Вильям Берроуз. Голый завтрак (engl)

        William S.Burroughs. Naked lunch

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   © Copyright William S.Burroughs
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  I can  feel  the  heat  closing  in,  feel them  out there
making  their  moves,  setting  up  their  devil  doll stool
pigeons,  crooning  over  my  spoon  and  dropper   I  throw
away  at  Washington  Square  Station,  vault   a  turnstile
and  two  flights  down  the  iron  stairs,  catch  an uptown
A  train...  Young,  good  looking,  crew  cut,  Ivy League,
advertising  exec  type fruit  holds the  door back  for me.
I  am  evidently  his  idea  of  a  character. You  know the
type  comes  on  with  bartenders  and cab  drivers, talking
about  right  hooks  and  the  Dodgers, call  the counterman
in Nedick's by  his first  name. A  real asshole.  And right
on  time this  narcotics dick  in a  white trench  coat (im-
agine  tailing  somebody  in  a white  trench coat  -- trying
to pass as a fag I guess ) hit the platform. I can  hear the
way  he  would say  it holding  my outfit  in his  left hand,
right  hand  on  his  piece:  "I  think  you  dropped  some-
thing, fella"
  But the subway is moving.
  "So long flatfoot!" I yell, giving the  fruit his  B produc-
tion. I look into the fruit's eyes, take in the  white teeth,
the  Florida  tan,  the  two  hundred dollar  sharkskin suit,
the   button-down   Brooks   Brothers   shirt   and  carrying
The News as a prop. "Only thing I read is Little Abner."
  A  square  wants  to  come  on  hip.... Talks  about "pod,"
and  smoke  it  now  and  then,  and  keeps  some  around  to
offer the fast Hollywood types.
  "Thanks, kid," I say, "I can  see you're  one of  our own."
His  face  lights  up  like a  pinball machine,  with stupid,
pink effect.
  "Grassed  on  me  he  did,"  I   said  morosely.   (  Note:
Grass  is  English  thief  slang for  inform.) I  drew closer
and  laid  my dirty  junky fingers  on his  sharkskin sleeve.
"And  us  blood  brothers  in  the same  dirty needle,  I can
tell you  in confidence  he is  due for  a hot  shot." ( Note:
This is  a cap  of poison  junk sold  to addict  for liquida-
tion  purposes.  Often  given to  informers. Usually  the hot
shot is strychnine since it tastes and looks like junk. )
  "Ever  see  a  hot  shot  hit,  kid? I  saw the  Gimp catch
one  in   Philly.  We   rigged  his   room  with   a  one-way
whorehouse  mirror  and  charged  a   sawski  to   watch  it.
He  never  got  the  needle  out  of his  arm. They  don't if
the shot is  right. That's  the way  they find  them, dropper
full  of  clotted  blood  hanging  out  of  a  blue  arm. The
look in his eyes when it hit -- Kid, it was tasty....
  "ъecollect  when  I  am   traveling  with   the  Vigilante,
best  Shake  Man  in  the  industry.  Out  in  Chi...  We  is
working  the fags  in Lincoln  Park. So  one night  the Vigi-
lante  turns  up  for  work  in  cowboy  boots  and  a  black
vest with a hunka tin on it and a lariat slung over his
shoulder.
  "So I says: 'What's with you? You wig already?'
  "He just looks at me and says: 'Fill your hand stran-
ger' and hauls out an old rusty six shooter and I take off
across Lincoln Park, bullets cutting all around me. And
he hangs three fags before the fuzz nail him. I mean
the Vigilante earned his moniker....
  "Ever notice how many expressions carry over from
queers to con men? Like 'raise,' letting someone know
you are in the same line?
  " 'Get her!'
  " 'Get the Paregoric Kid giving that mark the build
up!'
  " 'Eager Beaver wooing him much too fast.'
  "The Shoe Store Kid (he got that moniker shaking
down fetishists in shoe stores) say: 'Give it to a mark
with K.Y. and he will come back moaning for more.'
And when the Kid spots a mark he begin to breathe
heavy. His face swells and his lips turn purple like an
Eskimo in heat. Then slow, slow he comes on the mark,
feeling for him, palpating him with fingers of rotten
ectoplasm.

