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24. On the Road
24. On the Road
In San Joaquin Valley they stop for coffee and Ali notices a darkly handsome, maybe 18-year-old young man in checked rayon open-neck shirt tucked into Levi pants, doing a pumping motion of right forearm with his fist and pointing thumb - the “I wanna a hitch a car ride” sign.
“Shall we give him a ride, Kim? He looks interesting.”
“By all means! Just the young man to give me an idea about future America
They stop and Kimura gets out for a moment so the young man can get in the rear seat. His name is Jack Duluoz and, as it comes out, he ran away from home rather than go to university as his father forcibly wanted him to and now he is traveling around thinking of joining the Merchant Marine.
He lights a cigarette. “Sure, dem Mex dames is hot stuff. Mexicali Barstow
“What do you think of life in USA
“Boresville! Never seen so many damn hippo bottom asses.”
“Hippopotamuses!” exclaims Ali from driver seat. “An’t they all in the zoo here?”
“Fat hypocrites! Where I grew up most of ‘em are low-class frogs – y’know wit’ French names like mine. Dey eat like starvin’ hippos. By 40, dey are fat, married and lots a kids; and of kulchur dair is nuttin’ fum nuttin’. A wasteland, man! Hippo bottom asses, I call ‘em. My pa caught me smokin’ when I wuz 15 and whupped my ass like as he’d kill me. But he drinks every night and comes home and beats my ma. So here I am.”
“What is it like, on the road?”
“Not bad. Interestin’ people pick me up, mostly colored people. I guess dey got such a raw deal dey feel sorry for hitchers.”
“What do you want to do after hitchin’?”
“Wanna do like Hemin’way do in dem Nick Adams on da road stories. I read his Big Two-Hearted River five times. Nick Adams reminds me a me. I wanna tell how we young guys t’ink. Well, I dunno if’ll evuh.” He lapses into silence, and Ali and Kimura respect it.
It is and sky still light as he gets out near Barstow
25. Mojave Mansion
Turning left, Ali drives into the city of Barstow Mojave Mansions
They buy french fries and Pepsi’s in the lobby. In their room Ali locks the door and runs about pulling upper windows half open, drawing down shades and switching on the door-top fan. Then she flings off her clothes and leaps on top of her bed’s purple cover. Kimura keeps his blue boxer shorts and sits sedately in chair by bed on Ali’s left.
“Kim, I wanna do morphine!”
“Morphine? Where do you get it?”
“Uncle Guy. When prostate cancer was wearin' him away, he did what you call creative dyin'. His endgame was to find morphine. Dyin' of cancer and also bein' a Harvard Professor he had no trouble gettin' it.”
Ali, lying face forward fixes Kimura with her serious look. “Hon, I gave dis seminar at Hahva'd as 17-year-old. Even docs dunno about morphine and other opiates so lemme give useful facts.”
“Go on with your lecture.”
As she talks, Ali, at times, switches to her bizarre Bronx speech, as is her habit when excited and happy. “When it comes to morphine, we live in un-benign nineteen toity-nine, which for hysterical historical reason has almost outlawed it from even a doc’s use. Yuh can’t get it unless dyin’ a cancer. Most boobs t’ink it ‘Drug!’ like marijuana, coke, amphet and da barbs. Morphine is da active chemical in opium, and opiates act by changin' into it. All opiates release it into blood after bein' eaten or injected.”
Ali grabs a Pepsi cola bottle from tray and takes a drink then passes it to Kimura. “One t’ing more, Hon. Da dose a morphine for pain is higher den what Uncle Guy found brings out one’s intellectual edge.”
“How do you get your morphine now your uncle is dead?”
“My wunnerful Unc, bless his atheist un-immortal memory, once his experiments were over, decided da morphine could be used by we brilliant kids to help us stay sane ‘stead a raisin’ Cain in dis frustratin’ aggravatin’ worl’. Obviously dyin’ as Unc was, he had no trouble convincin’ docs to scrip as much as dey could. His creative thing was that once he’d finished experimentin', he didn’t use any of da morphine for hisself. So now I got his big leftover supply an’ is it superb on trips! But you don’ have to do it wit' me, Hon.”
“Ali my dear, whither you go, me too.” Kimura, for literary reason, does not like to quote famous lines accurately. “But are you versed in injecting?”
