Requiem for a Dream

by Hubert Selby

  He didnt know why, but Harry felt disturbed on the way back to his place. He couldnt really latch on to what it was or why. It was something like a memory that was trying to come back but wasnt quite making it an he was trying to push it so he could find out what it was, but the more he pushed the more it hid behind the corner and got lost in the darkness. He kept directing his mind to the fuckin cops who stole their dope and their bread, but another part of his mind, just like Tyrones, kept wanting to look at the old man, and Harry would shake his head, inwardly, an once again fix his mind on the fuckin cops but his head was persistent and kept shoving the image of the old man in front of him and Harry kept turning his back on him and wrinkling his face in disgust, How could anybody let themselves get to be that low for krists sake? If I ever got to be half that bad I/d fuckin kill myself. Shit! and he frowned again in disgust. When he got back to Marions he told her about the bust and the old man, and she smiled, Well, one just doesnt get to meet a better class of people in places like that, and then she chuckled. Harrys face relaxed slightly, then he chuckled too. Marion dismissed the old man with a wave and a nod, Hes so obviously Freudian that its pathetic. I mean that business about women. Obviously he never did sublimate his oedipal complex and it made him an addict. That way he can claim not to be interested in women without accepting the fact that hes afraid of them. Probably impotent. I/ll bet you anything hes impotent and that’s why hes so afraid of them. So he becomes an addict. Obvious. Really pathetic. Harry chuckled then laughed. He didnt know why, but what Marion was saying made him feel better. Maybe it was the way she looked and waved her hand around, but whatever it was he felt something draining out of him, and whatever it was was being replaced with a sense of relief. He continued to smile as he listened and watched. What really annoys me, I mean what really galls me are the cops. Typical fascist pigs. Theyre the same cops that killed the students at Kent State, that torture people in Korea and South Africa. Its the same mentality that built the concentration camps. But try and get these stuffed middleclass—ooooo, it just infuriates me. We would be watching the news and be seeing the cops beating people over the head with their clubs and my mother and father would claim it wasnt really happening or they were some sort of hippie degenerate commies. Thats the big thing with them. Everybodys a commie. Talk about freedom and human rights and youre a commie. All they want to talk about is the sacred right of the stockholder and how the police protect our property… She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at Harry, You know, if I were to tell them about this theyd say it didnt happen, that I just made it up. She shook her head, It just amazes me how blind some people can be to the truth. Its right there in front of them and they dont see it. It just amazes me. Yeah, its weird. I dont know how they do it. Harry got up, Comeon, lets have a taste of that new shit before I get to work.

  * * *

  Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur had passed. Sara knew it was going to be a good year. She followed a strict observance of Yom Kippur for the first time since she didnt know when. Not even a glass of tea she had. Only water. And her pills. Medicine she figured was different. It wasnt food. And it came from a doctor so it was medicine. But she fasted and atoned. She thought of Harry and a sadness flowed over her. She prayed for him. Again. How many times. She prayed she would see him. She would see him a poppa. It was a few weeks into the new year. Maybe more. Now she called the McDick Corp. a couple of times a week, sometimes in the morning after she had taken her purple, red and orange pills and had drunk a pot of coffee, and told them how they had to find her card and let her know what show she would be on. She couldnt wait, and are they sure they hadnt lost her card and maybe she should come down there and help them look and the girl she spoke to, whoever it might be, would get annoyed and feel like yelling at her but would stay calm as possible and tell her, firmly, that they didn’t need her help in doing their job and that she should relax and stop calling for Gods sake and they would eventually hang up and hope and pray that she wouldnt call again; but she would, after taking her tranquilizers she would call late in the afternoon and be sweet and tell the girl, whoever it might be, Youre such a nice girl, dolly, youll please check for me and see what show, I dont want to trouble you but so many people are asking and youre like a daughter to me, its like doing a favor for your mother and I promise I wont bother you again youre so sweet, and the girl would giggle and nod and shake her head and finally hang up the phone and Sara would go back to her viewing chair.

  Winter came early. It seemed like there were a few lovely autumn days where the air was clear and crisp, the sky blue with white puffy clouds, the temperature warm and comforting in the sun and cool and invigorating in the shade. Days of absolute perfection. Then suddenly it was gray and windy and cold and rainy and then the sleet and snow came and even if you could find the sun it seemed to have lost its warmth. From time to time Marion fiddled with a sketch pad, but her hand seemed to be moving the pencil while the rest of her was completely detached from the action. Occasionally they would attempt to resurrect their enthusiasm for the coffee house, and their other plans, but for the most part they spent their time shooting dope and watching television or listening to music occasionally. Once in a while they went to a movie, but with the bad weather that interested them less and less. About the only time Harry went out now was to cop the stuff, and that was becoming more and more difficult. Every time they found somebody to cop from they went out of business for some damn reason. It seemed like the fuckin gods were against them. They had long since given up the idea of a pound of pure, though they consciously mentioned it once in a great while, and of getting uncut weight. They were content to score bundles, but now that was becoming a rarity. They were just getting what they could and using it all themselves, they couldnt even get enough to off to pay for their own stuff. At one time it seemed like they had a nice pile of bucks, now it seemed like they didnt have shit. Harry and Tyrone would discuss the situation and the amount of money remaining, and try to analyze what was happening, sifting through the various reasons they had heard for the shortage of dope, all plausible and equally far fetched. Some guys said the italian and the black gangs were fightin and other dudes said that was a bunch of mutha fuckin boolshit cause I heard it right from mah man there be a big bus on a ship carryin fifty mutha fuckin keys jim an— What the fuck you talkin about? They consciskate a hundred pounds a scag man an there be all kinds a headlines an the TV be spitting that ol dope shit all day. Sheeit, the man rip off that much stuff an we all be in mournin baby. Right on man, and he gave him five then they passed it around and the stories continued. But in the final analysis it didnt make any difference why. There was a problem and that was that. Why didnt make a fiddlers fuck and all they could do was to hang tough and hope the scene would break soon so they could get back where they were. They knew that sooner or later there would be dope all over the city, just like before. There was too much money involved for there not to be. Harry talked about it from time to time with Marion and, of course, the conversation was as fruitless as the ones with Tyrone. Except it did keep the bond between them cemented. As long as they could share they felt close and that was important. And whenever they started to feel the chills of fear and the grinding of anxiety they simply got off and melted all the cares and concerns away with its warmth. Sometimes they would fix up new cookers just for the sake of doing it. It was part of keeping house. The entire routine made them feel a part of something. It was something looked forward to with the greatest of joy and anticipation. The entire ritual was symbolic of their life and needs. The careful opening of the bag and the dumping in the cooker of the dope, and dropping in the water with the dropper. Making a new collar from time to time for the dropper so the needle would fit snugly, Harry using a piece of matchbook cover, Marion a piece from a dollar bill. Staring at the solution in the cooker as it heated and dissolved and then stirring the cotton around with the needle then drawing the solution up and into the dropper and holding the dropp
er in the mouth as they tied up and found a favorite vein, usually going into a previously made hole and feeling the spurt of excitement as the needle penetrated the vein and the blood spurted up the dropper and they let go of the tie around their arm and shot the shit into their arm and waited for that first flash of heat through their body and the warm swelling in the gut and they let the dropper fill up with blood and booted and then yanked it out and put it in the glass of water and rubbed the drops of blood off their arm and sat back feeling whole and invulnerable and safe and a lot of other things, but mostly whole.