The Story of Junk

by Linda Yablonsky

  I never know whether to slap Belle or give her a hug. I hate her for telling me this.

  “This is a drag,” she says with a shake of her head. “Can we not think about it anymore?” She asks if I feel like a movie.

  No, I say. I have to think about this. It’s not going to go away. The first time a guy with AIDS came here and asked to use the toilet, I wanted to refuse him. Let him sit on my throne? I knew kissing didn’t kill, but those lesions on his ass—I didn’t know about them. I let him use the toilet but I scrubbed it down afterward with bleach. I felt bad doing that, but I just didn’t know. The next time he called was from a hospital bed. He had the dementia and I couldn’t make out a thing he said. I think he wanted me to bring him dope. I didn’t want to go near him.

  “I don’t blame you,” says Belle. She looks ashen. I’m beginning to think drugs don’t affect her well. She does them for fun but they get her so down. I wonder why she keeps it up.

  “I hardly do drugs at all,” she says, her eyes falling again on the dope. Tell me another one, I want to say, but I don’t get the chance. “I’m too occupied trying to work out how to make money,” she tells me. “Even you seem to have figured it out.”

  Even me?

  “I realize you’re making a living at this, but it’s not what you were meant to do.”

  Whoops. She’s hit an open wound. “I’m writing,” I say, avoiding her gaze. “Every night after business. I can hardly keep myself in notebooks.”

  “That’s all right, then.”

  No, it isn’t. What I have in my notebooks aren’t quite stories, or ideas. They’re more like swallowed cris de coeur, the scribbles of a mind in half-light. “I’m not especially proud of what I’m doing,” I say. “But I couldn’t stay in any job.”

  “Then you have to stop.”

  “It’s not so easy.”

  “It’s going to get you in trouble,” she says. “You’ll get sick.”

  “Yeah.” I stare at the wall, thinking of Bill. I know I won’t call him back.

  “Look,” Belle says, anxious to change the subject. “I hate to ask you but … well, you couldn’t get some of the other thing?”

  “Sure, I could.” She’s talking about cocaine. Belle never calls drugs by their names. Too specific.

  “Can you get it tonight? An eighth?”

  “No problem,” I say. Brooklyn Moe should be available.

  “I’d ask Honey,” she confides, “but her thing hasn’t been so good lately—and please don’t tell her I said that.”

  “Like I said, no problem.” I do my best to dredge up a smile.

  “I wish you were selling it instead of this,” she says, packing up to go. “This stuff is so low-class. By reputation, I mean,” she adds quickly. “The way it makes you have to live—you know.” She takes a quick parting hit off the dope, gives me a self-conscious look. “I want you to promise you’ll never sell to my son.”

  This is a problem—a conflict of loyalties. He’s already been here several times.

  “He’ll pressure you for it, I know,” she goes on. “I’m not entirely sure he’s interested in drugs, but I have reason to suspect. He may have got involved with a junky girlfriend and I don’t want it to become an issue. Can you promise?”

  I promise, but a knot forms in my chest. As soon as Belle leaves, I take a quick hit, too. Dear Belle … Poor Bill. If I had a prayer, I’d say it. If I had a heart, I’d beat it.

  RICO

  It’s the middle of April when I hear from Rico again, calling from Sticky’s office. This is awkward: Kit has never wanted him in this apartment, I can’t see him. I say, “Want me to come over there?”

  “No … Ah, no. Can’t talk. Explain when I get there.”

  “Rico’s coming here?” says Kit.

  The phone again—Rico. He doesn’t have the address. “Kit there?” he says. “Okay, good.”

  The next call is from Lucky. He’s managing a rock club in midtown now. Somebody famous must be playing there tonight, unannounced. This happens now and then.

  “Did you hear?” Lucky says.

  “No, what?”

  “I’m just going to say this the way I heard it. Sticky’s dead.”

  “What?” I hold my breath.

  “He OD’d last night.”

  “My God, no. At the joint?”

  “No, he was home. One of the kids found him.”

  “I can’t believe this.” Sticky, an OD?

