The next day I saw that the girl who'd stolen my best Polaroid was holding hands with the boy she loved. I was happy for her. I went to her and said that she was the strongest diver I had ever seen. I said that she was so strong that she must have a drop or two of Tuniit blood, and she laughed proudly.
Do you think Lydia's pretty? the girl beside her said.
Sure. I mean probably.
Really? You really want to fuck Lydia?
Probably.
Do you like every girl in this town? said another girl in amazement.
Probably, I said.
Why?
I don't know.
Who do you like best?
You, of course.
If you come live here you'll get a girlfriend, said a girl comfortingly.
Probably, I said.
Now it was midnight. Three boys were silhouetted on the bridge railing against the yellow light. Lydia's cigarette illuminated the breast of her multicolored parka like a Christmas tree light. — Guess this'll freeze me or kill me, aye? said her new boyfriend, diving in. Soon everyone was peeling down, some entirely, and playing in the cool greenish water, boys and girls together and secret. Some came out to sit again on the gravel bank.
Lydia's boyfriend lit a match and said: I like it here, 'cause it's tundra, aye? We got the fattest caribou.
* The Indians of Newfoundland were hunted down and exterminated in the last century.
* The inukshuks around Coral Harbour were particularly well constructed. Their job had once been to scare caribou. They had no job now. Each one crouched with its stone arms extended and its stone knees bent, as if crossing a stream. Every time I looked at it, I thought that it had moved.
THE BEST WAY
TO SMOKE CRACK
San Francisco, California, U.S.A. (1992)
San Francisco, California, U.S.A. (1992)
San Francisco, California, U.S.A. (1992)
* * *
San Francisco, California, U.S.A. (1992)
The crack pipe was a tube of glass half as thick as a finger, jaggedly broken at both ends because the prostitute had dropped it. She kept talking about the man down the hall, whose pipe still wore a bowl. She said that that special pipe was for sale, but the John figured that he'd already spent enough.
The John was of the all-night species, family Blattidae. Having reached that age when a man's virility begins to wilt flabbily, he admitted that his lust for women grew yearly more slobbery and desperate. Every year now he fell a little farther from what he had been. In his youth he had not considered himself to be anything special. Now he recollected with awe how his penis had once leaped eagerly up at the merest thought or touch, how his orgasms had gushed as fluently as Lincoln's speeches; those were the nights when ten minutes between two trash cans or beneath a parked car had sufficed. His joy now required patience and closeness. That was why he'd paid the twenty-nine dollars to share with this woman whose brown body was as skinny as a grasshopper's this stinking room whose carpet was scattered with crumbs of taco shells and rotting cheese; among his possessions he now counted the sheet which someone had used to wipe diarrhea, the science fiction book called The Metal Smile, a gold mine of empty matchboxes, and all the wads of used toilet paper that anyone would ever need to start a new life. He'd bought the room for the night, and after that he was going to go back to work and the prostitute would live there. Maybe that was why she worked so hard at cleaning up, hanging the diarrhea-sheet over the window for a curtain, picking up the hunks of spoiled food and throwing them out the window, sweeping with the broom without bristles, sprinkling the carpet with water from the sink (which had doubled as a urinal) so that the filth would stick better to the broom. Maybe that was why she cleaned, or maybe it was because she had once had a home where she'd raised her children as well as she could until jail became her home, and although they took her children and turned them into somebody else's (or more likely nobody's) it was too late for her to shuck the habit of making her surroundings decent; or maybe she worked so hard just because she was fond of the John (who was generous), because she wanted him to be happy and comfortable with her.
If it wasn't for whoever left this mess, there'd be no roaches, she said. I've lived in this hotel all the time and never had no roaches.
He sat on the mattress with his ami around her while they smoked a rock, and a cockroach rushed across his leg.
I'm not afraid of any human being, the prostitute said. I'm a single female out there, so I gotta be ferocious so they be respectin' me. And I'm not afraid of any animal. But insects gimme the jitters. All them roaches in here, it's 'cause whoever was in here before was such a slob. If I ever meet that motherfucker and he pisses me off, I'll say to him: You know what? You remind me of your room. Ooh, look at that big fat roach!
Certainly the big fat roach was blameless for being what it was. And the prostitute was likewise faultless for not wanting that roach to crawl across them later that night, once they turned out the bare bulb which reflected itself in the greasy window. Biting her lip with disgust, she slammed her shoe against the wall over and over until the bug was nothing but a stain among stains.
I really hate them roaches, she sighed, loading her blackened pipe with more whiteness. They just gimme the creeps. You know, in the Projects, you catch 'em with crack. If you cleaned up your place too good and stuff and you can't find 'em, just lay a rock out on the table and they'll be swarmin'! Shit, there's another one!
She snatched up her shoe and pounded the wall.
