Requiem for a Dream (4 page)

Really had ya goin, didnt I? Yoe know somethin jim?
youse got the right job cause yoe haid is daid baby, an ah means
daid. A hand reached up and turned the volume of the radio up and the
music worked its way through the blue smoke and over the chuckling
and laughter. Hey, that's mah man wailin. Everyone was nodding at the
lyrics. Yeah, tellem baby, we sure do need someone to lean on. O,
lean on me baby, lean on me! You dig what that mutha say about her
breas be always open? What kind a weirdo is that, she close her legs?
Hey Angel, why dont you be cool man. Everyones eyes were half closed
from the smoke and dope, and their faces kept twisting and grinning
as they leaned into the words. Hey baby, you got some space for me in
your parking lot? Fred grinned and made a few clacking noises, and
Lucy continued to keep her attention on the stream of smoke bending
up from her cigarette, digging the  difference between the color
of the smoke coming out of the lit end and the other end. Lay some of
that coke and sympathy on me an fine out sucker. There was some
giggling, Oooooo, that one bad bitch jim. They were all suddenly
silent as they listened through the dream on lines, each in their own
way thinking they didnt need anyone to dream on, that this boss shit
did the job just fine. . . .

Then they all twisted into the next lines and giggled
and snickered and grinned, Yeah, now youre talkin man, I need someone
to cream on. Yeah, do it to me baby, uh huuuu. Lucy squinted in Freds
direction, Doan look at me baby, betta see your mammy. The others
worked into a slight giggle. Oooooo, she bad jim. Fred giggled as
loud as he could, but still couldnt hear it himself. He tried to look
at Lucy but couldnt raise his head, saving his energy to poke at his
cigarette. The singing continued and they listened and savored each
word and rolled it around in their heads. Harry put a new cigarette
in his mouth and reached over to take Tyrones to light it, but Tyrone
moved his head away and tossed him a pack of matches. Harry looked at
them for a moment, then slowly picked them up and went through the
process of taking a match out, igniting it, raising it as high as he
could and lowering his head as much as possible, then lighting his
cigarette. O yeah, take it all baby, jus doan fuck with mah haid. O
what pleasant com pan eee. Hey man, play that again. Why, who do you
want to bleed on now? Sheeit, ah doan care just sos it aint mah
blood. Man, the only blood I wanna see is in my dropper just before I
shoot the son of a bitch back in my vein. Sheeit, you got a one track
mine jim. Yeah, and the tracks are all up and down his arm. The
giggling and snickering was approaching laughter as they nodded in
time to the up tempo music, taking an occasional drag on a cigarette,
seeing the drab gray of the concrete floor they were sitting on but
not noticing it, involved with how they felt, and baby they felt
gooood. The last notes were still in their heads when another tune
started. Hey, you dig what they playin? Damn, ah aint heard this
since befoe I started shootin stuff. Sheeit, aint no record that ol
jim. Marion leaned comfortably into Harrys shoulder, her eyes and
face soft in a smile. Remember when we used to dig this cat downtown?
Yeah . . . The voice so filled with nostalgia that you could almost
see the memories floating through the blue smoke, memories not only
of music and joy and youth, but, perhaps, of dreams. They listened to
the music, each hearing it in his own way, feeling relaxed and a part
of the music, a part of each other, and almost a part of the world.
And so another swinging night in the Bronx County Morgue slowly
drifted toward another day.

The phone rang a second time and Sara Goldfarb leaned
toward the phone as she continued to adjust the rabbit ears on her
set, torn between the need to know who was calling and to get rid of
the lines that darted, from time to time, across the picture, and she
ooood as she tensed and squinted, leaning more and more toward the
phone as it rang again, one hand reaching for the phone while the
tips of the fingers of the other hand continued to tap the antenna
over one centimeter at a time. Im coming, Im coming. Dont hang up,
and she lunged at the phone, almost falling down in the middle of the
sixth ring and flopping on the chair. Hello? Mrs. Gold-farb? Mrs.