  “Believe it. It’s terrible. I just called to say, watch out for the wife. That Angie. She’s telling everyone he got the stuff from you.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Am I shouting? “I haven’t seen Sticky in months.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Lucky says, his voice steady. “But watch out. She’s got a mouth, that one. She could make trouble.”

  “She’s full of shit.”

  “You know that and I know that, but other people think other things.”

  “Sticky OD’d,” I say to Kit when I get off the phone. She’s in the kitchen, putting on hair dye.

  “Is that why Rico called?”

  “I guess.” I can’t say more. I choke up.

  When Rico arrives, he makes for the office as if he’s been here a thousand times. “You okay?” he asks, giving my shoulder a nudge.

  “Not really. You?” His face is drawn, his skin sallow, his hands never at rest. They tug at his clothes, scratch his legs, rub his nose.

  “It’s been a weird day,” he says with a sigh.

  “So I hear. Lucky told me.”

  “Yeah, shit. You holding?”

  I put out a line. Least I can do. How many has he given me?

  “How is this stuff?”

  “You’ll see. What’s all this about Angie?”

  “Oh. Angie, yeah. That’s why I wanted to see you.” He takes out a hanky and hocks up a good one, picks up a straw and vacuums the line whole.

  “Can’t you shut her up?” I ask.

  “No one can shut that bitch up. That fuckface. I knew it was a mistake for Sticky to marry her. She’s a goddam two-faced fuckin’ bitch.”

  “He was in love with her.”

  “I know, I know. Damn! If the Down hadn’t killed him, she would have. Did.”

  “She didn’t force it down his throat. She wasn’t even living there.”

  “No, she was. She went back.”

  “She was there when it happened?”

  “No, of course not. Out somewhere with her mob friends.”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know nothin’. Sticky’s dead, that’s all I know. The service is tomorrow night.” He gives me the details, the time, the place. “You comin’?”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “I have to.”

  “Maybe you should sit in the back.”

  “I don’t have anything to feel guilty about!”

  “I know, I know. But Angie—”

  “She won’t be the only one there. Must’ve been some rotten street shit Sticky copped.”

  “Yeah, sure. Listen, what I came to tell you—”

  “Something else?”

  “Your phone. I think it’s tapped.”

  “Come on.”

  “No, really. I checked it out. There’s something wrong.” He lays a hundred bucks on the table. “Let me buy some of this off you, okay?”

  While I’m weighing it out, he tells me there’s a number you can dial to check the phone line for bugs. Repairmen use it. So do cops. He gives me the number, says not to write it down. We dial. If it rings busy, I’ve got trouble. If it beeps, the line’s clear.

  It’s busy.

  “You think Angie dropped a dime?” I ask.

  “I don’t know if it was her, but she does know … people. You get into this business, you can piss people off.”

  “My people aren’t pissed. My dope is beautiful. My life is beautiful. My packages are divine. When my peo
ple leave here, they go happy.”

  He takes another snort. “When was the last time you saw Sticky?”

  “Come on, Rico! It wasn’t me.”

  “Okay. I was just making sure. Things can happen. Don’t worry about the phone,” he says. “I can have it fixed from the office. I know this guy, y’know, he works downtown, for the city. You know. I’ll ask him, he’ll take care of it. But stay off the horn for a while.”

  When he leaves, Kit takes his chair. She’s overheard the whole conversation. “I don’t get why you believe anything Rico says. You know he’s crazy.”

  “I guess.”

  She looks thoughtful. “You really used to have sex with him? He’s so fucked up.”

  “Well, he used to be more attractive. Anyway, he had cocaine.” I take out a couple lines of D. Kit lifts a set of works from a drawer.

  “You don’t even like coke.”

  “Okay. I got off on him.”

  “You’re weird.”

  She thinks this is weird? Wait till she hears about Ned.

  Ned is a boyfriend I had in college. I met him one day when my roommate left for class. He’d spent the night with her. In those days, Ned was living for his dick. I guess I was too, for a minute. We never really got along, except when I blew him, except when I licked his ass. He never complained about that. I would. To him, I was nothing but a drive-in window. He’s been living off women as long as I’ve known him, never even had an apartment of his own. I don’t know why I let him keep coming around. So what if he has good pot? Pot? Give me a break. I never told him I’d moved on to dope, he wouldn’t get it if I had. On top of all the other indignities, he’s a square.

