Buddy* told me that heroin is like love. It’s like love because it makes you forget that life is hell, and then it makes life hell all by itself. And I said I knew what he meant. Because love gets in you first because you let it and later because you can hardly tell it no.
We said to them: Come to this place. It’s the only one you’ve got. Tell us every intimate detail of your life. Take a shower when we say you can. Do not step behind the counter. Store everything you own in this locker, and if it doesn’t fit throw it out. Sleep in a room with 60 people you don’t know. Don’t mind that in the mornings I will see you in your underwear. Eat stale cereal for breakfast. Do not leave anything under your bed when you leave for the day. Be polite. This mess you’ve made is your own fault. Close your eyes and pretend that we will help you get out of here.
And if I close my eyes I can see Abraham. Abraham, aka King Abraham, aka Em-Are Period, meaning Mister, meaning I Mean Business. His cane holds him up, and so do his memories. He dances sometimes, to music from way back. Spins those hips and cuts a rug, as he says. His arms are like gnarled tree trunks from dialysis. Most people don’t know how to look at arms like that, but it wasn’t hard to learn. Once you know somebody, everything about them starts seeming natural.
One night a guy was masturbating in his cot. After two complaints I tiptoed carefully toward his bed. I tapped his meaty, hairy shoulder and told him that he couldn’t do that here, not with 60 others right nearby. Without a word he zipped up his pants, hopped out of bed, and scurried into the shower. I heard him turn on the water. The next day one of the residents told me that when he was in prison the ones who masturbated at night had to wear pink jumpsuits so everyone would know. At the next staff meeting I brought up the idea of buying some, jokingly. We all had a good nervous laugh. We were all scared, really.
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One morning Alan stepped up to the food counter and started yelling, snarling. I should have seen it coming. The night before, he had stood facing the wall for an hour, cradling his face in his hands. He hadn’t even wanted a cigarette when I offered him one. And now he was going crazy. Saying how he hated all of us. We were spies. We were demons. His face got twisted and cruel, and his eyes sank. The skin around his mouth was twitching. There were little bits of spit flying out with his words.
I’m not sure he saw me standing there–even though we had spent hours together at the bookstores and on the quad and walking down the streets. I had bought him countless packs of cigarettes and books of Kerouac. Another staff member ordered him to leave. I could never have brought myself to do it.
We bought cases of hot sauce every month. The men had nothing to say about what they were served, but how much hot sauce they used was up to them. When we ran out there were a lot more complaints about the food. Salt and pepper just weren’t the same.
