Requiem for a Dream (27 page)

Sara went passively to her first shock treatment. She
had no idea where she was going, having only a vague idea where she
was. There were a few times during the day when she seemed to be on
the verge of orienting herself and experiencing a degree of mental
and emotional clarity, but then she was given another dose of
Thorazine and the cloud of numbness once again descended and
enshrouded her, and her limbs became heavy and an unbearable burden,
and the pit of her stomach burned and ached with exhaustion, and her
tongue was so thick and dry it stuck to the roof of her mouth, and
attempting to speak was an unbearably painful ordeal, and she would
strain to try to formulate words, but she couldnt summon the energy
necessary to unglue and move her tongue; and her eyes felt like two
huge thumbs were pressing down on them and she had to lift her head
back to see, and then it was as if she was looking through a veil
that made everything hazy, and so she would just lie in bed numbed,
confused, nodding off to sleep . . . then waking periodically and
sleeping again . . . constantly feeling sick and, from time to time,
struggling to sit up, but unable to, and so they would lift her up
and put some food in her mouth and it would dribble out of the
corners because she just couldnt swallow, and she would try to tell
them to stop, to let her do it, but she couldnt speak because of drug
induced inertia, and so her words came out groans and they grabbed
her and forced the food down her throat, holding her nose and keeping
her mouth closed, forcing her to swallow, Saras eyes being forced
open with terror, mute terror, while inside her heart beat
thunderously in her ears and thudded against her chest, and she was
unable to even mutter a prayer for help and the more she tried to
tell them not to do that the more annoyed they became and they shoved
the food in her mouth, cutting the corners of her mouth and her gums,
themslamming their hands over her mouth and nose and Sara would feel,
again and again, like she was suffocating and she tried to swallow as
fast as possible but her system just didnt seem to have the energy it
needed to swallow, and she fought to get the food down so she could
breathe, and the harder she fought the harder they pressed against
her, and held her down in the bed until they finally left in disgust,
and Sara tried to curl up in a little ball and disappear, and after a
couple of days she cringed in abject terror when she heard the food
truck approaching.

Dr. Reynolds frowned at her chart as he stood by her
bed. You are not cooperating Mrs. Goldfarb. His voice was shrill and
his tone threatening, and Sara tried to lift an arm, to raise
herself, to tell him, to tell the doctor how she couldnt move, how
she couldnt talk, how she felt like maybe she was dying and she was
frightened, and she looked at him with eyes that pleaded and begged,
her mouth opening, but only inarticulate noises coming out, and he
continued to stare at her, You may think that this type of behavior
will get you special treatment, but we do not have the time to cater
to individuals. He snapped the chart closed and turned sharply and
walked away. When he handed the chart to the nurse he told her to
schedule Sara for shock treatment the following morning. Sara went
passively. She was hoping, in her semi-comatose state, that they were
taking her to something better, maybe that nice young doctor that
talked to her and got her a glass of tea. Maybe she would see him and
he would make it better. She was strapped in the wheelchair and her
head kept falling forward as she was pushed along corridors, down in
an elevator, along more corridors, from time to time attaining a
glimmer of consciousness and remembering that she hadnt had any
breakfast that morning and feeling happy that she did not have to go
through the ordeal of eating that morning which gave her enough
energy to think there might be some hope, that maybe she was going to
see that nice young doctor and her head would fall forward again and
then she was being lifted on a table and her eyes blinked open but
she couldnt recognize anything and she started to tremble and shake
with fear as faces passed by her, blurred, and there were lights, and
she didnt know where she was but something told her she should not be
there, a strong feeling fought through the drugs telling her it was a
matter of life and death that she get out of that room and away from
those people whose faces seemed to be unformed or hidden behind
something and she tried to resist, but was unable to and strong hands
stretched her out on the table and strapped her down and she could
feel her throat start to close and her heart threaten to explode and
something was attached to her head and something jammed between her
teeth and people were talking and laughing, but the voices were a
blur and it seemed like there were many faces leaning over her and
she could feel her eyes opening wider as they looked, peered, and she
could hear laughter and then the faces seemed to recede and drift
away in a haze and suddenly fire shot through her body and her eyes
felt like they were going to burst from their sockets as her body
burned then stiffened and felt like it would snap apart and pain shot
through her head and stabbed her ears and temples and her body kept
jerking and bouncing as the flames seared every cell of her body and
her bones felt like they were being twisted and crushed between huge
pincers as more and more electricity was forced through her body and
her burning body arched and slammed itself down on the table and Sara
could feel her bones snapping and smell the burning of her own flesh
as barbed hooks were thrust into her eyes yanking them out of their
sockets and all she could do was endure and feel the pain and smell
the burning flesh unable to yell, to plead, to pray, to make a sound
or even die, but stay locked in the torturous pain as her head
screamed AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhh...