  Ned’s been here a few times when Kit happened to be out. I’ve said nothing about it to her; he’s been dropping in on me so long, it seemed more normal than disloyal. I want to put an end to it once and for all, though Ned does have a magnificent dick and Kit has none of any kind. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. He’ll find out. When I played him Kit’s records he wanted to meet her. He promised to come over later. I tell her about it now.

  She gags. “I’m a monogamous person,” she says. She can’t live with the knowledge I’d have sex with anyone else, even if it’s a man, even if the man is Ned.

  “Monogamous? What was that with me and you and Betty?” I ask, then I drop it. Not fair.

  I make Kit a promise: no more sex with Ned. That feels strange. I’ve had other boyfriends and a girlfriend or two, some were lovers, some housemates, but I was never with them for the long run. I never thought I’d have a long run. Now here I am with Kit, for however long time will tell, doing what our bodies tell us, dressing in each other’s skin—the skin of the High House of Heroin, in the mythical Land of Grim.

  On the next night the phone still rings busy when I dial the secret number, and I know: it isn’t Angie who put the heat on me; it’s Rico. He resents me, and Kit, doing this, living here, I can tell. That business about fixing it for me … he fixed it all right. It was Rico.

  I go to Sticky’s funeral with Pedro and Mr. Leather—the first time since we met I’ve been anywhere without Kit, not counting when she was out of town. When I reach the chapel, I’m glad Kit hasn’t come because the first person I see is Betty. She’s with Angie, of all people, and she doesn’t look good.

  Betty gives me the evil eye. We don’t speak. Angie couldn’t be nicer. She even apologizes for that nasty rumor about me doping Sticky, though I’m sure if Betty has her way, I’ll never hear its end.

  At the restaurant after the service, drinks are on the house. It’s a sad occasion, but I’m strangely giddy throughout. Mr. Leather is deep in his cups, jerking his head to the music playing. He’s had a letter from Big Guy—sorry, he meant to tell me. In all the excitement, he forgot. The letter is postmarked Hawaii, and includes a note addressed to me.

  It’s a warning. Big Guy is glad I quit Sticky’s, the atmosphere’s so unhealthy, but it pains him to know I’m still dealing. He’s heard about Duke and Earl. I should get out while I can—please, get out. He’s clean now, he says, and he misses us.

  Mr. Leather tells me not to worry, not about Betty or Angie, or Big Guy, or Kit. Everything’s fine, where’s a waitress?

  At home, Kit tells me Vance has been calling every half hour. He’s run dry, what can I do? I could call Dean, but I don’t trust his tie to Rico. What I need is to develop an inventory and soon, find yet another source of supply.

  As it turns out, I don’t have to do anything. One of my customers has a friend with “work” for me to see. I look heavenward and think of the note from Big Guy, then toss the thought aside. If I wasn’t doing the right thing by my friends, the right thing wouldn’t be coming back to me.

  AMSTERDAM BROWN

  Maggie is the mother of a baby girl, Peter is the father. Maggie is the dealer. Peter is the mule. The baby is something of a passport.

  Maggie’s heroin is brown. She brings it from Amsterdam, where she lives. My customers don’t like it at first. “But this is brown,” they say. “It’s good,” say I. “You smoke it,” and I show them how.

  You put the powder on a piece of aluminum foil, roll up a straw with another piece. That’s your pipe. Holding a lighter under the foil, you angle the foil, put it to the pipe, and inhale. As the dope starts to bubble, you move the lighter under the foil and keep inhaling through the aluminum straw. The dope slides across the foil as it burns over the flame. This is called “chasing the dragon.” It’s heaven. It even gives you a rush. Not like the one you get from a needle, but close enough. “I don’t know,” Kit says. “Smoking this stuff seems wasteful.”

  “You can shoot it,” Maggie tells her. “Just mix lemon juice into the water before you cook it.”

  Kit tries it. I try it. We’re back in business.

