Junky by William S. Burroughs

a good fucking mooch. Let’s see where he goes.”
    The mooch got on the IRT headed for Brooklyn. We waited standing up in the space between cars until the mooch appeared to be sleeping. Then we walked into the car, and I sat down beside the mooch, opening The New York Times . The Times was Roy’s idea. He said it made me look like a businessman. The car was almost empty, and there we were wedged up against the mooch with twenty feet of empty seats available. Roy began working over my back. The mooch kept stirring and once he woke up and looked at me with bleary annoyance. A Negro sitting opposite us smiled.
    â€œThe shine is wise,” said Roy in my ear. “He’s O.K.”
    Roy was having trouble finding the poke. The situation was getting dangerous. I could feel sweat running down my arms.
    â€œLet’s get off,” I said.
    â€œNo. This is a good mooch. He’s sitting on his overcoat and I can’t get into his pocket. When I tell you, fall up against him, and I’ll move the coat at the same time. . . . Now! . . . For Chris’ sake! That wasn’t near hard enough.”
    â€œLet’s get off,” I said again. I could feel the fear stirring in my stomach. “He’s going to wake up.”
    â€œNo. Let’s go again . . . Now! . . . What in hell is wrong with you? Just let yourself flop against him hard.”
    â€œRoy,” I said. “For Chris’ sake let’s get off! He’s going to wake up.”
    I started to get up, but Roy held me down. Suddenly he gave me a sharp push, and I fell heavily against the mooch.
    â€œGot it that time,” Roy said.
    â€œThe poke?”
    â€œNo, I got the coat out of the way.”
    We were out of the underground now and on the elevated. I was nauseated with fear, every muscle rigid with the effort of control. The mooch was only half asleep. I expected him to jump up and yell at any minute.
    Finally I heard Roy say, “I got it.”
    â€œLet’s go then.”
    â€œNo, what I got is a loose roll. He’s got a poke somewhere and I’m going to find it. He’s got to have a poke.”
    â€œI’m getting off.”
    â€œNo. Wait.” I could feel him fumbling across my back so openly it seemed incredible that the man could go on sleeping.
    It was the end of the line. Roy stood up. “Cover me,” he said. I stood in front of him with the paper shielding him as much as possible from the other passengers. There were only three left, but they were in different ends of the car. Roy went through the man’s pockets openly and crudely. “Let’s go outside,” he said. We went out onto the platform.
    The mooch woke up and put his hand in his pocket. Then he came out onto the platform and walked up to Roy.
    â€œAll right, Jack,” he said. “Give me my money.”
    Roy shrugged and turned his hands out, palm up. “What ­money? What are you talking about?”
    â€œYou know Goddamned well what I’m talking about! You had your hand in my pocket.”
    Roy held his hands out again in a gesture of puzzlement and deprecation. “Aw, what are you talking about? I don’t know anything about your money.”
    â€œI’ve seen you on this line every night. This is your regular route.” He turned and pointed to me. “And there’s your partner right there. Now, are you going to give me my dough?”
    â€œWhat dough?”
    â€œOkay. Just stay put. We’re taking a ride back to town and this had better be good.” Suddenly, the man put both hands in Roy’s coat pockets. “You sonofabitch!” he yelled. “Give me my dough!”
    Roy hit him in the face and knocked him down. “Why you—” said Roy, dropping abruptly his conciliatory and puzzled manner. “Keep your hands off me!”
    The conductor, seeing a fight in progress, was holding up the train so that no one would fall on the