You pick up this working girl, who's hooked on smack, who hustles and scores. "That's all I do," she says.

She says, "ten bucks for head, fifteen for half and half." She says, "three hits a day at thirty-five per." You say, "that's seven tricks a day at least." "But," she says, "sometimes I get lucky." "Once this guy gives me a bill and a half just to eat me. Only time I ever came."

You figure you can save her.

You sell your color TV. That keeps her off the streets a whole day. You hock your typewriter for one jolt. Then your shotgun, your watch.

A week later, you say, "listen, I'm a little short." But she says, "no scratch, no snatch." You say, "look, it is better to give." "But," she says, "beat off, creep."

One night they spot you on the street in your skivvies, trying to sell your shoes. You tell them who you are, but they nail you.

Then she happens by, and she says, "Christ, you look fucked." She says, "hang tough."

But you don't say anything. You just think, what a bum rap for a nice, sensitive guy like me.