Junky by William S. Burroughs Page A

tonight,” he said. “Right here at nine o’clock.”
    Izzy, who’d been standing by, silent, had been looking at Doolie with amazed disgust. “Holy Jesus!” he said. “Sandals!”
    The others swarmed around, holding out their hands like a crowd of Asiatic beggars. None of them had any money.
    I said, “No credit,” and we started walking down the street. They followed us, whining and clutching at our sleeves. “Just one cap.”
    I said no and kept on walking. One after the other, they fell away. We walked down into the subway and told Izzy we were packing in.
    â€œJeez,” he said, “I don’t blame you. Sandals!”
    Izzy bought six caps and we gave two caps to Old Bart, who was going out to Riker’s for the thirty-day cure.
    Bill Gains was examining the sports coat with a practiced eye. “It should bring ten dollars easy,” he said. “I know a tailor who will sew up this rip for me.” One pocket was slightly torn. “Where did he get it?”
    â€œHe claims from Brooks Brothers. But he’s the kind of guy who would say anything he stole came from Brooks Brothers or Abercrombie & Fitch.”
    â€œIt’s too bad,” said Gains, smiling. “My bus leaves at six. I won’t be able to give him the other two caps I promised.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it. He’s into us for a double sawski.”
    â€œHe is? Well, then, it doesn’t make any difference.”
    â€¢
    Bill Gains left for Lexington, and I started for Texas in my car. I had 1 / 16 -ounce of junk with me. I figured this was enough to taper off, and I had a reduction schedule carefully worked out. It was supposed to take twelve days. I had the junk in solution, and in another bottle distilled water. Every time I took a dropper of solution out to use it, I put the same amount of distilled water in the junk solution bottle. Eventually I would be shooting plain water. This method is well known to all junkies. A variation of it is known as the Chinese cure, which is carried out with hop and Wampole’s Tonic. After a few weeks, you find yourself drinking plain Wampole’s Tonic.
    Four days later in Cincinnati, I was out of junk and immobilized. I have never known one of these self-administered reduction cures to work. You find reasons to make each shot an exception that calls for a little extra junk. Finally, the junk is all gone and you still have your habit.
    I left the car in storage and took a train to Lexington. I did not have the papers that are required for admittance, but I was relying on my Army discharge to get me in. When I got to Lexington I took a taxi out to the hospital, which is several miles from the town. The taxi took me to the gate-house of the hospital. In the gate-house was an old Irish guard. He looked at my Army discharge.
    â€œAre you addicted to the use of habit-forming drugs?”
    I said yes.
    â€œWell, sit down.” He pointed to a bench.
    He called the main building. “No, no papers. . . . Got an Army discharge.” He looked over from the phone. “You ever been here before?” he asked.
    I said no.
    â€œSays he hasn’t been here before.” The guard hung up. “A car will be down for you in a few minutes,” he told me. “Have you got any drugs or needles or droppers on your person? You can surrender them here, but if you take them up to the main building you are liable to prosecution for introducing contraband articles into a Government reservation.”
    â€œI’ve got nothing.”
    After a short wait, a car came down to the gate and drove me up to the main building. A heavy, barred, iron door opened automatically to let the car in, then closed after it. A polite guard took my addiction history.
    â€œYou’re doing a sensible thing to come here,” he told me. “There’s one man in here now who’s spent every Christmas for the past twenty-five