  Some of the customers prefer the brown. They like that low-down, dirty-bottom feeling. They also like my price. Brown dope is cheaper than white and I’ve decided to pass on the savings. I make it up in volume sales to other dealers. Their money is always green.

  Maggie comes over with Peter and the baby every day. She also brings cocaine. She smokes both drugs, so she doesn’t have tracks, but her face, her hands, her forearms are mottled with dried scabs and festering sores. When Maggie’s high, which is always, she thinks insects are crawling under her skin. She digs through it to get them out.

  “Maggie, really. Please stop that,” I say one afternoon. My living-room table is littered with burnt foils and pipes, ashtrays, beer cans, and diapers. I can’t bear watching her scratch. Can’t she stop?

  “No,” she says, ashamed. “I can’t,” and commences to pick at a particularly ugly scab as if I’d said nothing at all.

  Sometimes, while I’m doing other things, the image of Maggie’s arms comes to mind, and it upsets me. That business of smoking the coke, freebasing it’s called, is the most obsessive act I have ever seen anyone perform, but Kit finds it has a certain allure. She’s started picking her face, too, and cutting off her hair. She’s already shaved the sides of her head behind her ears and is slowly snipping away at the spikes on top. Onstage, it looks fabulous. At home, it looks insane.

  In June, I begin to miss the white. This brown dope may cost less, but you have to do more of it to get the same effect. It’s harder on the system, too. A couple of times, when Maggie is nowhere to be found, I get sicker than I’ve ever been in my life. More disgusted. It makes me sour, like the lemon.

  Brown dope has also given me a hankering for brown food—chocolate milk, for instance. Days go by when that’s all I can get down, chocolate milk and chocolate ice cream. I’ve never liked chocolate this much; I didn’t eat candy as a child. I’m smoking more cigarettes, too. Something about this dope requires tobacco. I’m up to two packs a day, unfiltered. Periodically, I have to run to the sink or the toilet to spit. I’m coughing up green-and-black goo, but I don’t want to give up smoking; it’s keeping me off the needle. We know now how need
les put us at risk for AIDS. I don’t want the customers fixing here, either—one of them is already dying—but I can’t really stop them, not with Kit banging away every few hours for all the world to see.

  When Maggie and Peter go back to Amsterdam to re-up, I give the Lower East Side one more try, going directly to the projects on the river and buying quarter-grams or half-grams through a homeboy I’ve met in the street (I’m trying to save money). The dope’s not as potent as Maggie’s, but it’s cleaner than the strychnine-laced bundles from the other buildings. White dope is like health food by comparison. Same poison, but no chemical additives. No fat.

  When my runner is busted and ends up in Rikers, I’m forced to turn again to Dean. In a way, I’m relieved. I’ll never have to set foot in the East Village again. Except that someone’s decided it’s a great place to open an art gallery—Belle—and it’s not “provincial” anymore. It’s posh.

  How does this happen? One day a neighborhood’s a war zone; the next it’s a fucking town square. Dozens of new shops and galleries have opened in spaces where, not so long ago, people shot dope, not art. Here, women and minority artists can be the stars, they’re creating a whole new market. Openings are like parties at hip-hop clubs—paintings in the front room, drugs in the back, art dealers in the alleyways with money in their hats. Collectors are coming from all over town. The street-dope sellers have had to move south a few blocks but they haven’t disappeared. If anything, they’re more numerous than ever.

  I worry about the competition this scene is stirring up. If everyone’s on the Lower East Side every day, who will bother coming to Sixth Avenue? Everyone, as it turns out, thanks to Prescott Weems. I don’t mind giving Weems a line now and then. He’s a scene all his own, twittering through the door with a parade of artists and anglers for whom heroin is a medium of discovery, succulent and boundless. Business is almost too good; Weems never brings the same person twice. Most nights I hardly have time to get out of my chair, and Kit has to take over the door.

  One of Weems’s pals is a pizza-faced guy by the name of Davey Boxer. He offers Kit a fall show in his gallery, another new spot on a corner near the Bowery. His family’s in real estate and they’ve bought him the space. All of his artists are people he gets high with, and most of them buy their stuff from me. The rest see a tiny blonde named Sylvia, who’s no stranger here, either.