THAT DEVIL D

At the end of March, I’m still feeling terrible. I still tense up when I hear the phone; I still can’t open the mail, but I’ve learned the location of every muscle in my body. Every ache and pain I have, every sleepless shudder and each nervous twitch comes right from that devil D. It’s dying, at last, but it’s putting up a fight, it screams in the night; I ignore it. Whoever said you could kick dope in three days must have been stoned; that’s just another junkie fib. It takes a lot longer—for me, a lifetime, however long that is. Longer than five to fifteen years.

I call the lawyer. Has he heard anything? Have they set me a date in court? No, nothing, he says. He thinks the cops are losing interest.

On the thirty-first of March, that devil starts kicking me something fierce. It’s bad. I’d give anything for even an hour’s sleep, anything. I let myself out for a walk. Up and down the stairs, several times. As long as I’m talking or walking, as long as I stay in the light, I can breathe.

Kit calls to say she’s coming home for real, they’re letting her out after tomorrow. Tomorrow is her last fucking day. Could I bring her ten dollars in quarters? She owes them to a woman there who didn’t make so many calls.

“I don’t have ten dollars,” I say.

“Call Bebe,” she tells me. “Bebe always has quarters. Are you going to come and get me?”

There seems to be a brick lodged in my throat. “No,” I say. “I’m not coming.”

She hangs up.

A minute later, Bebe’s on the phone. She has the quarters, I can come over whenever. Around dinnertime, I find myself ringing her bell.

“Uh-oh,” she says. “You look unhappy.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Well, you know.”

“Bet you’ll be glad to have Kit home again.”

I say nothing.

She says I look like I could use a line. I tell her no, I’m trying to stay clean. I still have a couple of pills, I’m doing okay. Then I snort the offered line. To take the edge off. If I was on methadone, it would be the same thing.

One little line—it stones me. I walk on air all the way home, eat a small dinner, my first in weeks. I sleep a bit, maybe an hour or two. In the morning, I can’t raise my head. My eyes are open, but my body … What did I do? Just a line. One line. I can’t believe what I’ve done. I look at the calendar: April 1. April Fool. No kidding.