Reports from the Bibliographic Bunker
Jed Birmingham on William S. Burroughs Collecting
last. Which made for difficulties.
— Charles Olson
I stood estranged from that which was
— Charles Olson
Olson’s Maximus, To Himself could very well be my favorite poem. I find myself returning to it again and again. For all the poetry I read, I actually know very few lines from memory, but these two lines by Olson I have taken to heart. They speak central truths to me, and since everything relates to William Burroughs, they speak them of Burroughs as well. Even those only casually aware of Burroughs and his work know three things about him. He wrote Naked Lunch; he was a drug addict; he shot his wife William-Tell-style and killed her. These are the three simple facts of Burroughs; these are the most familiar aspects of his biography. But are they also the areas from which we stand estranged?
Take the shooting of Joan Vollmer in Mexico City on September 5, 1951. Thanks to James Grauerholz’s meticulously researched essay on the shooting, we know who did it; we know how he did it; we know where he did it. And yet, quite frankly, despite all the factual details, we do not have a clue as to motive in this central event of Burroughs’ life. Can we really be satisfied with the police report description as an accidental shooting? As the introduction to Queer makes clear, Burroughs was not. There had to be a reason, a purpose for Joan’s death. For Burroughs there were no accidents, no coincidences; everything was related; like Pynchon, Burroughs is the great writer of paranoia.
As for the writing and publication of Naked Lunch, the one novel of Burroughs’ that the Average Joe knows about, so much of what we know is really myth, misinformation, and misinterpretation. Carol Loranger and Oliver Harris have begun the process of disentangling the threads of this narrative about the narrative, but like Jan Potocki’s novel, A Manuscript Found in Saragossa, one story begets another until we run out of thread and stand lost in the labyrinth. Harris is about to step into the maze again and map his journey through the Burroughs Archives as they relate to Naked Lunch. It remains to be seen whether he will ever get out of the library in any condition to tell us, precisely and definitively, the tale of his adventures.
That leaves us with the one simple fact about Burroughs. He was a drug addict. The deceptive term here is “was.” The past tense is crucial. “Deposition: Testimony Concerning a Sickness” suggests that the author of Naked Lunch got straight, clean off heroin. Many people believe that Burroughs kicked heroin around 1957 under the care of Dr. Dent and the apomorphine cure. But the dirty little secret, the open secret, of Burroughs’ biography is that he was twisted on heroin for much of his adult life and was, in fact, on methadone until the day he died. The central tenet of drug addiction is “once an addict, always an addict.” You never kick; instead you are continually kicking, until you kick the bucket. The critical book that takes into consideration all the realities of Burroughs as a user and how they relate to his biography and his work remains to be tackled, despite tentative steps in that direction like John Long’s Drugs and the Beats.
I just finished reading Eric. C. Schneider’s, Smack: Heroin and the American City. It is a fascinating book that explores the urban space that engenders the heroin market and its users. The book covers the era from 1914 to the early 1990s, roughly the span of Burroughs’ life. As Oliver Harris states in his introduction to Junky, Burroughs lived through the entire era of illicit heroin use in America starting with the Harrison Act of 1914. As a reading of Burroughs’ addiction that takes into consideration the historical facts of the heroin trade and heroin use, Harris’ introduction is the most interesting that I know of. Using Schneider’s book as a factual source on the history of heroin, I am going to attempt to build on Harris’ foundations and suggest how such a reading can shed light on Burroughs’ life and work in what I hope are fruitful ways.
New York 1944-1945
“My first experience with junk was during the War, about 1944 or 1945.” — Junkie
The fact that Burroughs began experimenting with heroin around 1944 is unusual. Heroin addiction was at an ebb during the war years with most potential users in the military and with supply lines disrupted by the conflict. One of the values of Junkie is that it provides an accurate, personal account of this neglected period in drug history. Given the scarcity of heroin and new users, it is hardly surprising that Herbert Huncke (Herman) thought Burroughs (William Lee) was heat when he showed up with morphine syrettes. The drugs and the machine gun in Burroughs’ possession were military contraband smuggled off a boat in New York harbor. Increasingly difficult to obtain after the war, legally produced drugs of this type were almost completely replaced by illegally produced drugs cultivated and manufactured abroad.