The silence was awkward, and the chatter
self-conscious, as they rode to Big Tims. Tyrone had made the
arrangements and was thinkin of the dope theyd be havin in a few
hours, not thinkin of nothin else much as he wasnt really personally
involved in what was comin down. Marion was apprehensive. She was
alive with many emotions, but they had gotten off before they left
the house so it was all tolerable and everything was possible. She
knew she could, and would, do whatever had to be done without any
problem. Her only concern was that she didnt get burned, that Big Tim
would give her dope like he promised. Sheeit, you doan have to worry
about that. Big Tim never cop out. He tough but straight. Marion
nodded and continued taking quick pokes on her cigarette thinking of
holding that dope in her hand, her dope in her hand and she wouldnt
have to worry about being sick in the morning.

Harry sat in the corner glancing out the window from
time to time, and at Marion, trying to figure out what sort of
attitude he should adopt, wondering how he should look and sound,
what he should say . . . and what he should feel. Shit, he felt
relief. They were going to get stuff without having to scuffle those
cold ass streets . . . but that didnt sit just right. He didnt like
the idea of Marion ballin this dude. Fuck it, whats the big deal. He
sure as hell wasnt the first guy she ever balled. If she had to turn
a few tricks to— No! No! She aint no fuckin hooker. Shes just
getting some shit man. And anyway, what the fucks wrong with a chick
ballin some guy? Thats her business. Shes free. Just like the rest of
us. Free to do anything she fuckin wants man. Whats this fuckin
Victorian horseshit? A lot of broads fuck their bosses and thats
straight. They dont think thats rank. Shit! Fuckem! Right where they
eat. They dont like it they can go piss up a fuckin rope. You do what
has to be done. Thats all. Harry reached over and started rubbing the
back of Marions head, Its alright with me and if they dont dig it
thats their fuckin problem, it sure as hell aint mine. Marion turned
her head slightly and glanced at Harry, out of the corner of her eye,
for a second, then continued to look ahead, looking through the glass
partition and the windshield of the cab. She felt Harrys hand and
wondered if she was supposed to do or say something. Was she supposed
to feel something about Harry? Was she supposed to feel sorry for
him? for her? Was she supposed to regret something???? She had vague
feelings of regret, but they had nothing to do with going to see Big
Tim. She briefly wondered what the feelings were about, but she didnt
pursue the thought and it vitiated by itself as she was aware of the
feeling of apprehension and the even stronger feeling of impending
security.

They went into a coffee shop and Tyrone called Big
Tim and when he came out of the booth he gave Marion the address. Its
right around the corner. We'll meet you here. If we not here jus
wait. She nodded and turned and walked stiffly from the coffee shop.
Harry watched her go, wondering if he should have kissed her before
she left. They finished their coffee and Tyrone suggested they take
in a movie, Theres one jus a couple blocks. Do we have that much time
to kill? Tyrone just looked. Harry shrugged and they left.

