Free Junky by William S. Burroughs

Doolie episode, I was coming out of the subway at Washington Square when a thin, blond kid walked up to me. “Bill,” he said, “I guess you don’t know who I am. I’ve been scoring off you through Nick and I’m tired of having him steal the head off all my caps. Can’t you take care of me directly?”
    I thought, What the hell? After Gene Doolie, why get particular? “O.K., kid,” I said. “How many do you want?”
    He gave me four dollars.
    â€œLet’s take a walk,” I said, and started towards Sixth Avenue. I had two caps in my hand and waited for one of the empty spaces you run into in a city. “Get ready to cop,” I said, and dropped the caps into his hands. I made a meet with him for the next day in the Washington Square Bickford’s.
    This blond kid’s name was Chris. I heard from Nick that his folks had money and that he lived on an allowance from home. When I met him the next day in Bickford’s, he immediately began to give me the let-me-warn-you-about-Nick routine. “Nick is followed all the time now. You know yourself when a guy is yenning, he doesn’t look behind him. He’s running. So you see who you picked out to give your address and phone number to.”
    â€œI know all about that,” I said.
    Chris pretended to be hurt. “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing. Now listen, this is not a routine. I’m positively getting a check from my aunt this afternoon. Look at this.”
    He pulled a telegram from his pocket. I glanced at it. There was some vague reference to a check. He went on explaining about the check. As he talked, he kept putting his hand on my arm and gazing earnestly into my face. I felt I could not stand any more of this sweet con. To cut him short, I handed him one cap before he could put it on me for two or three.
    Next day he showed up with a dollar-eighty. He didn’t say anything about the check. And so it went. He came up short, or not at all. He was always about to get money from his aunt, or mother-in-law, or somebody. These stories he documented with letters and telegrams. He got to be almost as much of a drag as Gene Doolie.
    Another prize customer was Marvin, part-time waiter in a Village nightclub. He was always unshaved and dirty-looking. He had only one shirt, which he washed every week or so and dried out on the radiator. The final touch was that he wore no socks. I used to deliver stuff to his room, a dirty, furnished room in a red brick house on Jane Street. I figured it was better to deliver to his place than to meet him anywhere else.
    Some people are allergic to junk. One time I delivered a cap to Marvin and he took a shot. I was looking out the window—it is nerve-racking to watch someone probe for a vein—and when I turned around I noticed his dropper was full of blood. He had passed out and the blood had run back into the dropper. I called to Nick and he pulled the needle out and slapped Marvin with a wet towel. He came around partly and muttered something.
    â€œI guess he’s O.K.,” I said. “Let’s cut.”
    He looked like a corpse slumped there on the dirty, unmade bed, his limp arm stretched out, a drop of blood slowly gathering at the elbow.
    As we walked downstairs, Nick told me that Marvin had been after him for my address.
    â€œListen,” I said, “if you give it to him, you can find yourself a new connection. One thing I don’t need is somebody dying in my apartment.”
    Nick looked hurt. “Of course I won’t give him your address.”
    â€œWhat about Doolie?”
    â€œI don’t know how he got the address. I swear I don’t.”
    â€¢
    Along with these bums, I picked up a couple of good customers. One day, I ran into Bert, a character I knew from the Angle Bar. Bert was known as a muscle man. He was a heavy-set, round-faced, deceptively soft-looking young man who specialized in strong-arm