The Story of Junk

by Linda Yablonsky

  “You fucked up all by yourself,” she retorts. “If you’d let me take care of the dope once in a while, things like this never would happen.”

  I’m a shit. My hand finds its way to my crotch, hungry for sex I can’t bear. I shove my fist between my legs and press. That’s worse. I slap my cunt to keep it quiet. It makes me shudder. I stare bleakly into the closet. Nothing left but to lie down and stink up the room.

  I want to know how long this will last. Kit’s the expert.

  “Thirty-six hours,” she says. “If we’re lucky.”

  “Where are your pills?”

  “I took them.”

  “What a pal.” The bitterness in my voice makes me angrier still.

  “I thought you didn’t like pills,” she says.

  “Christ!” I say. “Where’s Bernie?”

  Bernie is Kit’s pill connection. He was one of her roommates in the Betty days, a young guitar player who holds her in high esteem. It’s mutual. Bernie has a druggist for a father. On blank ’scrips Bernie steals from his father’s store, he writes prescriptions for whatever she needs: Valium, Darvon, Darvocet, Percocet, codeine. Kit calls him whenever she goes on the road. What about now? Can he stop by? Yes, but not right away. His father’s getting suspicious. We may have to wait a day or two. Or, at least, till later.

  We can’t wait. We can’t. I’ll call Dean. He’s made enough off me by now to advance me a stash. I can turn it over, he knows that. It’s the one thing I’m still good for.

  I dial his number. No answer. This sucks very bad. This really sucks a big one.

  “Never mind,” Kit says, pulling herself to her feet. “Somebody will think of something.”

  I could cry.

  I wish I was driving a fast, heavy car, speeding down a mountain road with steeply banked curves and sudden drops. I wish this road could be long and unpaved, I want to feel every shudder in the wheel. I want to see cinders fly, I want to see a crack in the earth. I wish a large animal, a bear or a deer, would cross my path so I could ram it. I want to send it up in the air and crush it under the car. I want to kill it and feel it die. Just so I won’t kill Kit.

  I look in her eyes. They’re murderous.

  The phone rings. It’s Vance. How’m I doin’? Fine. Do I want to come up and see his new “photos”? Maybe later, I say. Prob’ly later.

  I sink back on the bed and the phone rings. “Anything happening?” says a treacly voice—Earl’s. My rage grows enormous.

  “I can make something happen,” I say through my teeth and I improvise a plan. If the scumbag will front me some cash, I’ll make a run for him, sure. I’ll get some D on the street and I’ll beat it. He’ll get a short count and a sour one. I’ll spike it with baking soda and sugar and salt and seal it in Kit’s old glassines. She saves them.

  “I’m coming with you,” she says as I pull on clothes. This is not a simple task. I can’t stand upright, my hands won’t get a grip. An involuntary tremor accompanies my every labored move. I don’t bother with my makeup. On my way out the door, I heave.

  We ring the bell at Earl’s apartment and I go up. Kit wants to wait outside. Duke’s up there with two other a-holes who have runny noses and dark circles under their eyes. I see no signal from anyone, I hear no attempt to explain a thing. “You look funny,” says Earl. Do I? He looks blasted. These guys, these fucking guys.

  I run with Kit straight to Avenue B, moving with caution. This dopesick, anyone could take us, but it’s Isabelle who shouts us down. She’s an old girlfriend of the Toast’s roadie, a methadone goddess, all smiles. Does she have any juice? No, she sold it. Where’d she cop? “Black Mark,” she says, “but they were busted just before. You look bad.” We look bad? She’s like a starved albino rat. We’re standing in front of the building where she lives, shivering. After we cop, she says, we can come up and get off at her place.

  Someone I recognize from Sticky’s says they’re selling good shit on Fifth Street. We walk over to a tall, grinning black guy standing alone. “Yo!” I say. I think I’m shouting but he barely hears me. He grins wider. Not only am I sick, I’m white. Uh-oh.

  “Give me six,” I say, my voice fuzz.

  “Thirty bucks,” he says.

  Is he playing with me? That’s half-price. I look at him. No change of expression. I hand him the money, take the bags, turn on my heel. Kit buys two more and scrambles after me.

