A Million Little Pieces - James Frey [41]
I grab a tray and I ask the woman working behind the Glass Counter for eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast. She doesn’t give me enough, so I ask for more. She gives me another helping, but it’s still not enough. I ask again. She says no, the plate won’t hold anything else.
I grab a stack of napkins and some silverware and I find an empty table and I tuck the napkins into the front of Warren’s shirt and I sit down and I get a bottle of syrup and I cover the eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast with the syrup and I start devouring the food. I don’t look at what it is and I don’t taste it and I don’t care what it is or what it tastes like. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have something and I’m going to take as much as I can as fast as I can. Get something. Fill me.
I finish the plate. My face and my fingers and the napkins protecting Warren’s shirt are covered with eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and French toast and syrup. I lick my fingers and I wipe my face and I pull the napkins out of the shirt and I ball them up and I drop them on my tray and I lick my fingers again. I want more, but for the moment, my needs have been met. I lean back in my chair and I look around me. Men and women are streaming through the Glass Corridor. They bump into one another, exchange glances, share the same space, but they do not speak. There is obvious tension.
The women’s area is nearly filled. Some of the women have showered and made themselves up, some of them have not, and they have divided themselves up according to Socioeconomic Class. The rich sit with the rich, the middle with the middle, the poor with the poor. There are more rich than middle, more middle than poor. The rich women talk and laugh and hardly touch their food and they behave as if they are on some sort of vacation. The middle women are less animated, but they also look as if they’re enjoying themselves. The poor women are not made up at all and they hardly talk. They concentrate on their food, as if these are the best meals they have seen and the best meals they are going to see.
Although my table is empty, most of the tables in the men’s area are filled. The divisions among the men are not made by class, but by drug of choice. Drunks sit together, Cokeheads sit together, Crackheads sit together, Junkies sit together, Pillpoppers sit together. Within each of these groups, there are two other divisions. One group is made up of the Hardcore. They are the heaviest users and the truly fucked up. The other group is made up of the Wussies. They are the functional and the potentially saved. The Hardcore make fun of the Wussies and tell them they don’t belong here. The Wussies don’t respond with words, but with looks that say thank God I’m not one of you. Ed and Ted and John sit among the Hardcore, Roy and his friend and Warren and the Bald Man sit with the Wussies.
I sit alone watching them all, wondering what the fuck I am doing here, desperately wishing I had something that would fuck me up. The food has killed the instinct for the moment, but I know it will come back and I know it will come back stronger. Get something. Get something hard and get something fast. Fill me. Fill me till I die.
Leonard sits down at my table. He is wearing a different Rolex and a different Hawaiian shirt. His plate is covered with sausage and bacon and nothing else.
Hey, Kid.
He unfolds a napkin, places it on his lap.
Hi.
He takes another napkin and he cleans his knife, his fork and the edge of the glass of orange juice.
When’d you get the teeth?
Yesterday.
What’d they have to do?
Cap the outside two, fill a cavity on this one.
I point to my outside left tooth.
Root canals on these.
I tap the middle two. They are firm.
They give you good drugs?
They didn’t give me anything.
No fucking way.
Yeah.
They didn’t give you anything?
No.
You got root canals on your two front teeth without any drugs?
Yeah.
Leonard looks at me as if what I have