It should go without saying but in case it doesn’t, if you don’t spend
all your money on drugs, you’ll have money for food. You’ll feel so
wealthy. For instance, this guy sitting at the window here, he can’t
believe how wealthy he feels. Attorneys in private practice, plastic
surgeons nipping and tucking, senior civil service workers, they might
think—he doesn’t know what they might think. They might have trouble
making their Porsche payments or finding decent help with housekeeping
and gardening, but he has a bowl of peanuts. Salted and roasted Virginia
Fresh salads, other healthful stuffs, he has those, too.
He nibbles at a hangnail. Then another. Not part of any accepted food group.
Scratches his head. Digs the oily dead skin, the tiny bit of it, from
under his nails with his front teeth. Chews it. Small chews, like
nibbles. He likes the texture of it, the tiny, soft adhesion.
Wipes his fingers on the paper napkin—no wiping on the pants! Or on the
shirt, none of that, he doesn’t spend all his money on drugs, he has
Two gnats are at the window, the afternoon sun coming in. He reaches for
the peanuts, eats several. Damn, they are good. Damn. He doesn’t deserve
this, this good stuff, after all the crap he's done. Good food, safe
home, quiet, time to look out the window. Clean bathroom. Decent bed,
though it sags a little. But clean sheets. And a washer and a dryer,
right here on the premises, and clean clothes. He doesn’t deserve any of
this. He knows where the bodies are buried.
He nibbles at another hangnail. Chews the little bit of dried flesh that
comes off. Eats more nuts. Looks out the window. Doesn’t even think of
eating the gnats.