“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” Bud said. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize to me. Don’t do that, Bud, because you were right about everything, all of it. I’m just a headache, and I know it, and this isn’t self-pity, Bud. I’ve been a headache to everyone who’s come near me in the past — how many years? That’s why... why I need help. I can’t do it alone, I know that. I thought I could, but now I know I can’t. I... I need someone near me, always... someone to... so let me stay, Bud, and I swear to God I’ll never be able to thank you enough. I swear to God I’ll kiss your feet if you just let me stay, if you’ll just help me, help me.”
“Sure,” Bud said, unable to account for the lump in his throat. “Stay with me, Andy.”
“I appreciate this,” Andy said softly.
“Why... why don’t you make some coffee, Carol? I think we could... could all use a cup.”
Carol did not leave until five, and then Bud tried to get down to studying again, but he could not forget the way he’d behaved, and the effect his behavior seemed to be having on Andy.
Along about two Andy began to fidget. They’d been sitting at the kitchen table, and suddenly, unaccountably, he began to drum his fingers on the table top. He kept that up until he realized he was annoying both Bud and Carol, and he apologized and stopped drumming. His feet began to jiggle then. He kept his toes glued to the floor, and he bounced his knees, up and down, up and down, moving them incessantly, until you could feel the vibration of the table and the floor.
Finally, as if he could no longer sit still, even with the compensating jiggle of his feet, he rose and went into the living room, and he began pacing the floor, but pacing it with a sort of controlled fury.
“What is it?” Carol had asked, and he’d simply answered, “I feel restless.”
Bud knew, of course, that a portion of his restlessness could be attributed to his abrupt withdrawal from the drug. But he’d seemed all right this morning, with none of the nervous anxiety he’d exhibited the night before, none of the vomiting, none of the varied symptoms of the addict suddenly cut from his source of supply.
His sudden restlessness, therefore, was puzzling. Bud knew very little about what was to be expected of a reforming addict, but he nonetheless imagined Andy’s current behavior, after so many days of withdrawal, was strange. And, feeling guilty as hell for his earlier outburst, he blamed himself in part for Andy’s fidgeting.
The fidgeting reached mammoth proportions along about three in the afternoon. Continually pacing, Andy began to scratch himself, idly at first, scratching his arm, and then his back, and then his face. Bud and Carol watched him, trying to make conversation at the same time, but finding talk a little difficult. Andy began scratching in earnest then, clawing at his back, rubbing at his stomach. He was sweating freely, and his face began to tic as if it would fall apart, the lips trembling, the eyes blinking. He wet his lips continuously, and then he clawed at the skin on his arms, pacing all the while, and then he said, “Jesus, oh, Jesus,” and he continued to claw and pace and tic and tremble and blink, until finally he ran into the bathroom, and the sick ugly sound came to their ears again.
“It’s very hard for him,” Carol said in a whisper.
“Yes,” Bud agreed.
Andy seemed to be in control of himself when he emerged from the bathroom. He looked a little pale, but all of his fidgeting was gone, and he sat down and joined the conversation, and everything was all right until Carol left at five.
The slow build-up began again then. Bud, occupied with American Lit II, poring over the notes and trying to glean something from them, heard the drumming fingers first. He looked up and then went back to his notes, but the drumming was a persistent tattoo — br-mm, br-mm, br-mm, br-mm, br-mm, br-mm...
He looked up again, and this time he caught Andy’s eye, and Andy said, “I’m sorry,” and he thrust both hands deep into his trouser pockets. His feet began jiggling then. And the scratching started. And the ticcing. And the blinking. And the harsh breathing. And the pacing. And the muttering. And the yawning.
Bud looked at him curiously, and he shook his head a little, watching his friend, wondering what was going on inside that goddamn head of his.
And inside that goddamn head of his a lot of things were going on simultaneously. Inside that goddamn head of his was an overwhelming urge to bolt for the door and scare up a fix someplace, anyplace, scare up a fix to still the clamor of his blood and his mind. Inside his head was the remembrance of what the drug could do, a remembrance that had been squashed and then tasted again this morning, but that had been a very long time ago, and the need had clawed his stomach to ribbons earlier today, and now it was back again, a need he could feel and taste and sense, a need that was as real as his trembling hands were. If he did not get a fix soon, if he did not get a fix soon, he would kick the windows out of the walls. He would cut off his arm, he would pluck out his eyes, he would spit his teeth into the washbasin. He was going crazy with the need. He was lower than he’d ever been, sick with the need, wanting that drug with every fiber in his body, wanting it desperately and urgently, and all he could do was pace the floor of the apartment, and scratch the itch that was beneath his skin, and feel his lids blink over his eyes, and feel the tic at the corner of his mouth, and feel the roiling inside his stomach. I musn’t puke again, I have to have a fix, I need it!
And inside that goddamn head of his was a warring factor that threaded itself through the fabric of his need, puncturing it with a needle as sharp as the one he desired, a needle of self-condemnation. For if he had not touched the drug this morning, if he had only tossed the stuff away, smashed the works, dumped it all, forgotten it, forgotten it forever, the worst part would have been over now. He’d had it licked, and now he was back aboard again, and only he knew what was spinning through his body like a hot piece of steel, only he knew how badly he wanted, wanted, and all because he’d weakened this morning, all because he’d shot up when he hadn’t even really wanted the stuff — not like now, not like now when his head was ready to swing loose at the hinges, not like now when the top of his skull was ready to erupt. Jesus, Jesus, isn’t there something, isn’t there a gun someplace, something to shoot myself with?
What am I doing here?
What am I doing pacing here, up and down, what the hell am I doing?
Why don’t I get out of here? I can cop easily, bread or no bread. I can get the bread from somebody, hock my jacket if I have to, and then I’ll find the Man, and I’ll roll into some pad where it’s soft and quiet, and I’ll boot that mother-loving White God until it comes out of my ears. I’ll kick it to Boston and back, I’ll kick that goddamn jive until my eyes are bugging out of my head, until I’m so blind I can’t walk, until I’m stoned dead.
WHY AM I STAYING HERE!
Stay where you are, you simple son-of-a-bitch, his mind pleaded. Stay where you are because where you are is safe, but, oh, how I want it, how I want it, sweet Jesus, please, please, help me, help me get it, help me get away from it, get it, get it, get, I need it!
I’m not fooling, I need it. I’m not kidding, I need it bad. I’m real sick, God, I’m real sick, and I need that stuff, I need the jive, please help me, please make me, do something, something, please, please.
Easy now, easy, I’m excited, but please, I’m sick, but please, I’m hungry for it, I can taste it, I want to be blind, I want to be stoned, I want to be high, high, high, high, HIGH, GODDAMNIT, PLEASE, PLEASE DO SOMETHING FOR ME, PLEASE!