“You bet, Hon.” She goes to her luggage and gets out an aluminum case a little larger than his cigarette case, opens it, and he sees two small hypodermic glass syringes, needles for attaching to the syringe tip, alcohol cotton wipes, and band-aids. “Watch me, Hon. ‘s’easy as kissin’ off m’sweetie pie.” She lays the case on a clean white towel near edge of bed, goes to washstand and washes hands. “I know what’s in here but I always read labels: Morphine sulfate, 30 ml multi-dose vial 10 mg/ml expiration 1 March 1942 , do not refrigerate. Now I put a dose in syringe. Three mg – em-gee works perfeck fer me, see! I never go higher. And since I don’ use da stuff every day, I don’ develop tolerance.”
“Tolerance?”
“Tolerance is that each time you continue using a drug, you need more drug for same effect. Now watch! First I do alcohol wipe. Then do same for needle. And note da half-inch needle length. It’s to be sure of a sub-Q jab. Yeah, a jab! It’s m’word for shot. No big deal if it goes into da muscle, but sub-Q is betta: the uptake into one’s blood is smooda and you get a betta peak effect.”
“Sub-Q?”
“Oh, ‘scuse m’jargon: Subcutaneous jab into the fat beneath skin.” She connects needle to syringe and from vial she pulls her dose into syringe then repeats with second syringe for Kimura and places the syringes on a towel on bed's edge so that the needles are suspended in air. Satisfied she sits down and says “OK, Kim, we’re red fer Fred. Y’know Fred? M’nickname fer loverly MS,” she enunciates it: “em-ess, ‘at’s m’jargon for morphine sulfate, da chemical name for dis just too marvelous for words morfine.”
“So what do I do now?”
“Nuthin’ Hon; just listen t’me, t' yo baby. I call an outing wit’ MS ‘ a session’; others call it ‘a trip’. But trip sounds like you leavin’ for some place. I wanna stay right here with my buby-baby. At’s you, Hon! Callin’ it a session is best ‘cause with 3 mg, your mind really alerts and you t’ink lotsa intellectual stuff wit’ more effect and longer.”
“Intellectual stuff?”
“Yeah, intellectual stuff! Morphine is superb for dat and folks from Mr De Quincey on down noticed opium makes for great reading.”
“Sounds interesting,”
Ali leans toward him and kisses him on lips. “Shut yo yap gap, Jap! And get jabbed! Now I want you for me’ums. I wanna use your brilliance so start gearin’ up. Get ready to discourse, Boss!”
“Discourse? Hmm. It does not sound like much fun.”
“Don’ worry ‘bout fun, Hon!” Ali is already high in anticipation of her jab. “We’ll do lotsa funnin’ after you finish discoursin’.” She smiles wickedly. “Notice we got frenchie fries but we an’t eaten any yet. In your case it’s cuz you’re good mannered but in my case, another reason. Eatin’ before dosin’ wit' morphine ruins a session. Chemical in food partly neutralizes da morf. So for best session we take the jab hungry but the Pepsi’s ok cuz its got a little caffeine.” Ali points. “See da clock on wall. Five mins to nine! C’mere, Hon, and lie down ‘side me but be careful not to jostle the syringes on the towel.”
He goes to the bed and lies face-up on the soft, flagrantly fragrant purple cover. Ali sits on left. She rubs antiseptic over his left outer arm skin and on hers while patiently watching clock’s second hand move on the twelve-mark for 9 PM.
“Why the on-the-hour timing?”
“A lot a fun from da jab comes fum timin’ the effect of da dope on da brain, you dope! I mean like what does it feel like just after? At one minute, two minutes …? So we synchronize da jab wit’ second hand on a big visible time piece. Oops, ten seconds to go! Got carried away wit' my elegance.” She grabs the prepared syringe and jabs its needle into his left arm a little below shoulder, injecting quickly; then pressing a cotton swab on the skin injection site. “Hold it tight, Hon! Even a small loss from leaking back along the needle track makes a definite difference in Dolly.” She jabs the other syringe needle through the skin of her left arm, pushing down plunger with her thumb, and lies down beside him as the clock’s secondhand passes the big 12 o’clock.
Kimura decides to use an Ali quip. “I suppose now we just relax and watch the blinking lights?”
Ali giggles and squirms into a cuddly position facing Kimura. “Be sure you spell it "Blynken", Hon! Like in Wynken, Blynken and Nod."
To read next chapter, click 2.26 One-Million Hours Life
To read next chapter, click 2.26 One-Million Hours Life
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