“I know,” I said. “But you see, I’m a doctor. I don’t need a precription.”
She was still fidgeting. “Well. . . you’ll have to show me some I.D.,” she moaned.
“Of course.” I jerked out my wallet and let her see the police basge while I flipped through the deck until I located my Ecclesiastical Discount Card – which identifies me as a Doctor of Divinity, a certified Minister of the Church of the New Truth.
She inspected it carefully, then handed it back. I sensed a new respect in her manner. Her eyes grew warm. She seemed to want to touch me. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Doctor.” she said with a fine smile. “But I had to ask. We get some real freaks in this place. All kinds of dangerous addicts. You’d never believe it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I understand perfectly. but I have a bad heart, and I hope – “
“Certainly!” she exclaimed-and within seconds she was back with a dosen amyls. I paid without quibbling about the ecclesiastical discount. Then I opened the box and cracked one under my nose immediately, while she watched.
“Just be thankful your heart is young and strong,” I said. “If I were you I would never . . . ah . . . holy shit! . . . what? Yes, you’ll have to excuse me now; I feel it coming on.” I turned away and reeled off in the general direction of the bar.
“God’s mercy on you swine!” I shouted at two Marines com ing out of the men’s room.
They looked at me, but said nothing. By this time I was laughing crazily. But it made no difference. I was just an other fucked-up cleric with a bad heart. Shit, they’ll love me down at the Brown Palace. I took another big hit off the amyl, and by the time I got to the bar my heart was full of joy. I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger . . . a Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.