  "The ъube  has a  sincere little  boy look,  burns through
him  like  blue  neon. That  one stepped  right off  a Sator-
day  Evening  Post  cover  with a  string of  bullheads, and
preserved  himself  in junk.  His marks  never beef  and the
Bunko  people  are really  carrying a  needle for  the ъube.
One  day Little  Boy Blue  starts to  slip, and  what crawls
out   would   make   an   ambulance   attendant   puke.  The
ъube  8flips  in  the  end,   running  through   empty  automats
and   subway   stations,   screaming:   'Come    back,   kid!!
Come  back!l'  and  follows  his  boy  right  into   the  East
ъiver,  down   through  condoms   and  orange   peels,  mosaic
of  floating  newspapers,  down  into  the  silent  black  ooze
with  gangsters  in  concrete,  and  pistols  pounded  Hat  to
avoid the probing finger of prurient ballistic experts."
  And  the  fruit  is  thinking:  "What  a   character!!  Wait
till I tell the boys in Clark's about this one." He's  a char-
acter  collector, would  stand still  for Joe  Gould's seagull
act.  So I  put it  on him  for a  sawski and  make a  meet to
sell him some  "pod" as  he calls  it, thinking,  "I'll catnip
the  jerk."  ( Note:  Catnip  smells  like  marijuana  when it
burns.   Frequently   passed  on   the  incautious   or  unin-
structed. )
  "Well,"  I  said,  tapping  my  arm,  "duty  calls.  As  one
judge said  to another:  'Be just  and if  you can't  be just,
be arbitrary.' "
  I  cut  into  the automat  and there  is Bill  Gains huddled
in  someone  else's  overcoat  looking  like  a   1910  banker
with  paresis,  and  Old   Bart,  shabby   and  inconspicuous,
dunking  pound  cake  with  his   dirty  fingers,   shiny  over
the dirt.
  I  had  some  uptown  customers  Bill  took  care   of,  and
Bart  knew  a  few   old  relics   from  hop   smoking  times,
spectral  janitors,  grey  as  ashes,  phantom  porters sweep-
ing  out  dusty  halls  with  a  slow  old man's  hand, cough-
ing  and  spitting  in the  junk-sick dawn,  retired asthmatic
fences   in   theatrical   hotels,   Pantopon  ъose   the  old
madam  from  Peoria,  stoical   Chinese  waiters   never  show
sickness.  Bart  sought  them  out  with  his old  junky walk,
patient and cautious and slow, dropped into  their blood-
less hands a few hours of warmth.
  I  made the  round with  him once  for kicks.  You know
how  old  people  lose  all  shame  about eating,  and it
makes  you  puke  to  watch  them?  Old  junkies  are the
same about junk. They gibber and squeal  at sight  of it.
The spit hangs off their chin, and their  stomach rumbles
and all their guts grind in  peristalsis while  they cook
up,  dissolving the  body's decent  skin, you  expect any
moment  a  great blob  of protoplasm  will Hop  right out
and surround the junk. ъeally disgust you to see it.
  "Well, my boys will be  like that  one day,"  I thought
philosophically. "Isn't life peculiar?"
  So  back  downtown  by  the  Sheridan   Square  Station
in case the dick is lurking in a broom closet.
  Like I say it couldn't last. I knew they were out there
powowing  and  making  their  evil  fuzz  magic,  putting
dolls of me in Leavenworth. "No  use sticking  needles in
that one, Mike."
  I hear they  got Chapin  with a  doll. This  old eunuch
dick just sat in the precinct basement hanging a  doll of
him  day and  night, year  in year  out. And  when Chapin
hanged in Connecticut, they find this old creep  with his
neck broken.
  "He fell downstairs," they  say. You  know the  old cop
bullshit.
  Junk  is  surrounded  by magic  and taboos,  curses and
amulets.  I  could  find  my  Mexico  City  connection  by
radar. "Not this street, the next, right... now left. Now
right again," and there he is,  toothless old  woman face
and cancelled eyes.