  “I don’t know about this,” she says. “Why is it so cheap?”

  “Cops are everywhere,” I say. “Maybe Flaco is having a sale.”

  We push Isabelle’s buzzer and climb a flight of steps to her apartment, one room and a half, sturdy gates on every window, all two of them. I plead with Kit: “Do me first?”

  “I don’t know why I should,” she grumbles. I’m sicker than she is—first time that’s happened. She loads the spoon, stares into the powder.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “It looks weird.”

  “Just do it,” I say, impatient. “We can complain about it later.”

  She boots it in my arm and sits back to watch my face. I wait, looking back at hers. I don’t feel any different. Then I do. “Goddamn the pusher-man!” I gasp. “It’s coke! We’ve bought fucking cocaine!”

  There’s only one thing worse than kicking dope, and that’s kicking dope on coke. Usually, nickel bags of street coke are packed in rectangles of aluminum foil. This stuff was in the same glassine bags they use for dope but without an identifying rubber stamp.

  “Is it good coke at least?” Kit says.

  “For crying out loud! How am I supposed to be able to tell that?”

  “I think maybe you went the wrong direction on Fifth Street,” Isabelle says calmly, taking a sip from her beer. “Try the next block going west.”

  A minute later we’re back outside, walking up Fifth Street. My legs are still rubbery, but at least I can move. Kit’s having trouble keeping up. Near Avenue A we see a gaggle of kids standing on the sidewalk in front of a jagged hole cut into a cinder-block wall, a couple of jitterbugs pacing alongside. We stop and peer into the hole. A short line of junkies is waiting dog-faced before another hole, in a candlelit cavelike space that once must have been a basement.

  “Hey, good-lookin’, whatchu want?” says a kid about ten years old. He’s standing too close to me, he’s pressing my arm. An older guy, a seller, is in front of me.

  “Aren’t you up past your bedtime?” I ask the kid.

  “Give me your money,” says the seller. “How many?”

  Do we have any money left? Kit passes me forty dollars of her own and I watch as the kid runs to a garbage can on the corner. He lifts out a brown paper bag and counts out four glassines. “The narcs been comin’ roun’ here all day, man,” explains the seller. “But they don’t mess with kids.”

  Buying drugs from a ten-year-old—I don’t care how smart—upsets me. I walk away shaking my head. “This is really the end,” I say. “I won’t do this even one more time, no matter how desperate I get.”

  “It’s pretty disgusting,” Kit agrees.

  “We have to develop more sources,” I say. We have to.

  “Piss, shit, fuck.” Kit is kicking the door—Isabelle’s not answering her bell. We make our way to Second Avenue. Part of our street habit, or custom, has been to eat right after we cop, usually at one of the Ukrainian diners that are on nearly every East Village block. The best is a banquet hall on Second Avenue, where the bathrooms have stalls big enough for two. No one notices us go in and shoot up, and soon we’re sitting at a table. Kit’s hungry but I’ve never felt less like eating in my life. I just want that shithead Earl to stew. That Earl.

  A waitress in a peasant costume hands us menus, her smile too sugared for my taste. She says, “Don’t you want to use the ladies’ room first?”

  I feel my cheeks flush but Kit’s expression remains neutral. “I already washed my hands,” she says, just as sweet. “Can we order?”

  “We have to stop coming here
, too,” I say when the waitress has gone. We’re having hot borscht and sharing a plate of boiled pierogies—all we can pay for. An accordion player steps up to the microphone at the other end of the room. He nods in our direction. The whole staff is giving us the eye.

  “I wish we had enough money for rice pudding,” Kit says.

  “Eat the bread. It’s just as sweet.” I want to run out of there, quick.

  Kit’s fiddling with a spoon. “Why don’t I do the dealing for a while?”

  “You’re in a band. You’re too public. You’re always out of town. We need another connection, that’s all.”

  “I’m not sure I like that white dope,” she says. “It’s too expensive. It’s too clean. It doesn’t give you any rush.”

  “Who cares about a rush?” I nearly screech. “The stuff gets you straight, doesn’t it? That’s what counts.”

  She puts down the spoon and leans toward me. “I want the rush. Why do you think I do this?”