The face of drug addiction was about to change as well. The Ace Junkie published in 1953 contains a prologue by Burroughs that mentions his fascination with You Can’t Win, the autobiography of a career criminal named Jack Black. Much has been made of the substantial influence this book had on Burroughs’ life and work. Black describes “an underworld of seedy rooming-houses, pool parlors, cat houses and opium dens, of bull pens and cat-burglars and hobo jungles.” So summarizes Burroughs in his introduction to the 1988 reprint of Black’s book. Reading through Naked Lunch, Nova Express, and elsewhere highlights the extent of Black’s seductive power over Burroughs.
In fact, Burroughs’ interest in heroin is rooted even further in the past, both in his personal history and, although he downplays it, in literature’s. Burroughs’ prologue to Junkie makes this clear. Burroughs writes, “I recall hearing a maid talk about opium and how opium smoking brings sweet dreams, and I said: ‘I will smoke opium when I grow up.'” Interestingly, this is probably the same maid who introduced Burroughs to sex, which Burroughs hazily remembered as some type of molestation. The central role of this maid in Burroughs’ personal mythology remains to be fully explored. Burroughs also wrote of his fantasies of becoming an opium-addicted writer lounging languidly with his pipe and pen. These childhood fantasies of opium are rooted in a literary culture of the 1800s, both Romantic and Decadent. Coleridge, de Quincey, and Oscar Wilde become key influences here. Kubla Khan remains the foremost “sweet dream” of English Literature.
By 1944, Black’s underworld had almost disappeared, and the opium smoke of Coleridge and Wilde had the musty smell of the library about it. After the war, heroin addicts were more likely to be young black or Latino males from urban centers, particularly New York and Los Angeles. It is no coincidence that these two cities were ground zero for jazz culture. The shift in ethnicity in heroin use reflects the growing cultural influence of black musicians who birthed the Hip and the hipster. I have written about this sociological phenomenon in my piece on Burroughs and Norman Mailer. Many assume that Burroughs’ interest in heroin came from a fascination with the hipster and black culture. Yet Burroughs is far from the White Negro that many assume him to be. Jack Kerouac was strongly influenced by be-bop and its environment, but Burroughs, although he listened to the music with Kerouac and hung out on the fringes of the scene, was interested in older drug cultures. Burroughs’ interest in heroin was largely an exercise in nostalgia.
So also were his day-to-day activities as a practicing addict. Burroughs repeatedly writes of Chinese laundries and opium dens as home base for Chinese heroin dealers and scoring. The Asian heroin trade would explode in the 1960s with the Vietnam War, which flooded the market with demand as American soldiers used heroin in large numbers to cope with the stress of combat. Yet in the 1940s, this aspect of the drug trade did not exist on an international level, and the Asian heroin trade in the United States was restricted to Asian-American and Asian immigrant clientele in segregated sections of major cities such as New York and San Francisco. Fears about their pre-WWII drug culture helped give rise to the Yellow Peril and in return made the Asian drug dealers cautious about white clients. The phrase “No glot… C’lom Fliday” highlights the linguistic and cultural barriers that resulted in mistrust, miscommunication, and missed connections.
If Burroughs’ status as an upper class white male prevented him from scoring in Chinatown, it was an asset in Middle America. Here lies a central paradox in Burroughs’ life as an addict. The prologue to Junkie makes clear that Burroughs / Lee became an addict to shed his conventional upbringing, and yet he often utilized his race and class in the service of his addiction.
Italian and Jewish gangsters quickly became the major suppliers of heroin in most other urban neighborhoods. Burroughs writes occasionally of such ethnic aspects of the drug trade in Junkie. “They were of various nationalities and physical types, but they all looked like junk. There was Irish, George the Greek, Pantopon Rose, Louie the Bellhop, Eric the Fag, the Beagle, the Sailor, and Joe the Mex.” There are many nationalities but no ethnicities. Joe the Mex is the exception that proves the rule. The junk neighborhoods are white immigrant neighborhoods gone to seed and threatened with invasion by blacks and Hispanics. They look like junk; they are white trash, yet the immigrant addict is not Burroughs’ peer either. From Bill Garver to Phil White, Burroughs’ junkie counterparts were often prodigal sons, like him, from good blue blood stock that, like the blue-chip stock market, had fallen from grace. In Junkie, Bill Gains is the addict to whom William Lee looks up. Naturally, Bill Gains “came from a ‘good family.'”
