39
sleep. He fucks good, Juan, I like him, he keeps his junk to
himself, he can’t live long, the coke makes him intense, pulsating, deep thrusts, incredible tension in his hips, hard, muscled hips, not usual for a junkie, I can’t feel the smack in his body,
no languor anywhere, intense crazed coke fucking, intensely
devoted fucking for a junkie. N and R walk by, going out. N
gives an appreciative look. She smiles her broad grin. I am
groaning under him. She laughs her comradely, amused laugh,
grinning from ear to ear.
The apartment is a storefront. You walk down a few steps to
get to the door. Anyone can hide down where you have to
walk. The whole front of the apartment is a store window.
There is no way to open it. It is level with the street. It has
nothing to keep anyone out, no bars, no grating. It is just a
solid sheet of glass. The front room is right there, on the street.
We keep it empty except for some clothes in our one closet.
The middle room is right behind the front room, no door, just
a half wall dividing the two rooms. No window. We have one
single mattress, old, a sheet or two, a pillow or two, N ’s record
player and her great jazz and blues and classical records, her
clarinet, her saxophone, my typewriter, an Olivetti portable, a
telephone. Behind the middle room is a large kitchen, no door
between the rooms. There is a big wooden table with chairs.
There are old, dirty appliances: old refrigerator, old stove.
We don’t cook much or eat much. We make buckets of iced
tea. We have vodka in the refrigerator, sometimes whiskey
too. Sometimes we buy orange juice. There are cigarettes on
the table, butts piled up in muddy ashtrays or dirty, wet cups.
There are some books and some paper and some pencils. There
is a door and a window leading out back. The door has
heavy metal grating over it, iron, weaved, so that no one can
break in. The window is covered in the same heavy metal. The
door is bolted with a heavy metal bolt and locked with a heavy
metal police lock.
The floors are wooden and painted. The apartment is
painted garish red and garish blue. It is insufferably dark,
except for the front room on the street. We have to cover the
window. It is insufferably hot with virtually no ventilation. It
is a palace for us, a wealth of space. Off the kitchen is a thin
40
wooden door, no lock, just a wooden latch. Through it is- a
toilet, shared with the next door apartment, also a storefront
but vacant.
Before Juan comes, we are in the kitchen talking about our
movie. We are going to make a movie, a tough, unsentimental
avant-garde little number about women in a New York City