Sara Goldfarb? Its me. Speaking. The voice was so bright and cheery
and so enthusiastic and real that she turned toward the TV set to see
if the voice was coming from there. Mrs. Goldfarb, this is Lyle
Russel of the McDick Corporation. She looked at the  phone. She
knew for real that his voice was coming from there, but it sounded
just like a television announcer. She kept at least one eye on the
television as she listened and spoke to Lyle Russel of the McDick
Corporation. Mrs. Goldfarb, how would you like to be a contestant on
one of televisions most poignant, most heartwarming programs? Oooo
me? On the television???? She kept looking from the phone to the
television, and back again, trying to look at both at the same time.
Hahaha, I thought you would Mrs. Goldfarb. I can tell just by the
warmth in your voice that you are just the kind of individual we want
for our programs. Sara Goldfarb blushed and blinked, I never thought
that maybe I would be on the television. Im just a— O haha, I know
how you feel Mrs. Goldfarb. Believe me when I say I am just  as
thrilled as you to be a part of this fantastic industry. I consider
myself one of the luckiest men in the world because every day I get a
chance to help people just like yourself, Mrs. Goldfarb, to be a part
of programming that not only are we proud of but the entire
industry—no, the entire nation is proud of. Harrys mother was
clutching the top of her dress, feeling her heart palpitate, her eyes
blinking with excitement. O, I never dreamed . . . Lyle Russels voice
became earnest. Very earnest. Mrs. Goldfarb, do you know what
programs I am referring to? Do you have any idea? No ... I a ... Im
watching an Ajax and Im not sure . . . On the television???? Mrs.
Goldfarb, are you sitting down? If not, please sit down immediately
because when I tell you what programs I am talking about you will be
dizzy with joy. Im  sitting. Im sitting already, Mrs. Goldfarb
I'm talking about none other than . . . his voice suddenly stopped
and Sara Goldfarb clutched even tighter at the top of her dress and
stared wide-eyed at the phone and the television, not sure from which
instrument his voice would come. When he spoke his voice was deep,
low and full of feeling—Mrs. Goldfarb, we represent the quiz shows
on television. Ooooooo . . . He waited dramatically as Sara Goldfarb
composed herself, her breathing audible over the voices from the
television. Lyle Russels voice was authoritatively dramatic, Yes,
Mrs. Goldfarb, plus—plus the brand new, I said, brand new, shows
that will be on next season; the shows millions of Americans want to
be on; the shows that are looked forward to anxiously by millions—Me
... me ... on the—O I cant— Yes, Mrs. Goldfarb you. I know how
you feel, you are wondering why you should be so lucky when so many
millions would give anything to be on one of these shows—O, I cant
tell you . . . Well, Mrs. Goldfarb, I cant tell you why you are so
lucky, I guess its just that God has a special place in his heart for
you. Sara Goldfarb fell against the back of the viewing chair, one
hand clutching desperately at the phone, the other the top of her
dress. Her eyes bulged. Her mouth hung open. For the first time in
memory she was unaware of the television. You will receive all
necessary information in the mail Mrs. Goldfarb. Goodbye and . . .
God bless. Click.

Visions of heavenly angels passed before Harrys
mother as the psalmist sang so soothingly to her, before the buzzing
of the phone in her hand, and the exploding of a bottle of cleaner
into a white tornado, dispersed them. She breathed. Then exhaled. The
phone. Yes. The phone goes on the hook. Gets hung gup. Aa haaaaaaa.
Clunk, clunk. She missed the cradle. She looked at the phone for a
minute then picked it up and put it gently on the cradle. On
television. O my God, television. What will I wear???? What do I have
to wear? I should be wearing a nice dress. Suppose the girdle doesnt
fit? Its so hot. Sara looked at herself then rolled her eyes back and
up. Maybe I'll sweat a little bit but I need the girdle. Maybe I 
should diet? I wont eat. I'll lose thirty pounds before Im on
television. Then with a girdle Im looking like Spring Boying-ton ...
a little . . . sort of ... Hair! I'll get Ada to do my hair. Maybe
they do it. Special. O . . . I should have asked . . . asked who?