  I   know  this   one  pusher   walks  around   humming  a
tune and everybody he  passes takes  it up.  He is  so grey
and  spectral  and  anonymous  they   don't  see   him  and
think  it  is  their  own  mind  humming  the tune.  So the
customers  come  in  on Smiles,  or I'm  in the  1Mood for
Love,  or  They  Say  We're  Too  Young  to  Go  Steady, or
whatever the song  is for  that day.  Sometime you  can see
maybe  fifty ratty-looking  junkies squealing  sick, running
along  behind  a  boy with  a harmonica,  and there  is The
Man  on  a cane  seat throwing  bread to  the swans,  a fat
queen  drag  walking  his  Afghan  hound  through  the East
Fifties, an old wino pissing against an El post,  a radical
Jewish student  giving out  leaflets in  Washington Square,
a tree surgeon,  an exterminator,  an advertising  fruit in
Nedick's  where  he  calls  the  counterman  by  his  first
name.  The  world  network  of  junkies,  tuned  on  a cord
of rancid jissom,  tying up  in furnished  rooms, shivering
in  the  junk-sick morning.  (Old Pete  men suck  the black
smoke  in  the  Chink  laundry  back  room  and  Melancholy
Baby dies from  an overdose  of time  or cold  turkey with-
drawal  of  breath.)  In  Yemen,  Paris, New  Orleans, Mex-
ico City  and Istanbul  -- shivering  under the  air hammers
and  the  steam  shovels,  shrieked  junky  curses  at  one
another  neither  of  us  heard,  and  The  Man  leaned out
of a passing steam roller and I coped in  a bucket  of tar.
(Note:  Istanbul  is  being  torn  down and  rebuilt, espe-
cially  shabby  junk  quarters.  Istanbul  has  more heroin
junkies  than  NYC.  ) The  living and  the dead,  in sick-
ness  or  on  the nod,  hooked or  kicked or  hooked again,
come  in  on  the junk  beam and  the Connection  is eating
Chop  Suey   on  Dolores   Street,  Mexico   D.F.,  dunking
pound  cake  in  the  automat,  chased  up  Exchange  Place
by  a  baying  pack  of  People.  (  Note:  People  is  New
Orleans slang for narcotic fuzz. )
  The  old  Chinaman  dips  river  water  into a  rusty tin
can, washes  down a  yen pox  hard and  black as  a cinder.
( Note: Yen pox is the ash of smoked opium. )
  Well,  the  fuzz  has my  spoon and  dropper, and  I know
they  are  coming  in  on  my frequency  led by  this blind
pigeon  known  as  Willy  the  Disk.  Willy  has  a  round,
disk mouth lined with sensitive,  erectile black  hairs. He
is blind from shooting in the eyeball, his nose  and palate
eaten  away  sniffing  H,  his  body a  mass of  scar tissue
hard  and  dry  as  wood.  He  can  only  eat the  shit now
with  that  mouth,  sometimes  sways  out  on  a  long tube
of  ectoplasm, feeling  for the  silent frequency  of junk.
He follows my trail  all over  the city  into rooms  I move
out  already,  and  the  fuzz   walks  in   some  newlyweds
from Sioux Falls.
  "All right, Lee! I  Come out  from behind  that strap-on!
We  know  you"  and  pull  the  man's  prick  off straight-
away.
  Now  Willy is  getting hot  and you  can hear  him always
out  there  in  darkness  (he  only  functions   at  night)
whimpering, and feel  the terrible  urgency of  that blind,
seeking  mouth.  When  they  move  in  for the  bust, Willy
goes all out of control, and  his mouth  eats a  hole right
through the  door. If  the cops  weren't there  to restrain
him  with  a  stock probe,  he would  suck the  juice right
out of every junky he ran down.
  I  knew,  and  everybody  else  knew  they  had  the Disk
on me.  And if  my kid  customers ever  hit the  stand: "He
force me to commit all kinda awful sex  acts in  return for
junk" I could kiss the street good-bye.
  So  we  stock  up  on H,  buy a  second-hand Studebaker,
and start West.

