Junkie was my first encounter with William Burroughs, the infamous beat writer. I can't recall my ag, when I read his first novel. Maybe 18. Maybe 20. His novel was not in the stacks of the town library to the South of Boston in the 60s. Imust have found it in a Harvard Square bookstore.
Junkie along with Last Exit to Brooklyn opened my eyes to the transgressions life. I survived my early years without imitating that life.
In the 70s I sometimes saw Burroughs shuffling across the marble floors of Grand Central Terminal, his steps whispers on stone. His eyes not saw me. I studied him for several seconds. In a suit grayer than his skin. Gaunt. Glazed by heroin or vivid with the need for heroin. I never said anything. His world was his and heroin. Not mine. Some times. Never no more.
"I suppose I'm a junkie, which is a fairly long story." First line Junkie 1953. I was one years old. I'm much older than that now, unlike so many junkies.
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