Burroughs did not score in jazz clubs, on 52nd Street, or in Harlem. This would continue into the 1970s when he lived at The Bunker. Drugs were bought in Alphabet City and brought to Burroughs; Burroughs rarely if ever went there himself. In any case, street drugs were not his preferred kick anyway. Ideally, Burroughs would score pharmaceutical grade narcotics such as Dilaudid (which is closer to morphine than heroin). In Drugstore Cowboy, Burroughs’ character, Tom the Priest, skims the cream of the drugs Bob makes available to him choosing only the Dilaudid for himself: “This should earn you an indulgence.” To score such high-grade drugs, you have to rob the drugstore — a line Burroughs was reluctant to cross — or con the croakers. Junkie and Naked Lunch portray Bill Lee putting the make on croakers and rural drugstores for forged prescriptions. This was a route less available to Black and Hispanic hipsters for obvious reasons of race and class prejudice.
Burroughs’ education was also important. Most drug addicts graduate from the school of hard knocks, but Burroughs backed up his street smarts with university degrees. He was more than a junkie; he was a “Master Addict to Dangerous Drugs.” He attended Harvard and medical school in Vienna in the 1930s. He was well read and knowledgeable about literature, medicine, psychology, and anthropology. Oliver Harris has pointed out how Burroughs suppressed the literary basis of his addiction in Junkie. Yet Burroughs, like Dr Benway or Dr Mabuse, was out to con his former peers. Scoring implies a game, and for Burroughs, it was not a physical conquest but a test of intelligence. Burroughs with his aristocratic, educated air could pass in rural Middle America, gain doctors’ confidence, and, thereby, gain access to the medicine cabinet.
Despite wanting to cast off his Grey Flannel Suit and university tie, Burroughs had to wear them in order to score. So on one level Burroughs’ addiction is rather conservative; yet what is transgressive is that, as with his cut-ups, particularly Time or APO-33, Burroughs detourns the message and mores of the dominant order for his own aims. In this case, Burroughs manipulates Middle America’s prejudices regarding race, class, and education for his own immoral ends. These prejudices themselves are a form of addiction. In his Paris Review interview from 1965, Burroughs states, “The nasty sort of power: white junk, I call it — rightness; they’re right, right, right — and if they lost that power, they would suffer excruciating withdrawal symptoms.” Burroughs reinforces Middle American stereotypes while subverting them. When Burroughs enters a drugstore to fill a script, he reads off his own, dealing “white junk” to squares. Burroughs is both addict and pusher.
Mexico City 1949-1952
As soon as I hit Mexico City, I started looking for junk. —Junkie
The arrival in Mexico is the climax of Kerouac’s On the Road. Sal Paradise crosses the border in search of his birthright. Kerouac writes of Mexico as part of the “equatorial belly of the world” where “[t]hey had high cheekbones, and slanted eyes, and soft ways; they were not fools, they were not clowns; they were giant, grave Indians and they were the source of mankind and the fathers of it.” Mexico is a confused mix of birth and death, blood and semen, motherhood and fatherhood, sexual experience and innocence, wisdom and wonder, miscegenation and purity. Many critics have pointed out the stereotyping of the Third World and the racial Other at play in Kerouac’s work. What I want to point out is that for Kerouac, Mexico is the place of origins — the Source.
The same holds true for Burroughs. Once in Mexico City, Burroughs enrolled in college in order to study anthropology and archeology. These are studies of the beginnings, the morning, the dawn of civilizations. In addition, Burroughs’ concept of Mexico contains many of the contradictions of Kerouac’s, yet most important for this discussion is the fact that Mexico in 1949 had newly become a primary source for heroin. After World War II, there was a shortage in heroin on the American market. Mexico stepped in, increasing its cultivation of poppies and production of heroin. Burroughs was a part of this trade. While living in East Texas and Louisiana, he grew marijuana, which he planned to sell in New York City. The trip from Texas / Louisiana to New York was a major route in the drug trade. Southern marijuana would come up from Texas and be exchanged for New York City heroin. Burroughs was well aware of this, as were Texan authorities. In quick order, Burroughs ran afoul of the law. Clearly, Burroughs went to Mexico to escape the drug laws in the United States, but he also went there — to put a twist on the famous statement attributed to Willie Sutton — because that’s where the drugs were.
Junkie provides some very good information on the drug scene in Mexico City as it entered the international market. True to form, Burroughs refrained from scoring on the street level in Mexico City. Burroughs’ junkie peers would acquire the drugs for Burroughs, or Burroughs would hit up the local doctors. Corruption was rampant; so as long as Burroughs had the money, Mexican doctors would write the scripts. In addition, these doctors were more likely to cater to white American clients than Mexican ones. Once again, Burroughs relied on his class and race in his drug use.
