Junkie

He didn’t much want to run a restaurant anyway. Now he isn’t even making money.

In junk sickness, any conceivable line of action or inaction seems intolerable. A man might die simply because he could not stand to stay in his body.

There was a sudden rush of blood to my genitals at the slippery contact. Sparks exploded behind my eyes; my legs twitched - the orgasm of a hanged man when the neck snaps.

It was time for him to pay off. And pay off for the rest of his life, waiting on street corners and in cafeterias for the connection, the mediator between man and junk.

You seemed so sure it was all right, I didn’t want to bug you by bringing anything up.

“Why do you need narcotics, Mr. Lee?” is a question that stupid psychiatrists ask. The answer is, “I need junk to get out of bed in the morning, to shave and eat breakfast. I need it to stay alive.”

If you say, “Look, Doc, I want an M.S. script and I’m willing to pay double price for it,” the croaker blows his top and throws you out of the office. You need a good bedside manner with doctors or you will get nowhere.

Whitey was standing in the middle of the bar, his fists doubled up, tears streaming down his face. “I’m no good,” he said. “I’m no good. Can’t anyone understand I don’t know what I’m doing?”

They knew that basically no one can help anyone else. There is no key, no secret someone else has that he can give you.

If you have never been addicted, you can have no clear idea what it means to need junk with the addict’s special need. You don’t decide to be an addict. One morning you wake up sick and you’re an addict.