  The Vigilante copped out as a schizo possession case:
  "I  was  standing  outside myself  trying to  stop those
hangings  with  ghost  fingers....  I  am  a  ghost wanting
what every  ghost wants  -- a  body --  after the  Long Time
moving  through  odorless  alleys of  space where  no life
is only  the colorless  no smell  of death....  Nobody can
breathe and smell it through pink convolutions  of gristle
laced with crystal snot, time shit and black blood filters
of flesh."
  He  stood  there  in  elongated  court room  shadow, his
face  torn  like  a broken  film by  lusts and  hungers of
larval organs stirring in the tentative  ectoplasmic flesh
of junk kick ( ten days on ice at time of the  First Hear-
ing) flesh that fades at the first silent touch of junk.
  I saw it happen. Ten pounds lost  in ten  minutes stand-
ing  with the  syringe in  one hand  holding his  pants up
with  the  other,  his  abdicated flesh  burning in  a cold
yellow  halo,  there  in  the   New  York   hotel  room...
night table litter of candy  boxes, cigarette  butts cas-
cading out of three ashtrays,  mosaic of  sleepless nights
and sudden food needs  of the  kicking addict  nursing his
baby flesh....
  The  Vigilante  is  prosecuted  in  Federal  Court under
a lynch  bill and  winds up  in a  Federal Nut  House spe-
cially designed  for the  containment of  ghosts: precise,
prosaic   impact   of   objects...   washstand...  door...
toilet...  bars...  there  they are...  this is  it... all
lines  cut...  nothing  beyond...  Dead  End...   And  the
Dead End in every face....
  The  physical  changes  were slow  at first,  then jumped
forward in black chunks, falling  through his  slack tissue,
washing  away  the human  lines.... In  his place  of total
darkness  mouth  and  eyes  are one  organ that  leaps for-
ward  to  snap  with  transparent  teeth...  but  no  organ
is constant as regards either  function or  position... sex
organs  sprout  anywhere...  rectums  open,   defecate  and
close...  the  entire  organism  changes  color   and  con-
sistency in split-second adjustments....

  The ъube is  a social  liability with  his attacks  as he
calls  them.  The  Mark  Inside  was   coming  up   on  him
and  that's  a rumble  nobody can  cool; outside  Philly he
jumps  out  to  con  a  prowl  car and  the fuzz  takes one
look at his face and bust all of us.
  Seventy-two  hours  and  five  sick  junkies in  the cell
with us. Now not  wishing to  break out  my stash  in front
of these hungry  coolies, it  takes maneuvering  and laying
of gold on the turnkey before we are in a separate cell.
  Provident  junkies,  known  as  squirrels,  keep  stashes
against a bust. Every time I take a shot I let a  few drops
fall into my vest pocket, the lining is stiff with stuff. I
had a plastic  dropper in  my shoe  and a  safety-pin stuck
in  my  belt.  You know  how this  pin and  dropper routine
is  put down:  "She seized  a safety  pin caked  with blood
and  rust,  gouged  a great  hole in  her leg  which seemed
to  hang  open  like  an  obscene, festering  mouth waiting
for  unspeakable  congress  with  the  dropper   which  she
now  plunged  out  of  sight  into  the  gaping  wound. But
her  hideous  galvanized  need  (hunger  of insects  in dry
places)  has broken  the dropper  off deep  in the  flesh of
her ravaged  thigh (looking  rather like  a poster  on soil
erosion).  But  what  does  she  care?  She does  not even
bother  to remove  the splintered  glass, looking  down at
her  bloody  haunch  with the  cold blank  eyes of  a meat
trader.  What does  she care  for the  atom bomb,  the bed
bugs,  the cancer  rent, Friendly  Finance waiting  to re-
possess  her  delinquent  flesh....  Sweet  dreams,  Panto-
pon ъose."
  The  real scene  you pinch  up some  leg flesh  and make
a quick stab hole with a pin. Then  fit the  dropper over,
not in the  hole and  feed the  solution slow  and careful
so  it  doesn't squirt  out the  sides.... When  I grabbed
the  ъube's thigh  the flesh  came up  like wax  and stayed
there, and  a slow  drop of  pus oozed  out the  hole. And
I never touched a living body  cold as  the ъube  there in
Philly....
