The Story of Junk (33 page)

At the gate the buzzer sounds again, and again I have to empty my bag, let the inspectors examine the penknife. They judge it to be harmless. But as we enter the boarding area, an airline official pulls us aside and my heart moves into my throat. “Excuse me,” he says, “but can you wait here a minute? There seems to be a mixup on the tickets.” He moves away, our boarding passes clutched in his hand.

“This is nerve-racking, isn't it?” I say.

“I wish you'd get rid of that knife,” Mary pouts.

I insist I need it for the dope. She doesn't answer. We're pretty tired of each other by now, and we still have ten thousand miles to go.

Two minutes before takeoff the airline attendant returns and hands us new tickets. We've been moved from coach to first-class. “Sorry for the delay,” he says.

It doesn't take long to figure out what the problem was. This is a British-owned airline, a class-conscious company if ever one was. Everyone in coach is Indian or Pakistani or Chinese; with few exceptions, everyone holding first-class tickets is Caucasian. It's a rotten situation to be party to. On the other hand, it's nice to have a comfy seat and eat on china with heavy silver service. We eat with gusto. We're going to be in Singapore two days, time enough to shit and put all the stuff back where it came from. I drink two cups of coffee and smile all the way down to the ground.

The Singapore airport is the world's easiest place for a smuggler. They seem really glad to have you in their country. They don't look at your bags or your passport, they wave you on through. And Singapore itself looks a lot like Beverly Hills without the Spanish influence. The hotel our travel agent picked for us is a four-star job on a hill covered in oleander, jasmine, honeysuckle, and palm. After Bangkok, this is truly Shangri-la.

Mary Motion and I share a room again. It's enormous, with a fully stocked bar and a view of half the island. I don't feel the least bit tired now. I smoke a few lines and climb into the tub for a soak, first removing two of the ounces. The other three are deep within the recesses of my body, and I try to push these two up to meet them, but no go.

“Yo, Mario!” I call through the door. We have connecting rooms. When the door swings back I hold out one of the ounces, put an inquiring look on my face.

“No problem,” he says. More service with a smile. I hate that grin of his, that honeymoon leer, I envy it, and I don't know what I'd do without it. The other ounce I poke back wherever it'll ride and we go out in search of the Hotel Raffles.

Somehow, we never get out of the cab. This has less to do with the effects of the junk than it does the neighborhood, which has gone to seed. Raffles' striped awnings sag, its rattan porch furniture looks ragged. I figure we'll come back in the evening when the place is sure to have a little more romance. Right now it looks abandoned. I ask the cabdriver to circle it. I wonder which of these chairs was Mr. Maugham's? Did he sit there, night after night, his Singapore Sling perched on the rattan arm, listening to the characters who would people his stories of the East? We circle again. Was he here with Noël Coward? The conversation must have dazzled. Or were they just cruising the boys drifting by, eating lotus flowers? No one is as interested in this as I am. “But what about the Singapore Slings?” I point out. “We can't leave without having at least
one
.”

“I'm tired,” Mario says. “We can come back later.”

“Yeah.” Mary nods. “Let's get the shopping in before the stores close.”

We drive aimlessly around town awhile, marveling at the clean streets and the neon-lit vertical malls. Eventually we go inside one, where I buy a duty-free camera and some film. I haven't been using the Polaroid much. The only pictures I've taken feature landscapes and statues, not us. I'm not keeping a diary or sending postcards, either. I don't want anyone knowing we've been here. I realize I'm happiest staying in my room, smoking my dope, pouring my drinks, and taking in the view. I can just about see Raffles from the hotel window, if I lean out far enough. I stretch out on the chaise. Finally, finally: I'm on vacation. At last, I'm away from my life.

I sleep ten hours, dead to the world. When I'm up, we get together to discuss: should we let the passports go? Mario thinks it's stupid but I want to cover my tracks. It's not so bad staying here. On the other hand, I really want to go. We go. Out comes the K-Y and in go the ounces one more time. I'm better at this now, they slide right up. Before I think about them again, we're in Tokyo.

There seem to be thousands of people waiting at the Tokyo quarantine. We have to get a health stamp before we can change planes. We stay in line two hours, then wander through the terminal. That evil ounce is threatening to escape me again. On the plane I have to go into the head to fix it half a dozen times.

The flight east is shorter, but long enough for me to think up a few stories to tell customs. I'm nervous about my passport. I'm nervous about the dope. When the stewardess announces our approach to JFK, I go in the bathroom one last time.

We go through separate lines at customs. As I set my bags on the counter, I see Mary Motion and Mario sail out the door to waiting taxis. A female agent looks carefully through the pages of my passport. I smile at her. She doesn't smile back. “You've been in Bangkok?” she inquires.

“Yes,” I say, ready for what comes next. “Dreadful place it is, too.”

“I see you were only in Bangkok a few days. May I ask why you were there?”

“Vacation,” I say. Just be yourself, I think. Be honest and they won't see through you.

“That's a long way to go for a few days' vacation,” she says.

“Well, it wasn't just a vacation,” I admit. The agent is searching my face. “I'm a writer,” I tell her. “I had this idea to write a guidebook for women traveling alone. A lot of women do, you know. Bangkok was my first stop.”

“Why Bangkok?”

“I got a deal on the ticket,” I explain. “See?” I show her the price. “They were having a sale.”

“Do you often travel alone?”

“Not always. Well, yeah. I guess so.”

“That's a pretty useful idea,” the woman says. “A guide for women travelers.”

“Well, it's a big world out there. There are lots of places to see.”

She pages through my passport again. “I hear Bangkok is, well, a pretty wild place, if you know what I mean.”

“It's horrid,” I say. “Not wild. Unless you mean environmentally. The air stinks, the food stinks, and the hotels are completely awful.” Isn't this enough now? Can't I go?

“Did you go anywhere in Thailand other than Bangkok?”

“No, I hated it too much. It made me sick. The food made me sick, the air made me sick, and frankly, some of the people made me sick, too. It's really
not
a place for women,” I conclude. “It's all sleazy sex clubs, massage parlors, and cheap cheap clothes. I couldn't wait to get out of there.”

“I believe you.” She puts the passport down. “Did you acquire anything while you were in Thailand?”

“Just a few trinkets,” I say. “Nothing of value.”

“Open your bags, please.”

She shuffles through them, looks at the passport again. I can see she's thinking pretty hard, but I go on explaining what everything is, the lead elephants and the linen shirts. I keep the sapphires hidden but show her the camera and the receipt.

“You seem kind of nervous,” she says. “Why are you nervous?”

“I'm not nervous,” I say, forcing a laugh. “I just have to go to the bathroom.”

She raises an eyebrow and seems to catch the eye of someone behind me, someone in uniform no doubt. “Is there a publisher for your book?”

“Not yet,” I say, “but soon.”

“How do you pay for trips like this?”

I'm not prepared for this question. “This one was a gift from my dad,” I say.

“Sorry your trip didn't work out the way you wanted,” she says then. “Welcome home.”

I could expel the ounce right there. “Good to be back!” I say happily and fly out the door.

From the cab the city skyline looks like the cradle of love, but it fills me with dread. I haven't told Kit when to expect me. I thought it would be safer if she didn't know. “Call you from the airport,” I'd said, but there hasn't been time. I find myself hoping she won't be home when I get there. I have a feeling I won't want to stay.

GLAD TO BE BACK

Pack your bags,” I say when Kit opens the door. She looks dressed for combat. “Hurry. We're leaving town.” I head for the bathroom.

“Why, what's happened?” she says, following me, bewildered.

“Nothing,” I say. She says, “Where's the dope? Do you have it?”

I sit on the toilet.

“I'm really glad you're back,” she says. “You wouldn't believe what's been going on.”

“I'm glad to be back. Very glad.” I reach for the sample. “What's happened?”

“That's it?” she says, panic defining the shape of her mouth. “That's all of it?”

I explain we have to wait till I shit for the rest, and lay a generous line on the dresser. “Can you go to Bebe's and get me some coke? There wouldn't be any coffee made, would there?”

“I'll make the coffee. I'll go over there. Why are we leaving town?”

“I just don't want to be here for a while. I don't want anyone to know where I've been. How soon can you be ready?” I call the hotel in Montauk and book a room.

“Honey called. Grigorio's in town, they're getting married in two weeks.”

“So soon? Why are you dressed this way?”

“Vance and Jean-Paul—they got into a fight. Guns and bats. It was horrible.”

“They were here
together?
While you were doing business?” I won't bother to unpack.

“Last night—no one else was here. I wish they had been. I was sure someone in the building would call the cops. I'm really glad you're back.”

“When are they getting married?”

“Soon. A few weeks. They can't wait anymore.”

“Last night you were freebasing?”

“I know, I know. I'll never do that again. I thought cops were coming in the window. I thought there were giant bugs in my hair. I was sure we were under attack.”

“Let's go
now
. I'll rent a car. Ask Bebe if she'll feed the cats.”

“Honey wanted to see you as soon as you got back. I told her you were visiting your father.”

My father. We haven't even spoken in a year. Thanksgiving it was, he called. So, he said, you comin'? I didn't know I was expected. Of course you are, he said. Hadn't he mentioned it? He must've forgot. I'm always welcome, he said. I supposed we could make it in time for dinner, if he picked us up at the train. No problem, he started to say, when I heard the wife making noise in the background. Was I coming alone or with Kit? With her, I said, or I don't come at all. Apparently, he said, there wasn't enough food to go around. Not enough? I was shouting by now. Not enough food on Thanksgiving? We went to Honey's instead. Lots of food, lots of fun. Plenty of love to go around.

I look at Kit's face, see the fear in her eyes, and the next thing I know we're in each other's arms. It feels strange, it's been so long. “Well,” she says. “Why don't you tell me about your trip?”

Before we leave for Montauk, I meet Honey and Grigorio in a Japanese restaurant on Bleecker Street. “We have something to tell you,” Honey says.

I smile. “You're getting married.”

“Yes,” she says soberly. “That's not it. You can't tell this to anyone. Not a soul. You really can't.”

“Not even Kit?”

“If you swear her to silence.” I think I know what's coming. I give a slight nod and reach for my drink.

“We've got it, hon,” she says. “HIV—we've both tested positive.”

My body locks. “How long have you known this?” I ask. “When did you get the test?”

“I've known awhile,” she says. “We've both had lots of tests. Actually, we're not just positive. We have AIDS.”

Grigorio's toying with a chopstick. I down the rest of my drink. The perfect couple, I'm thinking. Isn't this just perfect.

“There aren't too many people I can tell this to,” she goes on. “For Mike's sake. He'd be ostracized at school if they knew, the way people are. I wouldn't get any work. But we have to be able to talk to
someone
.”

“I have to tell Kit,” I say. Did we share needles with them last summer? I can't remember.

“You can tell her, that's okay. Lute knows too. So does Ginger.”

“What about Mike?”

Grigorio says they can tell him when the time comes.

“You don't look sick,” I observe. Poor Mike.

“We're not sick,” says Honey. “Not right now, anyway. Anyway, we're not going to go that fast, if at all. We're not going to change the way we
live.
”

“That's not true,” says Grigorio. “We've stopped doing drugs.”

“Yes,” she says. “We thought we'd try that. But you'll stick around, won't you? In case we need anything?”

SILENCE

I had a right to remain silent, Dick said so. I had a right. Silence is not held against you, not in a court of law. Silence doesn't put you in jail, but it doesn't keep you out of it, either. Not when your keeper is Dick.

He knows I sit here all day cooped up in my turkey body, suffering the junkie's maximum despair. I'm like the bridesmaid who's never a bride: always detained, never incarcerated. Why won't he leave me alone?

“I thought we should talk,” he said. “About a friend of yours. About Daniel.”

Oh God, I thought. Not Daniel.

“What's happened with Angelo?” I asked.