What was his name? I'll remember, I'll remember. It will come. He
said they send me everything in the mail. I look good in the red
dress with— No! Red doesnt come so good on the set. Isnt just
right, kind of funny and blurred. And shoes and a pocketbook and
earrings and necklace and a lace handkerchief O O O O, Sara nodding
her head, grabbing her temples and rolling her eyes and lifting her
arms, her palms turned upward, then closing her hands in a loose fist
and tapping them against each other, then suddenly stopping all
movements, sitting stiff in the chair for a  moment, I'll look
in the closet. Thats what I'll do. The closet. She nodded her head
affirmatively and got up and out of her chair and went to the bedroom
and started rummaging through her closets, taking dresses off hangers
and holding them up in front of her then tossing them on the bed;
crawling around on her hands and knees as she investigated the
darkest and remotest corners of the closet, finding almost forgotten
shoes and singing in a wordless and tuneless monotone as she dusted
them off and tried pair after pair on, wobbling on some as her
callused feet oozed over the sides, attacked the straps, then posed
in front of the mirror looking at her shoes and her blue striped and
stippled legs. . . . O, how she loved her gold shoes, all of them.
Finally she couldn't resist. She put on the red dress. I know red
doesnt come in so good on the set, but the red dress I like ... I
love. She posed, looked over her shoulder into the mirror . . . then
the other shoulder, adjusted the length to various heights, started
to try to zip it up but after half an inch and many minutes of
exertion and squeezing and stuffing and adjusting she gave it up so
she stood with it unzipped in front of her mirror, liking what she
saw as she looked through eyes of many yesterdays at herself in the
gorgeous red dress and gold shoes she wore when her Harry was bar
mitzvahed . . . Seymour was alive then ... and not even sick . . .
and her boobala looked so nice in his—Ah, thats gone. No more.
Seymours dead and her—Ah, I'll show Ada how it looks. She held the
unzipped back of her dress tightly as she waited for a station break,
then went next door to her friend Ada. So wheres the party? Party,
schmarty. This is like all the parties. When I tell you youll jump
out the window. A basement window I hope. They sat down in the living
room, strategically, so each could keep an eye, and ear, tuned to the
television set while discussing the momentous occasion that brought
Sara Goldfarb forth in the gorgeous red dress and gold shoes she wore
the day her Harry, her boobala, was bar mitzvahed, an event so
important and undreamed of that Sara was in such a state of shock,
though ambulatory, she turned down a piece of halvah. Sara told Ada
about the phone call and how she was going on television. She, Sara
Goldfarb, was going on the television. Ada stared for a moment (with
one ear she caught the end of the scene of the soap opera). For real?
You wouldnt kid me? Why should I kid you? What am I dressing for, the
supermarket? Ada continued to stare (the music told her they were
fading out on the scene. She knew instinctively that a commercial was
coming on even before there was that sudden increase in volume and
explosion on the screen). You want a glass tea? She got up and 
started for the kitchen. Sara followed. The water was quickly boiled
and each had a glass of tea when they returned to the living room,
just at the end of the commercials, and sat in the same strategic
positions, their ear and eye still tuned to the television, as they
discussed and speculated on the enormity of the coming event in the
life of Sara Goldfarb, an event of such prodigious proportions and
importance that it infused her with a new will to live and
materialized a dream that brightened her days and soothed her lonely
nights.
 

Harry and Tyrone C. were walking through the park,
spending most of their energy in trying to avoid the kids who were
running around screaming or flying by on skates or a skateboard,
never knowing from which end or side the attack might come. Sheeit, I
dont know why they got to have a summer vacation. They oughtta keep
those little muthas in school all the time. You kiddin? theyd tear
the school down. This way it saves the taxpayers money. Now aint this
a bitch, this muthafucka aint worked in his natural life an he
worried about taxpayers. Hey man, ya gotta worry about those things.
Whats the matta with you, aint ya responsible? Oooooo, listen to this
shit, this stud has gone and blew his cool. Comeon baby, lets get
somethin to eat, youse in serious trouble. They strolled over to a
hot dog pushcart and got a couple with onions and mustard and red
pepper, and a bottle of soda. When they finished they walked as far
as possible from the playground and stretched out on the grass. Ya
know man, I wasnt bullshit about gettin a piece. Hey baby, Im down.
