Read Online Red-Dirt Marijuana: And Other Tastes by Terry Southern - Free Book Online Page B

he was functioning, it would be all right. He even managed to think: then it’ll be cool. And he could have smiled at this, but his face wouldn’t betray him. He had mastered his face. He had mastered everything but his thoughts, and his thoughts were of the order of those of famous actors in the seconds leading up to the big scene: blood in the chamber . . . matches and spoon . . . you cut it, I’ll cut it, won’t cook up, will cook up, behind the knuckle, blood in the chamber, silence, . . . silence. Be cool.
    Leaning against an iron post by the subway entrance, Dr. Warner began to order his thoughts. He lit a cigarette, but the cigarette at once recalled the smoke-filled booth in New Orleans; and what he was about to do suddenly took on another irresistible importance. Marijuana was one thing, heroin was another. Heroin was stronger. He distrusted the word, but could think of no better one. Heroin is stronger, he thought. There’s something irretrievable . . . there’s no emetic for a substance put straight into the blood stream. There’s no turning back. And they say if you fight it. . . .
    At that moment, a cab passed very close to the curb, slowing for the changing light, and the Doctor’s eye caught his own distinguished image framed squarely for an instant in the window glass. He dropped the cigarette and slowly ground his foot over it. And he knew he would be able to do whatever was required.
    He crossed the street toward an alleyway opposite. At the head of the alleyway was a short-order place, its door and raised glass-front open to the summer night, where, because of a small neon MALTED sign, light lay upon light in soft transparent cubes, forming a great milk-green swath over the sidewalk and curb, violated by a flashing liquor brand across the way which moved in stabs of red as harsh as traffic noise. But from a juke-box inside came the sound of a singing tenor sax . . . leaping out raid-like through neon against the passing traffic, to flurry just above their heads, brandishing something there in sound so quick and serious before springing back again, it could only astonish them.
    Standing around on the sidewalk, or leaning against the front of the short-order place, were three or four young men in different attitudes of listening to the music, or of just standing there. There was nothing in their manner or dress to relate them, and each seemed somehow alone, but all their faces bore the same stamp of extreme ennui and polite detachment that was due to something more than just civilization.
    Walking very slowly, Dr. Warner paused when he reached the corner of the alleyway and the short-order place, and after standing for a few minutes listening, he leaned against the wall himself.
    The person next to him was a boy of about twenty-five. He was as thin as an El Greco saint, with eyes like two black pins. He did not seem to have noticed the Doctor’s arrival. After a few minutes, Dr. Warner spoke to the boy, not looking at him, staring straight ahead, his voice soft and without inflection.
    “Hey, man,” he said, “what’s happenin’?”
    The boy seemed to blink as he turned his head, giving the Doctor a slow, quizzical look, almost a smile.
    “You tell me, daddy,” he said finally, his lips scarcely moving, “know what I mean, like you tell me.”
    “Well, man,” said Dr. Warner, “like I just got on the scene, dig, and I was wondering if anything was happenin’ tonight. I’d like to make it, you know what I mean?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t,” said the boy, as though from some incredible distance.
    Dr. Warner gave him a tired, patient smile.
    “Now don’t jump salty, daddy-o,” he said, “I mean like level with me ’cause I’m straight for loot, dig, and I got eyes, you know what I mean, like I got big eyes to get on and just fall out someplace where the cats are blowin’.”
    The boy turned his face away and was staring straight ahead.
    “Like what?” he said at last.
    “Well,