There is a suggestion of race and class in his choice of heroin as well. Burroughs makes clear that Mexican heroin was of much poorer quality than the heroin distributed in New York City. Mexican heroin was brown in color, reflecting the levels of impurity and the lower levels of sophistication in the refining process. Pure heroin is white. Mexican heroin is cut, adulterated, impure. There is racial stereotyping here tying miscegenation, incest, and tainted bloodlines to Mexican heroin and Mexicans. This fascination with racial mixing and its link to drug use is clear from Burroughs’ yage vision of the Composite City: “The blood and substance of many races, Negro, Polynesian, Mountain Mongol, Desert Nomad, Polyglot Near East, Indian — new races as yet unconceived and unborn, combinations not yet realized passes through your body.” Yage has a racial component; in one yage vision Burroughs believes himself transformed into a black woman.
There is also a sexual component to this. From Junkie to Queer, addiction shifts to obsession. At the end of Junkie, Burroughs writes, “My wife and I are separated. I am ready to move on south and look for the uncut kick that opens out instead of narrowing down like junk.” To the extent that Queer picks up the narrative from Junkie, the “uncut” kick refers less to drugs than to men and to the likely uncircumcised “boys” Burroughs may have picked up in Mexico City.
Unlike Kerouac and Cassady who indulged in Mexican prostitutes, Burroughs prefers the “white boy,” slang for pure heroin, to the “brown sugar,” slang for Mexican heroin. Young men from the Third World are acceptable in a pinch. Like Mexican heroin they are readily available and cheap, but they do not give the same kick as pure white boys. Burroughs had casual sex with young men of various ethnicities, but became obsessed only with white boys like Allen Ginsberg, Lewis Marker, and Ian Sommerville. It was to them, not Mexican or Arab boys, that Burroughs was emotionally addicted. In his letters from the 1950s, Burroughs often presents his feelings for Ginsberg and Marker in terms of addiction, for example, writing to Ginsberg of his “Marker habit.”
The article is supposed to be what it is and not a cover really. — Letter to Ginsberg, Oct. 7, 1959
In the early spring of 1959, Burroughs was accused of participating in an opium smuggling ring. French police believed Burroughs was the “Paris O outlet.” This is not as far-fetched as it seems. In a letter to Ginsberg from April 2nd, Burroughs admits that he considered “pushing a little Moroccan tea in Paris” with the help of Paul Lund. Lund was an English gangster living in Tangier who had much experience with smuggling. Burroughs never acted on the idea but he ran in drug and smuggling circles in Tangier and Paris, such that his travels to and fro were bound to attract attention. After World War II, the United States heroin supply from the Middle East was largely shipped from Marseilles, France to New York City. This was the famous French Connection with Mediterranean gangsters overseeing mainly Turkish poppy production, heroin production, and drug distribution. This was a major international news story and aspects of it found its way onto the big screen in 1971 in The French Connection. The drug dealers did not benefit from the publicity. In 1972, three major busts of processing plants in Marseilles severed the connection, which resulted in a free-for-all in re-establishing supply lines to the American market. Once again, as after World War II, Mexico stepped into the breach.
Interestingly, Oliver Harris suggests that the apartment building that serves as the setting of the Hauser and O’Brien episode that ends Naked Lunch could have been modeled on the Hotel Marseille on 103rd Street in New York City. Symbolically the hotel is the hub of the drug trade of Interzone, Lee’s home base. Harris points out that what Lee is producing and pushing, and what concerns Hauser and O’Brien are, in fact, not drugs, but literature. They are instructed to “Just pick [Lee] up. Don’t take time to shake the place down. Except bring in all books, letters, manuscripts. Anything printed, typed or written.”
Fiction mirrored reality for Burroughs. In the April 2nd letter, Burroughs continues, “They shake Paul’s trap down and find some old manuscripts I left behind, and wade through a suitcase full of my vilest pornography looking for ‘evidence.'” In addition, the police found some incriminating letters that suggested drug involvement. Burroughs writes, “Oh, and the fuzz has a letter I sent to Shell [Mack Thomas author of Gumbo] from London in which I say something to effect: ‘Pooling our knowledge could be of great benefit to both parties.’ I can see myself taking shape in their 12-year [old] minds as ‘the evil, perverted brain behind international narcotics ring, the agents of which pretend to be poets and painters to cover their sinister operations.” At the end of Naked Lunch, Lee worries about the detective seeing the contents of his suitcase. The suitcase contains not drugs, but manuscripts. Lee sweeps notebooks into his briefcase along with his works and junk. As Harris points out, the key to the end of Naked Lunch is more that Lee is a writer than a drug addict.