  I decided to lop him off  if it  meant a  smother party.
(This  is  a  rural English  custom designed  to eliminate
aged  and  bedfast  dependents.   A  family   so  afflicted
throws  a  "smother  party"  where  the  guests  pile mat-
tresses on the old liability, climb up on top of  the mat-
resses and lush themselves out. )  The ъube  is a  drag on
the industry and should be led out into  the skid  rows of
the world. (This  is an  African practice.  Official known
as  the  "Leader  Out"  has  the  function  of  taking old
characters out into the jungle and leaving them there. )
  The  ъube's  attacks   become  an   habitual  condition.
Cops, doormen,  dogs, secretaries  snarl at  his approach.
The  blond  God  has fallen  to untouchable  vileness. Con
men  don't  change,  they break,  shatter --  explosions of
matter in cold  interstellar space,  drift away  in cosmic
dust,  leave  the  empty  body  behind.  Hustlers  of  the
world,  there  is  one  Mark  you  cannot  beat:   The  Mark
Inside....
  I  left the  ъube standing  on a  corner, red  brick slums
to the sky, under a steady rain of soot. "Going to  hit this
croaker  I  know.  ъight  back  with  that  good  pure drug-
store  M....  No,  you  wait  here  --  don't  want   him  to
rumble  you."  No  matter  how  long,  ъube,  wait   for  me
right  on  that  corner.  Goodbye,  ъube,   goodbye  kid....
Where  do  they  go  when  they  walk  out  and   leave  the
body behind?
  Chicago:   invisible   hierarchy  of   decorated  wops,
smell   of  atrophied   gangsters,  earthbound   ghost  hits
you  at  North  and  Halstead,  Cicero,  Lincoln  Park, pan-
handler  of  dreams,  past  invading  the   present,  rancid
magic of slot machines and roadhouses.
  Into the Interior: a vast  subdivision, antennae  of tele-
vision  to  the  meaningless sky.  In lifeproof  houses they
hover over  the young,  sop up  a little  of what  they shut
out.  Only the  young bring  anything in,  and they  are not
young  very  long.  (Through  the  bars  of  East  St. Louis
lies the dead frontier, riverboat  days.) Illinois  and Mis-
souri,   miasma   of   mound-building   peoples,   groveling
worship  of  the  Food  Source,  cruel  and  ugly festivals,
dead-end   horror   of  the   Centipede  God   reaches  from
Moundville to the lunar deserts of coastal Peru.
  America  is  not a  young land:  it is  old and  dirty and
evil before the settlers,  before the  Indians. The  evil is
there waiting.
  And  always  cops:  smooth  college-trained   state  cops,
practiced,  apologetic  patter,  electronic eyes  weigh your
car  and  luggage,  clothes  and  face;  snarling  big  city
dicks,  soft-spoken  country  sheriffs with  something black
and  menacing  in  old  eyes  color of  a faded  grey flannel
shirt....
  And  always  car  trouble:  in St.  Louis traded  the 1942
Studebaker  in  (it  has  a  built-in  engineering  Haw like
the  ъube)  on  an  old  Packard  limousine  heated  up  and
barely  made  Kansas   City,  and   bought  a   Ford  turned
out to be an  oil burner,  packed it  in on  a jeep  we push
too  hard  (they  are  no  good for  highway driving)  -- and
burn  something  out  inside,  rattling  around,  went  back
to  the old  Ford V-8.  Can't beat  that engine  for getting
there, oil burner or no.
  And  the U.S.  drag closes  around us  like no  other drag
in  the  world,   worse  than   the  Andes,   high  mountain
towns,  cold  wind  down   from  postcard   mountains,  thin
air like death in the  throat, river  towns of  Ecuador, ma-
laria  grey  as  junk  under  black Stetson,  muzzle loading
shotguns,  vultures  pecking  through  the  mud   streets  --
and  what  hits  you  when you  get off  the Malmo  Ferry in
(no  juice  tax  on  the  ferry)  Sweden  knocks   all  that
cheap, tax free juice right out  of you  and brings  you all
the  way  down: