No Lease on Life Read Online Free PDF Page B

of them was pissed, and one of them quieted him or her, then they moved on.
    Roy woke and grunted.
    —Get in bed.
    —I can’t
    —Get away from the window.
    —No.
    —Have you called the police?
    —No.
    —Come to sleep.
    —I can’t.
    —What’s the matter with you?
    —Nothing.
    Sleep was for untroubled people, the guiltless. Elizabeth didn’t remember all her crimes. They went somewhere, an orphanage for abandoned crimes. Sleep was for the blameless. The shameless knew shame late at night and didn’t sleep soundly. People reassured themselves with their own lies. Lies were inescapable, they were their own awful truth, necessary illusions.
    Dreams tell lies that are true. The day’s nightly news. Heavy sleepers escape every night. Roy did. He said dreams were the mind shining. Elizabeth couldn’t escape, and she couldn’t remember what she was escaping. She sat near the fire escape. She watched the amorphous street. It absorbed everything, her attention, her tension. She could run away. She didn’t want to go anywhere. Everywhere was wrong. She was a native, she was restless and reckless. She was also fickle and impulsive. And sometimes she was very bad.
    Elizabeth yawned. She wasn’t sure if she was hungry.
    Outside, a bad drug deal was accompanied by outrage and howls of anger.
    —You get what? You shittin’ me, you better not fuck me, man, this is bad shit, man. Don’t take me for no fool. You dissin’ me, man, don’t dis me, man, I’ll kill you.
    She expected one of them to pull a gun any second, except another dealer ran all the way down the block from the corner. He grabbed the arm of the screaming one and pulled him away, pulled him down the block, still screaming.
    —You dissin’ me, I’m gonna cap you.
    Junkies and junkie dealers were active, busy. They had something to do, somewhere to go, someone to meet, they were always meeting someone, somewhere, and they had something to take care of every minute of the day. It wasn’t the best life, a life stripped of everything but the substance they craved and would become sick without, it was life though. All their needs were contained in one little plastic bag, and they could buy different-colored bags. They didn’t have to consider what they’d like to do each day. They knew what they liked and what they had to do. Even rich junkies had to score. It wasn’t like buying a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of alcohol. It occupied them, totally, she saw it on their faces.
    Some middle-class junkies sold her a rug, and when she handed the guy a twenty, any pretense at civility slid off his expectant, sweaty face, and he grabbed the bill, jacked up the price by five dollars—it was still a deal because they’d probably stolen the carpet from their parents. They said they were poor. They couldn’t wait another minute, they’d take any amount of money for something that was worth more. Elizabeth handed him the twenty too easily. He could get another five. The way he grabbed the twenty out of her hand, the way he didn’t say thanks, the way he and his friend—a woman as ragged and dragged—looked at each other, they had enough to score, get straight, get well, whatever, it was a dramatic, insular moment, all to itself, extreme.
    Money had a single purpose. Junkies were relentlessly goal-oriented. Misguided achievers were joined by their need, and that need united rich and poor the way nothing else did. One night she walked behind a rich and a poor junkie. The rich one was in a wrinkled Armani suit, the poor one wore greasy black jeans. Their heads were close, they were perspiring and bonded, brothers in addiction.
    The street addict stage-whispered to the rich addict:
    —Man, he took a look at your threads, and he raised the price a hundred.
    They slouched along and consoled each other, the rich guy apologizing, but it didn’t matter, because they’d scored, they were just talking until they could shoot up.
    Elizabeth didn’t want to care about