Yet in April of 1959, Burroughs was a sort of criminal mastermind. Just weeks before he came to the attention of French authorities as a smuggler, he came to the attention of American authorities. In March of 1959, sections of Naked Lunch were published in Big Table #1. The Chicago Post Office promptly seized the magazine as obscene and made moves to put the book on trial. Once again Burroughs’ “vilest pornography” was “evidence.” Soon after the Big Table hype, Maurice Girodias offered to publish Naked Lunch in France. Girodias and Olympia Press were the French Connection for pornography in the United Kingdom and the United States. Like smugglers hiding packets of heroin in false-bottomed suitcases and hollowed-out cars, those curious about Naked Lunch would have to smuggle the book through customs. Burroughs was not a drug smuggler; he was the Source of obscene literature: “The evil, perverted brain behind an international” pornography ring.
Immediately after the publication of Naked Lunch in Paris in July 1959, Burroughs was busted — not for obscenity, but for drug possession. The police “had an order for [Burroughs’] arrest issued April 9th,” no doubt stemming from the smuggling accusations a year earlier. The key piece of evidence in the case against Burroughs was “a doctored letter allegedly written by [Burroughs] to [Lund].” A letter-writing campaign was organized by Girodias to aid Burroughs in court. More importantly, in a letter to Ginsberg from September 11th, Burroughs notes that he began “writing a short deposition with regard to Naked Lunch. This is essential for my own safety at this point.” “Deposition: Testimony Concerning a Sickness” was written for his drug possession trial in Paris, not his obscenity trial in the United States. The Deposition is the source of the myth that Burroughs kicked drugs. “I awoke from The Sickness at the age of forty-five.” Burroughs states his drug use in the past tense because he was seeking leniency in his upcoming trial. In addition, Burroughs distanced himself from his role as author of the novel and highlighted the moral aspects of its content. Again these were added less to help Grove Press with an obscenity trial than to help Burroughs beat a drug possession rap.
Ironically, it would be Naked Lunch itself that would get Burroughs off the hook. The French courts were impressed with the fact that Burroughs was a published author and overlooked his indiscretions. In Queer, Burroughs suggested that he had to write his way out of guilt caused by Joan Vollmer’s death. Similarly, Burroughs wrote his way out of a drug charge in Paris.
New York 1974-1981
If you can score for sex and drugs in a place, then you know you really made contact with the place.” –Burroughs to Steve Mass, owner of The Mudd Club
Returning to the United States after decades in exile — his last stop being an extended stay in London that left him bored and broke — Burroughs really connected with New York City in the 1970s. Fortunately or unfortunately for Burroughs, the Big Apple was rotten to its core. For anybody only familiar with New York City in the last decade, it might be impossible to imagine just how dysfunctional the city was through much of the 1970s and 1980s. Sex, drugs, and violence were rampant. In areas like Alphabet City and Harlem, drugs were a cancer.
In his vision of Interzone, The Market, and The Composite City from the 1950s, Burroughs expresses his vision of New York City. On July 10, 1953, Burroughs wrote a letter to Allen Ginsberg envisioning the Composite City as viewed under the influence of yage. “All houses in the City are joined… great rusty iron racks rising 200 feet in the air from swamps and rubbish with perilous partitions built on multilevel platforms and hammocks swinging over the void.” The Composite City passage was also written under the influence of Allen Ginsberg and with the anticipation of seeing Ginsberg in the coming months. Ginsberg was living on the Lower East Side in New York City. Burroughs’ vision of the city is in part a fantasy of inhibiting the same space as Ginsberg. In late 1953, Burroughs arrived at Ginsberg’s apartment and began work on the yage letters’ material, including the Composite City section. Pictures taken by Ginsberg of Burroughs and Kerouac show how the view out Ginsberg’s window mirrors the yage vision. Fire escapes, clotheslines, and telephone wires connected decaying tenement housing that appeared to lean into one another.
