought.

  As his senses raced out to infinity, as his mind began to experience the multicolored gems of color and sound that only “high” could bring, Walter Caulder sank into his swoon, and thought:

  Physician, heal thyself.

  But that was just silly.

  May We Also Speak?