the Mailman found himself with a gut-gnawing yen for more. Langer wisecracked about getting his health back on a “juice and herbs” diet—booze and grass—but it was no joke to the Mailman. So far, he’d been able to maintain appearances. But he was regularly showing up for work stoned, and he knew he’d fuck something up sooner or later. Even worse, he was already spending his pension check every month on drugs. He had a few thousand dollars remaining in what he referred to as his “retirement fund,” but he knew how long that would last once he started tapping it. Then there’d be nothing left but auto theft, B and E, and who knew what forms of degradation.
Lying there in his sweaty puddle of anguish and need, he realized a couple of other things. He realized that he had to get some smack, and he realized that if he did his life would be over. The cancer hadn’t killed him, but it had opened a door. He’d gone in, and it had been the wrong door. He’d gotten locked in a room where there was nothing but the drugs. He’d been fighting that realization for years; suddenly, this particular morning, the battle seemed over.
The old Turk’s load was whispering in his ear, all the way from Manhattan. But the Mailman still had his pride, and he had the powerful negative example of Langer with which to resist its blandishments. He was damned if he’d turn into a fucking junkie.
He decided to kill himself.
An overdose would be the simplest way but—no surprise, actually—he discovered on consulting his meds that he had only three Demerols left. He lit out for Dr. Paulson’s, found him in, wrote a desperate note testifying to the intensity of his pain and his fears that the cancer had returned, received a prescription as expected, and, once he was back in his car and secure in the knowledge that more awaited, crushed his last three pills and dumped the acrid powder onto his tongue. He was walking out of the pharmacy with a new bottle when they hit, more like a hum than a buzz.
He sat in his car in the parking lot and thought about taking the pills down to Stage Fort Park and making himself comfortable under a tree with a bottle of wine at the edge of Half Moon Beach—looking across the harbor at that lovely view of the city— and grinding them up into the wine. He was sure he could get them all down before he passed out. Then it occurred to him that he might get discovered. What if they hauled his sorry-ass wannabe corpse to the emergency room in time to save him? The only sure way would be to lock himself in his apartment. Nobody would
58 GREGORY GIBSON
miss him. Nobody would find him till the stench tipped them off. But the thought of fouling his apartment in that manner disgusted him—sometimes the simplest things got so fucking complicated. Ilda would smell him and she’d be stuck with discovering him.The thought of Ilda brought on an unexpected recollection.
When he’d first moved into his basement the backyard had been a trash-strewn mess. Over the years, working a little at a time, he’d made it into a clear grassy area with a modest garden of tomato plants, squash, and greens. He wasn’t an avid gardener, had no interest in flowers, but the rhythms of turning the soil in the spring and watering each evening comforted him. Besides, he really liked tomatoes. After several years Mr. Menezes, up on the second floor, erected a clothesline out there for his wife who, after several more years, became sufficiently unafraid of the Mailman to hang her wash out while he was in the yard reading the newspaper in his rusty lawn chair. She’d finish, pat her hands into her apron, and stand with him in the sun for a few minutes, smiling silently, since she spoke no English. When he lost his voice they were even.
After his operation the only one who could get a sound out of him was Ilda, the Menezes’ daughter, who’d been born about the time of the clothesline, and probably had been the cause of its erection.
Lying there in his sweaty puddle of anguish and need, he realized a couple of other things. He realized that he had to get some smack, and he realized that if he did his life would be over. The cancer hadn’t killed him, but it had opened a door. He’d gone in, and it had been the wrong door. He’d gotten locked in a room where there was nothing but the drugs. He’d been fighting that realization for years; suddenly, this particular morning, the battle seemed over.
The old Turk’s load was whispering in his ear, all the way from Manhattan. But the Mailman still had his pride, and he had the powerful negative example of Langer with which to resist its blandishments. He was damned if he’d turn into a fucking junkie.
He decided to kill himself.
An overdose would be the simplest way but—no surprise, actually—he discovered on consulting his meds that he had only three Demerols left. He lit out for Dr. Paulson’s, found him in, wrote a desperate note testifying to the intensity of his pain and his fears that the cancer had returned, received a prescription as expected, and, once he was back in his car and secure in the knowledge that more awaited, crushed his last three pills and dumped the acrid powder onto his tongue. He was walking out of the pharmacy with a new bottle when they hit, more like a hum than a buzz.
He sat in his car in the parking lot and thought about taking the pills down to Stage Fort Park and making himself comfortable under a tree with a bottle of wine at the edge of Half Moon Beach—looking across the harbor at that lovely view of the city— and grinding them up into the wine. He was sure he could get them all down before he passed out. Then it occurred to him that he might get discovered. What if they hauled his sorry-ass wannabe corpse to the emergency room in time to save him? The only sure way would be to lock himself in his apartment. Nobody would
58 GREGORY GIBSON
miss him. Nobody would find him till the stench tipped them off. But the thought of fouling his apartment in that manner disgusted him—sometimes the simplest things got so fucking complicated. Ilda would smell him and she’d be stuck with discovering him.The thought of Ilda brought on an unexpected recollection.
When he’d first moved into his basement the backyard had been a trash-strewn mess. Over the years, working a little at a time, he’d made it into a clear grassy area with a modest garden of tomato plants, squash, and greens. He wasn’t an avid gardener, had no interest in flowers, but the rhythms of turning the soil in the spring and watering each evening comforted him. Besides, he really liked tomatoes. After several years Mr. Menezes, up on the second floor, erected a clothesline out there for his wife who, after several more years, became sufficiently unafraid of the Mailman to hang her wash out while he was in the yard reading the newspaper in his rusty lawn chair. She’d finish, pat her hands into her apron, and stand with him in the sun for a few minutes, smiling silently, since she spoke no English. When he lost his voice they were even.
After his operation the only one who could get a sound out of him was Ilda, the Menezes’ daughter, who’d been born about the time of the clothesline, and probably had been the cause of its erection.
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