The Manchester Review

          “Right, and so I run into him at Yardley’s and Yardley says, just ask Tucker about the psilocybin. ” Joe tells me all he learned about hallucinogens. What Tucker had and now we could have is ‘acid’ or lysergic acid diethylamide, better even than psilocybin. Do we want to take some?
          Pull into the small grocery lot. Go inside. We get Cokes. Sweaty little curvaceous Coke bottles from a floor fridge like a bath, and we crank off the caps on the curve bolted to the side. Out into a meadow, two reflective plotters. Oxlips. A jetliner chalking a thin line high.
          Do we want to take some? It IS grave stuff and we will be clinically insane for eight hours, seriously, we should think hard about the doing of this and we look at the grass, one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two I’m like, “Okay, let’s.”
          Joe goes, “Agree. At Yardley’s. Tonight. “ His parents being in Rome.

          Yardley lives in a woodsy development of avant-garde homes, his house lit up, glass and rock, Swedish modern, white bookshelves, blue paintings of anus and cunt and dick symbols and woodcuts.
          Yardley was this fawn, teensy and bucktoothed, (he got in movies for kid prices, a plus, but they wouldn’t let him see Psycho, a minus) and he was a ruthless reader too, focused on Joyce, in clothes from the children’s departments reading James Joyce, and tonight he was in Jamboree brand dungarees, little shoes. Maybe he was petite but his voice was deep. He says mellifluously and like a radio announcer, in the kitchen, “This isn’t even illegal but you’re probably gonna feel paranoid. You’ll think cops can read your mind.”
          “Why are we going to see cops?”
          “He’s just sketching in some stuff,” says Joe.
          “Well, erase the cops.”