I'm lying on my bed, undressed, masturbating. Every day I go to a little store a few blocks away for food and coffee and cigarettes, and every night when I go back to my room I pass by a small group of prostitutes. One girl always talks to me and I usually chat back, briefly. I love the local accent. I never lead her on, and when she offers me her services, I always decline. But I think about her while I masturbate. No harm in that, right?

My rhythm is interrupted by the sound of knuckles on the door. I ignore it and try to continue, but the knocking persists. For a moment the idea crosses my mind that it might be the beautiful prostitute. Who knows, maybe she asked around, or even followed me to find out where I'm staying. I dismiss the possibility as remote, but I slip on my pants and answer the door anyway.

I open the door a crack. There's a short, wrinkly man with dyed black hair standing in the hallway.

"Can I come in?" he asks.

"What for?"

"I gotta get something. There's something of mine in the room. I gotta get it."

"Okay, I guess so..." I open the door a little and the guy slips past me, marches across the room, gets down on his hands and knees and starts feeling along the baseboards, tapping and pulling, trying to find one he can remove.

"I'm sorry about this, man," he says. "I hope you weren't sleeping. Hey, could you close the door? Thanks. I stashed a spare set of works in this room a while back. I wasn't sure I'd need them. The goddamn landlord threw out my works! Can you believe that? I mean, they were stashed in the hallway, but he knew they were mine. Can't hide your shit in your own room, right? What if the cops come? Christ I'm sick. I mean, what did he have to throw my shit out for? I don¡¯t cause him any trouble. I always pay the rent on time."

He finds the right board and pulls it loose. He reaches into the wall, feels around and pulls out a sealed plastic bag that rats had clearly nibbled on. Inside the bag I can see a piece of rubber hose, a dirty spoon and a hypodermic needle.

"Yeah man, that's the shit," the little man says. Suddenly he looks up with big pleading eyes. "Hey man, do you mind if I fix up here? I don't wanna go back up three flights of stairs, and I¡¯m so sick."

A quiver of curiosity runs through me. Sit and watch a junkie shoot up, huh? Never done that before. Sure, you can watch Trainspotting, listen to Lou Reed records and read Bill Burroughs novels, but actually see it? I sit down on the side of the bed and pull a cigarette out of my pack. I don't look him in the eye, but I say, "No, I don¡¯t mind man, as long as you don't mind me sitting here."

"No, no, man, that don't matter." He starts getting ready. I light my cigarette and watch.

Ninety seconds later I pull the needle out of the junkie's limp arm. He's not dead. Thank Christ he's not dead, I think. I'd lit my cigarette and watched the wrinkled little man cook, tie off his arm and shoot up. I'd waited to see a look of joy or relief or relaxation on his face, but it didn't come. Instead, the junkie simply looked detached, and then confused. Then he started puking.

"As if the room didn't stink enough," I mumble, swinging open the door. I grab the little man under the arms and heft him up, dragging him into the hallway, intent on getting him to the bathroom where he can puke all he wants. Out in the hall I come upon a battered-looking old woman with a small grocery bag heading to her own shitty room. We both freeze and look at one another. Not much point in talking, I think. We both know the score. I¡¯m dragging a passed out junkie to the bathroom. But I state the obvious anyway: "He's sick." The old woman rolls her eyes with a disgusted look and squeezes past us.

I get the junkie to the bathroom and flop him into the tub, rolling him onto his side so he doesn't choke. I clean the vomit off of my arms in the sink. There are times when you just want to stand and look in the mirror and think about what's happened, but this is not one of those times. It is time to move on. There will be time for reflection later. There will be time, there will be time, time to regret and time to forget, and time for you and me.

The exit sign has been seen. Time to go. Time to start over. All over again. Time to go. Time to move on. Gotta go, gotta do, gotta see, gotta be.

Nolan Whyte.