  I’m exasperated. This dope has not altered my mood. The coke must have done some damage. Turning over what’s left to Earl should pick me up. I’ll be gone before he opens it.

  Kit’s eyes, so pinned. Incredible eyes. “We need a new connection,” I say, “and that’s that.”

  She tears a thick piece of bread and dunks it. “Why don’t we try Brooklyn Moe?”

  BROOKLYN MOE

  Brooklyn Moe is a beer-bellied friend of Bernie’s. He deals cocaine. Kit likes him. No, she appreciates him. He brings us an eighth and a half ounce of pot whenever her band has a gig. Moe idolizes Kit. Like most guys I’ve met from Brooklyn, he’s cool enough but he’s always stoned. I mean, stoned. Excessives make me nervous. And I wish he’d do something about that stringy brown hair. It hides his eyes. They’re quiet.

  Moe drives us out to deepest Brooklyn, I don’t know where. He’s taking us to some drug kingpin, a mob type, or a Persian, or a Turk, some immigrant from a place with an opiate-sounding name who he says can sell us quantity for cheap. That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear: quality dope at low cost. Moe says you can get anything cheaper in Brooklyn.

  Now we’re lost. Brooklyn is vast. I never come here. Who can understand the layout? It’s not a simple grid like Manhattan. It’s shaped like a chunk of meat. We could be roaming the Amazon, for all I know, the streets are so dense and foreign. We’ve been in Moe’s car quite a while.

  Then he turns into a road that looks exactly like the suburbs. The surrounding housing projects, brownstones, and mosques have evaporated. Tall trees line both sides of the street. Otherwise, it’s empty. No dogs, no strollers, no toys scattered over yards—just rows of parked cars and small houses, big lawns. Christmas lights are on every house, and not a sound from one.

  “Where are we?” I ask. Moe answers with a word I don’t catch. Most of what he says is unintelligible: Gzeezer m’buh-buh ovah y’ar—that sort of thing. Neanderthal.

  “Dis izzit,” he says, pulling up to the curb. “Ai don’ tell awn.”

  Excuse me?

  “He shouldn’t be long,” Kit interprets. She gets him, somehow. It’s weird.

  “Do you see that?” she says, poking me in the ribs. “What’s that about?” Moe is feeling his way across the lawn, crouching in the dark like a marine under fire. His shadow is that of an ape. He knocks on the side door of a single-story white frame house. The door opens and he stumbles in.

  In the car, we snort some very icy C, compliments of Moe. “He does get good coke,” Kit says. Then we grow impatient. “I know he’s getting high in there,” she grumbles. We might be sitting out here all night.

  A patrol car approaches. My feet grip the floor. We stash the coke under the seat. The patrol car slows. The cops look us over as they pass.

  “Be friendly,” I say under my breath and slide behind the wheel.

  “How friendly?” says Kit.

  We smile, give a wave. They stop.

  One cop rolls down the window of his car. I do the same. “Don’t tell me I was speeding, officer,” I say, girly as can be. “Everyone’s been passing us by.” He’s a young one, this cop, could be he just started shaving. Likes his aftershave, that’s for sure.

  He shines a flashlight directly into my eyes. “This your house?” he says.

  “Uh, no,” I say. Brilliant.

  “You ladies lost?”

  “Ain’t that the truth!” I let my eyes blink a few times. That still works with some guys. “We were going to a friend’s house for dinner in—” Damn! I can’t think of a name. I don’t know Brooklyn neighborhoods. I steal a look at Kit. She’s fishing in the glove compartment. What’s she looking for? A map?

  “Bensonhurst,” she mutters.

  “We’re looking for Bensonhurst,” I say. “Are we close?” The flash doesn’t move from my face. He better not ask for my license. I don’t have one.

  “Nice car,” says the cop. “You don’t see a lotta these anymore.” It’s a stupid car, an old Chevy Nova, gray inside and out. An old-lady car. “Kinda late for dinner,” he says.

  “Is it? We’ve been driving around a long time.”

  He gets out and pulls something from his belt. My blood goes cold. I’m fighting for control of my mouth—my tongue is stuck to its roof.

  “Have you ever been arrested before?” Fuck all. They couldn’t have seen that coke!

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I say. It’s a ticket book in the cop’s hands. A ticket for what? Loitering? Write the ticket and go.