Marion walked the short distance to the large
apartment building, looking straight ahead of her, her back stiff,
unaware of the gentle quietness of her surroundings. The building
still had a canopy, but the doorman had been dispensed with many
years before. She pushed the button and the buzzer sounded and she
pushed open the door, and she stood in front of the inner door,
unaware of the television camera focused on her. The buzzer sounded
again and she pushed the door open and rode the elevator to the
twenty second floor. Big Tims smile was from ear to ear as he opened
the door and stepped aside to let Marion in. He had to step aside
because Big Tim was big, in every sense of the word. He was about
six-six, broad, huge, big ... his body was big, his smile was big,
his laugh was big, and even his apartment was big. The living room
was huge and endless french doors opened on a balcony that overlooked
Central Park and you could see for miles. His view was big. He took
her coat and hung it up and told her to sit, indicating the large
couch. There was some old Coltrane playing and he moved in time to
the music as he went to the bar and poured himself a large glass of
bourbon. What would you like? Marion shook her head, Nothing. O, you
strictly a dope fien? Marion was startled by his question. She had
never thought of herself as a dope fiend. She shook her head and felt
a need to buy some time, but she wasnt sure why. Eventually she asked
for some chartreuse. Yellow or green? Again she was surprised and
muttered yellow while she tried to compose herself and recover from
the rapid series of surprises. Her surroundings were starting to
register and somehow they were diametrically opposed to what she had
expected though she hadnt been aware of expecting anything. She
looked over her shoulder at the incredible expanse of sky and skyline
and then around the room. Big Tim brought the drinks, and bottles,
over and put them on the table, then opened a drawer and took out a
hash pipe and put a nice size piece of hash in the bowl. He lit it
and took a long poke then handed it to Marion. She accepted it
automatically and took a couple of pokes then handed it back to Tim.
They handed it back and forth until the hash was gone and Tim turned
the pipe over an ashtray and let the ashes fall out. Whats your name?
Marion. His laugh was loud and deep and happy . . . very happy and
relaxing, What you know, Maid Marion, hahaha, Im Little John. Marion
sipped her chartreuse and smoked her cigarette feeling the
combination of dope, hash and alcohol dissolving all concerns. She
finished her drink and as Tim refilled the glass Marion leaned back
and closed her eyes and felt the warmth flow through her as her body
and mind relaxed and she smiled and then chuckled as she thought of
what her family would do if they could see her making it with a
schvartzer. What's so funny? Marion shook her head, laughed for a
moment, Nothing. Its a family joke. You outta sight fox, why you want
to get all fucked up behind scag? Again Marion was surprised by the
reference to her being an addict and she shook her head and took
another drag of her cigarette, buy more time. I like a little taste
once in a while. Sheeit, you aint sittin here with me cause you like
a little tase baby, uh huh. Marion shrugged and sipped her drink and
tried to say something, but continued sipping her drink instead.
Sheeit, that dont mean nothin to me. Jus so long as ah doan get into
mah own shit. Ah aint even horned any an ah aint goin to neither, uh
uh. He took a drink, A little juice and little smoke make it for me
real nice. He refilled the hash pipe and lit it, took a long poke and
handed it to Marion, Ah jus like to sit back an be cool and dig mah
man Trane—sheeit, ah shore wish that mutha fucka was still alive.
Damn he could blow. He refilled his glass and Marions and took the
pipe when she handed it to him and took a couple of hits and gave it
back to her, speaking to her while still holding his breath, Better
make it quick baby, its bout gone. Marion dumped the ashes in the
ashtray and drank some chartreuse and Tim put an arm around her and
pulled her next to him. He put his legs up on the table and stretched
out and Marion put hers up on the couch. You dig mah man Trane?
Marion nodded, I have every record he ever cut. All the old Miles
quintet, Monk, all of them. No shit? Thas nice. Ah likes a chick that
knows how to listen to music. You know most broads jus dont know how
to listen. Women arent the only ones. Maybe. But most brothers know
how to listen. Ah mean really listen. He took another drink, licked
his lips and leaned back with his eyes closed for a minute,
listening. Marion closed her eyes and just leaned against his chest,
feeling the weight and security of his arm around her, moving her
toes slightly in time to the music. That last hash and the chartreuse
really did it. She felt fine. She felt warm. She felt at home. Trane
had just finished a chorus and the piano player came in and Marion
muttered a soft, Yeah. Tim opened his eyes and smiled and looked at
her. You know what ah likes best about patty chicks? They give good
haid. Nigga broads—Marion felt something in her stir, she felt her
eyes pop open, but remained immobile. Tims huge hand was fondling her
right breast—doan know nothin about givin haid. Ah dont know why.
Might be it has some-thin to do with some ancient tribal custom.
Marion heard his laugh and wondered why it reminded her of Santa
Glaus, but it was true, he sounded like a commercial for jolly old
St. Nick. He put his other arm around her and pulled her up to him
and kissed her as his hands seemed to cover her entire body at once.
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him as hard as she could,
clinging even tighter to his neck. After a minute he backed off
slightly, Better save some a that energy. His laugh made her smile.
Her hands slowly slid from around his neck and she was resting on his
stomach when he gently turned her head around and took out his joint.
All of Marions reactions were slowed from the dope and alcohol and so
she just looked, stared, but inside she felt startled, as if she
should say and do something besides just look at his joint. There was
a terrible battle going on within her. She knew what she was supposed
to do, but her entire being was suddenly repulsed by the reality of
it. Her insides trembled and knotted. Ah know its purty baby, but ah
didnt take it out for air. He nudged her slightly. Marion responded
and grabbed it with her right hand and started kissing it and rubbing
it with her lips when she became aware that she was getting sick. She
sat up, her eyes wide, her hand over her mouth. Tim looked for a
second, then laughed and pointed to a door, That way, and continued
to laugh, still sounding like jolly old St. Nick. When Marion
finished throwing up she bathed her face with cold water then sat on
the side of the tub trembling with fright. For a second a panic froze
her body and mind. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. The
nausea was gone. But she was sweating. Trembling. What would he do?
She had to get that dope. She breathed deeply again. Put some more
cold water on her face and patted it dry and tried to fix her hair as
best she could. She almost prayed that he wasnt bugged. Please God,
dont let him be bugged. Im alright now. Its all the same. All the
same. She went back into the living room and did her best to smile.
Guess it was the chartreuse. He smiled and laughed. Im alright now,
her smile turning into an eager grin. He spread his legs as she knelt
in front of him and closed her eyes and pulled his pants off and
caressed his ass as she sucked his joint with all the enthusiasm the
thought of the dope generated, glancing up at him from time to time
and smiling. Big Tim leaned back and took a drink and laughed, Yeah,
Little Bo Beep done foun her sheep. . . .