Well, then lets stop fuckin around and get with it. Sheeit, get with
what? We aint got no braid. No shit? I thought we had money up the
gazoo. That the only place we got it. Well lets stop fuckin the duck
and figure out how we can pick up the bread. How much do we need?

Ah dont know exactly. Couple hundred. Best be going
up there with four hundred that way you knows you got enough no
matter what comes down. Are you sure Brody can cop a piece for us?
Man, what the fuck you talkin about? Course Im sure. Even after he
take his tase we got enough to cut it in haf and double our braid and
have a nice tase for us. Im hip. He sure does have some dynamite
shit. But I dont want to get into it heavy man. I dont wanta blow the
whole thing by getting strung out. You damn right. You be cool an we
have a whole string of runny nosed dope fiens off en our shit for us.
Yeah, thats the only way to go man. Ive seen cats get strung out and
they blow their whole scene and end up in the slammer. Sheeit, we too
smart for that baby. Yeah, they slapped palms. So where do we get the
bread? Ah dont know baby, but ah dont want to go rippin nobody off.
Ah aint been in no joint an ah wants to keep it that way. O man, be
cool. What am I, a ganggester? The old ladys TV is one thing, but a
robberys something else. We could sell hot dogs. Yeah sure, whos
gonna push the cart? Doan look at me baby, ahs a salesman. Hahaha,
what a scene that would be ... jesus, I could see you openin the bun
and me floppin a hot dog in an then we flip a coin to see who puts
the mustard on. Well, lease we wouldnt be hongry. Well man, I aint
worried about that. Comeon, Ty, think. There must be a way we can
pick up a couple a yards in a hurry. They smoked, and squinted and
scratched, then Tyrone flipped his butt away and rubbed his head,
sort of stroking it to activate the gray matter . . . and relieve any
itch he might have. You know, theres a couple of dudes that goes down
to the newspaper like four or five in the mornin and shapes up to
load trucks. How much they get? Ah doan know man, but ah do know that
theys always wearin some fine threads an driven some really pretty
shorts. Yeah? Harry looked at Tyrone for a minute. Hmmmmmmm. Whatta
ya think? Tyrone was still rubbing his head, but now he was more or
less caressing it. Well man, ah tellya, ah aint so hot on that workin
shit, ah mean ah dont like it any more than you. Yeah . .. five
oclock in the mornin. Jesus. I thought even bartenders were asleep at
that time . . . but. . . Harry continued to stare and Tyrone C. Love
continued to rub. Whatta ya think? Ah doan know baby. . . . But ah
guess we could sort of maybe go see whats happenin down there. Harry
shrugged, Shit, why not? Tyrone stopped rubbing his head and slapped
Harrys hand then Harry slapped his and they got up and strolled from
the grass to the path, then along the path through the park to the
street as a couple of sparrows swooped down to claim a few
Crackerjack crumbs. Harry figured he'd go home while they were
working so he'd be sure to get up on time. If I tell the old lady I
got a job she'll be sure to get me up. I guess we'll have ta get up
about four, eh? to be sure to get there on time . . . four oclock in
the morning, that seems impossible. Then jus think a that piece a
pure shit baby, thatll get your ass up. Then you come by mah crib an
get me up. You bet your sweet ass. If I have to get up youre gonta
get up. They laughed and slapped palms and Harry was about to turn to
go and get ready to start the new routine that would make them big
time dealers, when they spotted a friend rushing along the street.
Hey, whats happening baby? You look like the man is afta you. Whats
the rush? You know Little Joey, the cat with the ripped ear? Yeah,
sure. From across the avenue. Yeah, thats the dude. He an Tiny an
some other cat just copped from Windy and before Joey emptied the
dropper he was gone jim. O.d. just like that. They say he just had a
tase an he was out. So Tiny horns a little just to be cool, ya know,
an he gets wasted jim. No shit? You straight? Ya goddamn right. Why
ya think Im hustlin my ass over to Windys? I wanna get there before
he finds out what he has jim. That mutha fucka got a habit thats so
long even mule piss wouldnt get him high. Harry and Tyrone joined in
the rush to Windys. They could always go to work some other time, but
you dont always get a chance to score for some dyn a mite shit like
this.