In the morning, after the asthmatic rooster next door had wheezed, and when only two or three people remained in the den, I'd announce it was closing time and scoot them out. Oh, and don't forget your friend in the corner. Who, him? He's not with us. He's been sleeping there for hours. Well, do you think you could take him with you anyway? What's that lump on the platform? Another sleeper? Would you give him a shake for me. And I think there's one more on the waterbed.
Finally, alone and in peace, I'd hang notes on the doors saying I HAVE TO SLEEP and DO NOT DISTURB!
But it never failed—a crisis always occurred. Someone was out of something. BAM, BAM, BAM. C'mon, Cleo! It's an emergency! Open up! I'm out of coke! Or there'd be a group that ran out of parties and wanted to start its own. Or there'd be someone who couldn't sleep and just wanted to talk. BAM, BAM, BAM. C'mon, Cleo, we know you're in there.
At first Rachid stationed a man in Mapusa, and I'd go every morning for a supply of coke. By this time I was selling a couple dozen grams a day. I told Rachid I couldn't keep making those trips into town, though, because I lost customers while I was away. There'd be a crowd waiting for me when I returned. So Rachid had a man deliver a daily supply to my door.
Then my dope ran out, and I had to sell Rachid's dope along with his coke. I didn't only deal in coke and dope, though. I sold whatever had a market. When someone needed kilos of hash, I arranged it with Rachid and earned three hundred dollars. One time, someone left me blotter acid to sell. I even had a stock of opium, though I kept the Opium pipe hidden in the blowtorched safe. I had yet to find someone who managed to smoke the Opium rather than spatter it on the carpet and the linoleum. I matched people for scams and deals and ideas. The running around—hustling, mediating, and fetching—seemed never to end.
December came and went. I had someone pick the winning raffle numbers, and since the winners weren't there, I hung signs at Joe Banana's, the Three Sisters' restaurant, Gregory's restaurant, and the Monkey chai Shop:
ANJUNA DRUGOONA SALOONA RAFFLE WINNERS
First Prize, the Genuine American Dildo Vibrator: #008961
Second Prize, the Champion Frisbee: #002187
Third Prize, stash bottle: #003658
I barely noticed the passing of Christmas or New Year's and never had the opportunity to visit anybody.
I did hear news, though. People told me what went on and asked me for gossip in return. Whatever happened to Serge? Don't know. He hasn't shown up this season. Neither have Dayid and Ashley. I heard they're in Australia. Ashley wants to keep Dayid away from the smack. I think he's driving a cab. NO! Really? Did you hear about Michael and Fatima and the motorcycle? In Bali, right? The roads there are atrocious. And where's Mental? Jail. Busted last monsoon in the States. Oh, yeah? Hey, Cleo, we need another quarter over here. And isn't that startling about Bombay Brian. Hey, Cleo, ten-rupees of coke.
On top of stories recounted directly, news inundated me as I moved through the crowd exchanging paper packets for money. . . . Petra in the hospital. What about Petra? She had a car accident. Her legs were crushed. Didn't she inherit a fortune? Where did that mirror go? Hey, Sasha! Where've you been? Bombay. Just got back this minute. Neal died last night. Who has the Buddha bhong? Do you have another razor blade? Here's the mirror—who wanted it? Did you hear Neal died in Bombay? I heard. Here, have a bhong. May I have another orange soda, please?
Tears flooded my eyes as I handed out drugs, found mirrors and bhongs, served sodas and fresh razor blades. No, I can't think about Neal. I might start screaming and run into the ocean. I can't think about Neal now.
The Anjuna Drugoona Saloona was a great success, continually packed with customers, friends with their own stashes, and people hoping for a free turn-on. Canadian Jacques came now and then, but I never sat long with him before being called on a powder errand. The whole beach popped in to visit, socialize, and check out the scene. Norwegian Monica male an appearance. Did I tell you Greek Robert hung himself in jail? No! 'Too bad, he was so cute. Blind George dropped by. Even Alehandro sallied in with his followers. John, my Applecroc, also stopped by occasionally to say hello. Did you hear about Neal? Yes, but I can't think about it, Applecroc. That bitch Eve, man. We collected money for the funeral, and she shot up every rupee! All the money went up her arm in coke and dope. Finally Bila from Dipti's had to pay for the funeral. And do you believe it, man. Eve never showed up! She borrowed money from Bombay Brian, saying she needed to feed the kid, and then went to Sukalatchi Street to score coke. Never even showed up for the funeral, do you believe that? I can't think about it, Applecroc. Oh, Cleo, can we have another ten-rupee packet here? And I think someone's at the door.
The running around exhausted me. There never seemed to be enough time for everything I had to do. Weighing out quantities and folding them in marked packages took at least three or four hours a day, depending on the number of interruptions. I did the packing first thing in the afternoon, when I woke up. It was rare indeed, however, that I'd be allowed to wake from natural causes. Inevitably I'd awaken to frantic poundings on the door, so I wouldn't be able to start the daily weighing chore until I had taken care of whoever-it-was—granting, of course, that no one else showed up in the meantime. Help! This is too much for one person to handle. On Rachid's next trip to Goa, I rushed to his room at the Fort Aguada Hotel to ask for an assistant.
"Rachid, help! I need an assistant. My Saloona is too much for one person to handle alone."
"Darling, what happened to your friend Neal?"
"I can't think about Neal. Will you send me an assistant?"
He sent me a tall, thin Indian man. At first I thought my problem was solved. Rachid's coke and smack came in grams, and it was Indian Man's primary job each morning to weigh ten half grams and twelve quarters of smack, plus twenty halves and twenty-four quarters and fifty lines of coke. It took him twice as bong as it used to take inc. Someone would come for a quarter and he'd still be weighing halves. Oh, dear this would never do.
Indian Man didn't work out at all. The biggest problem was his inability to measure exact weights.
"Please!" I said to him. "My customers trust me. If you can't make the packets exact, then make them overweight, okay? Underweight is unethical!"
Impossible. I guess in Rachid's employ, he was only capable of producing underweight quantities. For the first time people complained that their packets were short, and I reimbursed them with double the missing amount. Indian Man could not comprehend such scruples. I tried reasoning with Rachid.
"PLEASE tell him to weigh exact quantities. He's ruining my reputation. Pin having to pay back double what he leaves out."
"Double? You are not doing that, are you, darling? Sharp cookie like you?"
It was beyond Rachid's comprehension too.
On top of that, Indian Man made my customers paranoid. They cringed at the presence of the straight-looking Indian, so neatly dressed. He reminded them of the police.
"But he works for Rachid!" I tried to reassure everybody. "He's more gangster than policeman."