Junky Read Online Free Page B

began talking very fast. My mouth was dry and my spit came out in round white balls—spitting cotton, it’s called. We were walking around Times Square. Mary wanted to locate someone with a “piccolo” (victrola). I was full of expansive, benevolent feelings, and suddenly wanted to call on people I hadn’t seen in months or even years, people I did not like and who did not like me. We made a number of unsuccessful attempts to locate the ideal piccolo-owning host. Somewhere along the line we picked up Peter and finally decided to go back to the Henry Street apartment where there was at least a radio.
    Peter and Mary and I spent the next thirty hours in the apartment. From time to time we would make coffee and swallow more benzedrine. Mary was describing the techniques she used to get money from the “Johns” who formed her principal source of revenue.
    â€œAlways build a John up. If he has any sort of body at all say, ‘Oh, don’t ever hurt me.’ A John is different from a sucker. When you’re with a sucker you’re on the alert all the time. You give him nothing. A sucker is just to be taken. But a John is different. You give him what he pays for. When you’re with him you enjoy yourself and you want him to enjoy himself, too.
    â€œIf you want to really bring a man down, light a cigarette in the middle of intercourse. Of course, I really don’t like men at all sexually. What I really dig is chicks. I get a kick out of taking a proud chick and breaking her spirit, making her see she is just an animal. A chick is never as beautiful after she’s been broken. Say, this is sort of a fireside kick,” she said, pointing to the radio which was the only light in the room.
    Her face contorted into an expression of monkey-like rage as she talked about men who accosted her on the street. “Sonofabitch!” she snarled. “They can tell when a woman isn’t looking for a pickup. I used to cruise around with brass knuckles on under my gloves just waiting for one of those peasants to crack at me.”
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    One day Herman told me about a kilo of first-class New Orleans weed I could pick up for seventy dollars. Pushing weed looks good on paper, like fur farming or raising frogs. At seventy-five cents a stick, seventy sticks to the ounce, it sounded like money. I was convinced, and bought the weed.
    Herman and I formed a partnership to push the weed. He located a Lesbian named Marian who lived in the Village and said she was a poetess. We kept the weed in Marian’s apartment, turned her on for all she could use, and gave her fifty percent on sales. She knew a lot of tea heads. Another Lesbian moved in with her, and every time I went to Marian’s apartment, there was this huge red-haired Lizzie watching me with her cold fish eyes full of stupid hate.
    One day, the red-haired Lizzie opened the door and stood there, her face dead white and puffy with nembutal sleep. She shoved the package of weed at me. “Take this and get out,” she said. “You’re both mother fuckers.” She was half asleep. Her voice was matter-of-fact as if referring to actual incest.
    I said, “Tell Marian thanks for everything.”
    She slammed the door. The noise evidently woke her up. She opened the door again and began screaming with hysterical rage. We could still hear her out on the street.
    Herman contacted other tea heads. They all gave us static. In practice, pushing weed is a headache. To begin with, weed is bulky. You need a full suitcase to realize any money. If the cops start kicking your door in, there you are like with a bale of alfalfa.
    Tea heads are not like junkies. A junkie hands you the money, takes his junk and cuts. But tea heads don’t do things that way. They expect the peddler to light them up and sit around talking for half an hour to sell two dollars’ worth of weed. If you come right to the point, they say you are a