*
I go to a junkie doctor in the Village for a prescription. I can’t
do the streets. He rubs his hands all over me. He is sweaty
despite the air conditioning and old and pale yellow and fat.
He rubs his hands up and down my arms and all over my
breasts and my neck and up and down my legs, between my
thighs. He rubs his hands all over my bare skin and all over my
clothes. I sit still. He stares at me. He watches me as he rubs
his hands all over. I am going to give you the prescription, he
says, but the next time you come you understand what I want
don’t you? I stare at him. In the office there is a desk with a
chair behind it and an examining table, the one I am sitting
on. Here, I suppose, right where I am now. Do you understand
what I want, he asks me again. I nod. I don’t know exactly
what he wants. I think in precise acts. I am going to write this
prescription now, he says, and give it to you now, he says, but
the next time you come, he says, you be sure you remember
what I want from you. I nod. I am surprised, a little confused.
I thought because he was a junkie he would want money. He
doesn’t ask for any money. I have in my pocket all the dollars
we have. He gives me the script. He kisses my hand. I don’t
want to have to go back.
*
N has on her most flamboyant scarf, like a headband. She is
carefully dressed: flare pants, a silk blouse A has bought for
her, a belt fastidiously buckled. She has gone over the details
of her appearance a hundred times. She is tired. Her face is
drawn and dirty. Her eyes are lined with black, there are deep,
dark circles under them. She is very thin. She is in constant
movement, mostly examining herself, much motion to little
purpose. She twitches with nerves on edge. A is in his usual
dark coat. It is a hot night. I am going to stay with R, not to
be alone and to be near a phone. A has thought of a way to
help us. He and N are going to rob a store: a boutique to be
72
precise. N has some tools in a bag embossed with her last
name. I tell her not to use the bag. I say perhaps they should
not do this. It has been decided. N will call me when it is
done. Our phone is still dead. No one stays there alone. I will
be with poor R who does not know this is happening.
They go, I go. The hours pass. The night is long. A call
comes about 4 am. N is on her way to the Women’s House of
Detention. She will be arraigned in night court.
Night court is interminably dreary and hopeless. The halls
of justice are wide and dreary, the benches are wooden and
hard: after an hour or so, a group of women is brought out:
hookers and N, her scarf too high on her forehead, marking
