Marion stashed her two bags just as soon as she could, and when Harry left to sell some dope and cop some more she sat with them in her hand, fondling them, caressing them, closing her eyes from time to time and sighing, rubbing the bags of dope between the tips of her fingers, securely nestled on her couch listening to Mahlers Resurrection Symphony.
Sara trembled with such terror when she heard the food cart in the distance, even with the massive doses of tranquilizers she was being given, that they stopped trying to get her to eat and force fed her. They strapped her in a wheelchair and shoved a rubber hose up her nose and down into her stomach, Sara retching and gagging, then taped the end to her head. Her feeble attempts to defend herself and try to speak were quickly overcome as they simply slammed her against the back o£ the chair and tightened the straps. When they finished she reached up to tug at the hose and they told her to get her hands off that hose, and tied her hands to the arms of the chair, Weve had enough trouble from you. Youre just going to stay tied in that chair until you learn to cooperate and stop thinking that youre some kind of a queen. She continued to retch until her stomach felt like it was torn apart and she exhausted herself and no longer had enough energy to retch and she sat in her mute and immobile terror, staring at the world around her through her tear filled eyes, struggling to break through the haze of tears and drugs and understand what was happening. She tried to keep her head up, but it continually fell forward and she struggled to get it erect, but the energy was not there and it would hang like a gourd for a few moments, then fall back on her chest, each movement a monumental effort, each failure a death knell. With each breath the tears seemed to build up within her and she could feel and hear them swishing around, feeling them threaten to drown her as her lungs seem to hang limp in her chest. She wanted to cry out, at least to herself, but she forgot that there was someone, something to call out to. There seemed to be a vague sense of recollection in the back of her mind and when she tried to dig it out she once again fell exhausted, and if she hadnt, the drugs and shock treatment would not have allowed her to recognize the word God. The straps seemed to be tighter, but there was nothing she could do. They were cutting into her wrists and were pressing so hard against her chest they were restricting her breathing, but she could say and do nothing. She wanted desperately to go to the bathroom, but when she tried to call for someone to help her she gagged on the hose and only spittle dribbled down her chin as she fought to withstand the pain the hose caused in her throat. For hours she fought against her bladder and bowels, and when someone came by she looked, hoping they would look at her and see she needed help, but when they saw her they just walked on by and her head would fall once again on her chest and then she would start the long, long struggle of trying to raise it to get help, but they continued to simply walk on by, and still she fought, harder and harder, but eventually nature won, as always, and her bladder and bowels relieved themselves and she felt the warmth and moisture and her last semblance of dignity fled from her, along with her tears, as her mind called out for help… called, begged, pleaded, and then a nurse walked by and stopped, looked at her for a minute, came over, looked, twisted her face in disgust, You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Even animals dont do that. Well, you can just sit in it. Maybe that will teach you a lesson. Two days later Sara was still sitting in it, no longer attempting to lift her head, allowing it to hang in her shame, her tears streaking her face, blotting her gown, and filling her soul. Two days later she was still strapped in the chair and chained to her indignity until they came to prepare her for her next shock treatment.
Marion called Big Tim and went to see him again. Harry was out when she called and was watching TV when she got back. Harry didnt ask where she had been and she said nothing. He had copped a bundle, offd some for a lot of bread, and was holding out dope and bread from her. She stashed her two bags with the others and felt a warm glow as she looked at them and couldnt wait until she was alone so she could take them out and hold them and caress them. She gave Harry the other eight bags, then took one of them and got off. She joined him on the couch, Howd it go tonight? Pretty good. Lucked out. Ran into something almost right away. Good. She pulled her legs up on the couch. Thats really good stuff, isnt it? Yeah. Dont find that out on the streets. Lets not sell that, alright Harry? Just the other. You dont see me passing it out, do you? No, but I… you know what I mean. Yeah. Dont sweat it. Im not going to part with the good shit. Marion stared at the television for a few minutes, not knowing what she was looking at, not caring, not trying, just biding time and waiting for the words… Harry? Yeah? Do we have to tell Tyrone about these bags? He looked at her, a voice inside saying, fuck no. Me and him are tight. He set the whole thing up. I know, I know, Marion looked up into Harrys eyes, but Im the one who went up there. Harry could feel the burning flush seeping out from his inner being somewhere and was hoping to krist he didnt turn red. He nodded his head, Okay. I guess what he dont know wont killim.
Tyrone was stretched out on the couch, alone, watching television. Alice had split, gone back to her family in some jerk town in Georgia. Couldnt take the cold or the heat. She was a fine fox, but Tyrone was happy and relieved not to have another vein to feed. She sure didnt dig bein sick. Like to scare her to death. Sheeit, ah sure doan dig it. Dont dig the hassles either. But it aint so bad. Las night we cop right away and get back some heavy braid. Things going to be better soon enough. There doan seem to be too much hassle now. Tyrone C. Love watched the television for a while, wondering, anticipating, chuckling, using the images and sounds from the set, along with the heroin in his system, to quiet a little gnawing of questioning confusion that seemed to be scratching him from time to time. He/d been spending many hours of each day and night scufflin and hustlin in those streets an man its a cold mutha fuckin bitch out there an this panics a bitch jim, a mutha fuckin bitch. Yeah… a bitch baby, an hes all caught up in the mutha. Ol Ty was caught up in it for so long it didnt seem so bad anymore. It seemed less and less like a hassle. But what the fuck, a habit aint no real hassle. A habit you do in your sleep. You caint think about it. You jus do it. An a habit create its own habits. And he lay on his couch, staring at the set, getting his kicks, and when he wondered why he was happy to be alone, he just stopped wondering and got back in the spoon and turned the channel. These things sort of itched Tyrone, but he soothed them away from his consciousness with his habit and the tube and jus didnt worry about not havin the energy—the desire—to get himself another bitch. No, he jus take care of his own self till things gets a little cooler. Right now he/ll jus hang tough and take care of the little jones he had goin. Later for the bitches man. Yeah, mah names Tyrone C. Love and ah loves nobody but Tyrone C., an ahm goin to take good care o you baby.