The July 10th letter also envisions New York City’s future. “The City is visited by epidemics of violence and the untended dead are eaten by vultures in the street. Funerals and cemeteries are not permitted. Albinos blink in the sun, boys sit in trees languidly masturbating, people eaten by unknown diseases spit at passersby and bite them and throw pus and scabs and assorted vectors (insects suspected of carrying disease) hoping to infect somebody.” This is not just a yage vision; Lee sees a similar scene during junk withdrawal in Junkie. Burroughs writes, “One afternoon, I closed my eyes and saw New York in ruins. Huge centipedes and scorpions crawled in and out of empty bars and cafeterias and drugstores on Forty-Second Street. Weeds were growing up through cracks and holes in the pavement. There was no one in sight.” This resembles New York City in the early 1970s, a city devastated by drug abuse and yet struggling with a heroin shortage. For junkies it was Panic in Needle Park. A dead city. A New York newspaper headline concerning President Ford’s failure to bail out a bankrupt New York read: Ford to City: Drop Dead. Blocks and blocks, like Alphabet City, were already dead, inhabited by drug addicted zombies preying on the living. The disease was spreading building by building.
New York was a city of death, and Burroughs fell in with the culture of death that was punk. Wearing Nazi insignia, a deadly pallor, and living beyond hope and too bored to despair, punk found escape in drugs, particularly heroin. The drug released all pain and anxiety. Punks found Burroughs to be a father figure, yet Burroughs, now in his sixties, was, with the help of James Grauerholz, finally outgrowing and growing weary of his children. New York City with its streets clogged with garbage, its architecture and infrastructure crumbling, and its bank account depleted was the City as aging junkie. Burroughs was stuck in a prison he created: the junkie’s body and environment. The punks raged that there was no way out, but self-destruction and death. Once again “at the end of the junk line” trapped in the “fibrous grey wooden flesh of terminal addiction,” Burroughs decided to do the impossible — he decided to return home.
I was born in 1914 in a solid, three-story, brick house in a large Midwest city. — Junkie
Burroughs’ arrival in Lawrence in 1981 signaled a new beginning, and nothing symbolizes this fresh start more than his entrance into the methadone program. Burroughs, like Herbert Huncke, was on methadone until the end of his life. The use of methadone to treat drug addiction was spearheaded by Vincent Dole and Marie Nyswander in the mid-1960s. This was around the time that Burroughs was aggressively extolling the virtues of apomorphine in little magazines and mimeos. Both drugs work in a similar manner as metabolic regulators. Dole, Nyswander, and Burroughs all believed that heroin addiction altered the user on a cellular level and that the only way to a cure was at that level. Methadone gained the support of urban policy makers after a sensational early success in lowering crime rates related to drug use. By the 1970s methadone symbolized progressive drug treatment in a country that favored a Drug War of prohibition, harsh penalties, and crackdowns on users rather than producers and suppliers.
One criticism of methadone was that the user was merely trading one addiction for another. In addition, many did not like the manner in which the methadone program was structured. Participants were required to take their daily dose at a center, which made treatment seem like probation, leading many to label the program as “orange handcuffs.”
For Burroughs, he was trading one addiction for another. Methadone was, like heroin, not a kick; it was a way of life. But unlike the death-in-life of the New York City drug scene, the methadone program allowed Burroughs to establish a new domesticity in his life. Grauerholz managed Burroughs’ daily affairs; methadone managed his drug addiction; and that left Burroughs free to create, which was always his most powerful compulsion. In terms of his writing, Burroughs likewise became conventional. In his later work, Burroughs’ fictional characters reside in the “solid, three story, brick house” of basic genre structures like the adventure story or the western. Plot and narrative serve as the foundation for these familiar surroundings as Burroughs’ writing style became more mainstream, more reader-friendly, or at as close as Burroughs could get to the norm.
In the prologue to Junkie, Burroughs as William Lee writes that his boyhood home “had a lawn in front, a back yard with a garden, a fish pond and a high wooden fence all around it.” He continued that “all the props of a safe, comfortable way of life that is now gone forever.” Heroin took it away, but methadone gave it back. The key to methadone is that, in allowing the addict to manage his addiction and to carry on with activities such as working and socializing, it allows him to participate in the American way of life. It regulates the metabolism so the addict can organize his life, which paves the way to punching a time-clock and putting the kids to bed. Methadone not only handcuffed the addict to the Methadone Center, it encouraged the straightjacket of the business suit. If heroin and opium brought “sweet dreams” and stately pleasure domes, methadone offered a chance at the American Dream: the wife, the dog, the two cars, and a three-story house with the white picket fence. In 1944, Burroughs wanted to leave all that behind, but late in life, after years of traveling the junk road, he realized he wanted, in some respects, to come back home. Opium Jones became one of the Joneses. Methadone made that possible. For Burroughs, the junk road was not a straight shot to nowhere; it was a circular journey beginning and ending at the doorstep of a “solid, three-story brick house in a . . . Midwest city.”