26/02/2021

hand and copped the package, then I slipped a fiftydollar bill into Nick’s palm. He glanced at it and showed his gums in a toothless smile: “Thanks a lot. . . . This
will put me in the clear. . .
I sat back letting my mind work without pushing it.
Push vour mind too hard, and it will fuck up like an overloaded switch-board, or turn on you with sabotage. . . And I had no margin for error. Americans have a special horror of giving up control, of letting things happen in their own way without interference. They
would like to jump down into their stomachs and digest the food and shovel the shit out.
Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer. Like one of those thinking machines, you feed in your question, sit back, and wait. . . .
I was looking for a name. My mind was sorting through names, discarding at once F.L.—Fuzz Lover, B.W.—Bom Wrong, N.C.B.C.—Nice Cat But Chicken; putting aside to reconsider, narrowing, sifting, feeling for the name, the answer.
“Sometimes, you know, he’ll keep me waiting three hours. Sometimes I make it right away like this.” Nick had a deprecating little laugh that he used for punctuation. Sort of an apology for talking at all in the telepathizing world of the addict where only the quantity factor—How much $? How much junk?—requires verbal expression. He knew and I knew all about waiting. At all levels the drug trade operates without schedule. Nobody delivers on time except by accident. The addict runs on junk time. His body is his clock, and
junk runs through it like an hour-glass. Time has mean