She was picking bits of rancid cheese out of the chest of drawers with three drawers gone while the John lay watching the roaches. They seemed to be accustomed to the light. They scurried up and down the walls on frantic errands, ran across the carpet, whose water-stains and burns resembled the abscesses of half-Korean Molly down the hall (another whore said she kept picking at herself); and one roach even climbed that foul bedsheet draped over the window.
The prostitute came back to the mattress and they smoked another piece of rock. She'd loaned the pipe to a whore who'd bought bad stuff, so it stank of something strange. Now she kept running water through it, but that didn't do any good.
Nudge that rock down into the end that's burned blacker. The john knew that much. Don't push it in too hard, or you'll break the mesh which is already almost gone. She'd taught him that. Just tamp it lovingly in with the black-burned hairpin. Lovingly, I said, because crack is the only happiness.
The prostitute celebrated whenever she got a big rock by buying a lighter whose color matched her dress. She held a red lighter tonight to keep her red dress company. She was wearing red shoes and a red headband; red was her favorite shade. He'd seen her in the black cocktail dress that she put on when he knocked at her door and she was embarrassed because she thought she looked old; he didn't care how old or young she looked because he loved her, but she closed the door and wouldn't let him in until she was beautiful for him in the black dress which thirty seconds later he was urgently helping her pull off; and he'd seen her in the foxtail outfit that reminded him of women he knew at the horse races, but most often he'd seen her wearing the hue of vibrant blood. She lit the rock and breathed in even though the tube of glass had been broken so short that it burned her lips and tongue when the rock was only half cooked; she breathed in because when she was eighteen her first husband had brought a two-by-four smashing down on the crown of her head, and after that she'd never had very good balance; that was twenty years ago now. And one of her daughters (she'd been very little then) had said: Mama, don't ever worry about falling, 'cause I'll always be next to you, and if I see you start to go down, I'll throw myself right down on the sidewalk so you can fall on me! — It made her cry sometimes to remember that. Her daughter didn't walk beside her anymore, and so she smoked crack.
The John was looking worried. — Crack isn't addictive, now, is it? he said.
Oh, no, honey, the prostitute smiled. It's just a psychological thing.
&nb
sp; And later, in the night, when she spread her legs for him and he worried about AIDS, she said to him: Oh, don't worry, honey. You can only get AIDS if you're two homosexuals.
There were two roaches on the wall, and she got them both with her shoe in a slamming blow like the one three months ago that had left her permanently blind in her right eye when she was being raped; now she couldn't read a menu anymore.
Inhale it slowly, hold five or six seconds, expel it through the nose. That was her way; that way was more mellow. If you did it too fast you might get tweaked. First the head rush, then the body rush.
Don't inhale so hard, she said. That's the difference between white boys and black boys. White boys always inhale too fast, 'cause they think if they do they'll get more high. You white boys are just greedy sometimes. Black boys know better.
He felt the smokebite in his chest as he held it in, and then the rush struck him behind his eyeballs. Now his heart began to pound more fiercely. His lips and tongue swelled into a numb clean fatness like a pussy's lips. The feeling that he had was the same as long ago at the high school dances when the boys and girls had stood on opposite sides of the floor and the music had started but he was too afraid to cross that open space where all the girls could see him as he came among them to ask one to share her beauty with him for a dance, so his heart pounded faster and faster, until suddenly he was going to the girls anyway to say: Will you dance with me? and the girl giggled and her friends giggled and she looked quickly at her friends and then at him and said yes and he was going into the music with her, holding her hand. It was in exactly that way that his heart was pounding, except that there was no fear in his excitement this time; no matter how rapid his happiness became it remained tranquil.
Well, laughed the prostitute (who always became more talkative the more crack she did), another main difference between white people and black people is white people have reputations to protect when they buy drugs. Black people don't care. — And she laughed.
Ahead waited the long night of her going in and out to do her business which she pretended not to be doing, believing that pretending would keep him from feeling hurt, when actually he wasn't hurt at all; she was trying to be loving by protecting him from what she was doing, while he was trying to be loving by letting her do whatever she needed to do. Meanwhile they both smoked crack. Ahead of that night loomed the night when he took her out for dinner with his friends and she was late because she had to smoke crack and then at dinner she excused herself to go to the ladies' room where she smoked crack and came out weeping as though her heart would break because she was convinced that all his friends looked down on her, so he embraced her outside as she soaked him with tears begging him to return with her to that hotel on Mission Street whose gratings and buzzers were like airlocks, so later that night he did come to her, and when he lay beside her on the dirty mattress and took her into his arms her face was burning hot! Her forehead steamed with sweat that smelled like crack, that delicious bitterclean smell even more healthy and elegant than eucalyptus or Swiss herbal lozenges; she ground her face into his chest and whispered something about the Bible as her sick and glowing face burned its way to his heart. — There was a woman whom he loved who was a scientist. When he told her what had happened, the woman said: That fever, that night sweat, that dementia about your friends, well, it sounds to me like AIDS, particularly the very early stages. — But another friend just rubbed his stubble and said: Her sweat smelled like crack, huh? She must be O.D.ing on crack. Happens all the time! — Ahead of that night crouched the night when the John woke up in his own bed wanting crack. It was the middle of a moonless time. He had no crack. He said to himself: If only the moon was here maybe that would cheer me so that I could sleep again; but ahead of that night laughed the night when he woke up from a dream of crack with the moon outside his window as big and round as the abscess on the prostitute's foot which would not heal, and he lay wide awake needing crack.