  He leans in the window, averting the flash, looks around the car. “You sure you’re not ladies of the night or sumpin’? Not waiting on your pimp in there?” He gestures toward the house.

  “Aw, c’mon,” I say. That ape better stay inside.

  Kit leans across me, looking at his badge. “Capoletti?” she says. “I know a drummer in the city named Capoletti.”

  He points the flash at her. “Hey, yeah—that’s my cousin from Flatbush! You know him?”

  “Well,” she says, turning to face the windshield. “I’m in a band.”

  “No kiddin’—which one?” We tell him, Toast.

  “Get out! Hey, Tony,” he yells to his partner, more seasoned by the look of him. “These ain’t no working girls. They’re from the Toast! I seen you play! Last year. My brother-in-law took me. Yeah, I remember you now—you play pretty good. Guitar, right?” He turns off the flash, studies my face. “And you must be the singer. You’re great, man. How about this! And I thought you were hookers.” Yuk yuk.

  “When you gonna come play in Brooklyn?” the other cop shouts. “We like the girl bands out here.”

  “There’s a guy in our band,” Kit says.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Capoletti mutters. “He’s not too hip. But I know a guy might want to book you—my cousin owns a coupla clubs over here, and in Queens. I’ll give you his number. He could use a new act, and you can tell him I said so. Listen,” he says. “Can I get your autograph? For my baby sister. She’s sixteen.” He opens his book and passes it through the window. “Here,” he says. “Sign one of these.”

  I sign Sylph’s name on a summons and hand the book to Kit. Are they watching us from that house?

  “Listen,” Kit says, very buddy-buddy. “Anytime you want to come to one of our gigs, just let our manager know and we’ll put you on our guest list. I’ll write down his number, too.”

  “Can you point us back to Manhattan?” I ask in clipped tones. The coke has me grinding my teeth.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll draw you a map—hey, why not?”

  The door to the house opens and Moe comes lurching out.

  “Who’s that?” says the cop. Moe stands there, not moving. “He with you?”

  Kit leans over me for Capoletti’s map. “That’s our manager,” she says. Cocaine makes her quick. “He went over there to see if he could use the phone.”

  The cop hauls himself back in the patrol car. “Tough stuff about your dinner,” he says. “But Bensonhurst’s where
you go for Italian ice. You wanna eat good, you gotta go to Sheepshead Bay.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” I say. “Sure am glad you guys came along.” Kit kicks me.

  I roll up the window and they drive on, too slowly, about the speed of Moe. He’s moving in our direction. I roll the window down.

  “Fuzzeesh?” he says.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “They thought we were lost. Let’s go.”

  “Uh,” he replies. “Fug.” He looks down the empty street. “Them g’zuys, man,” he says, shaking his head. “Mo’ bread, y’know whu’ I zayne?”

  “The stuff is more expensive than he thought,” says Kit. How much more? A hundred dollars more. I groan. Shit, I’m beginning to sound like him.

  “Look,” I say. “Hey Moe! Did you at least bring us a taste?” He wipes one palm with the other. Oh, right. We have to pay for it.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say. “How long did it take us to get here? An hour? My people can’t wait. I can’t sit here and dilly-dally all night. I’m coming in.”

  Moe shifts his feet, hangs his head. “Uh, don’ know.” Fucking dummy.

  “Whack,” he says. What? “They’ve got a gun,” he says loud and clear. “There’s three of ’em,” he adds. “Okay people, bu’ y’know, nervous.”

  “Did you sell them some of this coke?”

  A goofy smile. “Don’ fly,” he mumbles. “Patience.” He slouches back to the house.

  “I’m going in,” I say after a minute.

  Kit says, “I’m not staying out here by myself. This neighborhood gives me the creeps. And what if those cops come back?” I think she can handle that.

  We turn up the volume on the radio and Moe returns high as a kite. His smile looks triumphant. The reason: he’s brought us a taste. We snort it out of the bag. It’s not worth the trip, but it’s late now and I have to get something—my troops will be panting at my doorstep. I order the minimum—a gram.

  “They ain’t gonna like this,” Moe growls, I think. “You wanna make any kinda bread, you gotta buy weight.”