They smoked crack, and he lay in her amis staring up at the long lateral groove-lips of the moulding reflected in the mirror of the medicine cabinet, whose shelves had all been wrenched out, and he began to smile.
Look at that! he cried. Look at all those roaches running crazy across the ceiling! I guess they must really be enjoying themselves.
The woman cackled. — I s'pose they be gettin' a contact high from all the smoke up there. But it kinda pisses me off, 'cause they can't pay me no money!
They both laughed at that, and then they did another piece of rock in the best way; she approved of how he smoked crack now; the best way to smoke crack is to suck it from the tube of broken glass as gently as you'd suck the crack-smoke breath from the lips of the prostitute who's kissing you.
San Francisco, California, U.S.A. (1992)
The john remembered the nights when he was still married and lay in the darkness of the guest bedroom watching golden hall-light, listening to the rush of his wife's high heels as she adjusted her dress and necklace in the main bedroom, his grief and anxiety hideous while his heart ticked with the clock. He had decided that if his wife asked him to come, he would say: Why should I? but then he thought that that did not sound sincere (and he was actually very sincere), so he decided that when his wife came in he would just say: Convince me and I'll go. His wife was almost ready now. It was cold and dark outside the window. He knew that he was missing his last hope by lying there while his wife put the penultimate touches of lipstick on. He was terrified that his wife might not even come and look for him. If she did not at least ask him, he could not volunteer to go with her. She went into the bathroom, where she must be checking herself in the mirror. Now she came out and turned off the bathroom light. He resolved that if his wife came in he'd say: I'll go if you want me to, honey. Now his wife was making the rounds of the upstairs, turning off lights. She paused. Perhaps she was wondering where he was. He could not move. He would not move. He heard her go downstairs. She was clicking her high heels rapidly through every darkened room, including the living room where the unlit Christmas tree slobbered its sticky shadows of shaggy foulness; she must be looking for him; she was back at the bottom of the stairs now, and he heard her picking up her keys. So she was going to leave without calling for him. He lay breathless with tension. She called his name.
Here I am, he said.
Where are you? It's all dark up there.
Here, he said with effort.
She came up the stairs and turned the hall light back on. He heard her going into each of the other rooms again. At last she entered the half-ajar door of the guest bedroom and stood peering to see if he was there. He could not say anything.
Are you sleeping? she said hesitantly.
No, he said.
She turned on the light and looked at him.
I'm going to go now, she said. I'll be back in an hour. Maybe an hour and a half.
I'll come with you if you want me to, honey, he said. He was surprised at how easily the words came to him. It was as if some grace of husbands, wives and desperate angels had helped him.
Oh, don't bother, said the wife. It would be too much work for you.
It's up to you.
You really wouldn't mind? said his wife. Don't worry about it. I know you don't want to.
She stood there waiting for him to encourage her hopes. He strained his every effort to say the words again that would make her happy, but even as his mouth opened he knew that he was going to fail.
You—you heard what I said, he gasped out.
Her face became resigned again. — Never mind, she said. She turned out the light. Tears had begun to gush out of his eyes just as she reached for the switch, and it is possible that if she had waited another three or four seconds (or if he had somehow been able to make her do so), she would have seen them.
She went down the stairs, opened the door and left him.
San Francisco, California, U.S.A. (1992)
Again he ascended the stairs between the two gratings, and ta
ll black men made way for him on the landing because if he was white he must be an undercover cop.
Who you lookin' for, officer? one of them said.
He said her name.
You a cop?
No.
You a paid informant?
No, officer, he said.
The black man laughed grimly.
He got to the top of the stairs where the second grating was, and the lobby man who had buzzed him was already standing on the other side of the grating with his arms folded.
She's not here, the man said. She just now went outside to do her business, so I reckon she'll be back before long.
They always said she wasn't there, and she was always there, so the john wasn't surprised. — Can I wait on your stairs? he said.
Help yourself.
He descended a stair or two to show his respect for the workings of the hotel, and waited, looking alertly through the grating like a zoo-barred jaguar waiting for meat, watching and waiting until just past midnight he saw her pass across the lobby on one of her constant errands. He was here to tell her how she made him feel. He called her name, and her face lit up and she came running to make the lobby man let him in.
The Atlas Page 19