ISSN 1758-6488
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LSD Fiction |
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And I drive off with her and her scents, being flowers of perfume and slashing hairspray and Juicy Fruit.
What I open with: “I think the film is good, somebody said. You know, it literally gave him nightmares.” At which she laughs. I can feel her smile, her goodwill.
“Please don’t talk about dreams, I was on the phone with do-you-know Carol Kessler? Okay, she was going on and on about this dream and I finally said, listen, nothing is as boring as other people’s dreams.”
Which was a great start. We drove a road that hugged a river and through woods and there were farms and pink clouds and lightning bugs.
The reason I will stop about LSD is that there is nothing more boring than other people’s trips. I saw odd images and felt odd and at first it was funny and then as I got tired and morning came, I ached for the oddness to stop. That pattern was how the whole decade went, come to think. Joe, an incorrigible, intractable atheist, told me at dawn that he had hallucinated a conversation with god. I mistook Maxine Small for a machine.
Two years after the first trip, and about twenty trips later too, for each of us, Joe and I and Yardley, home from colleges for summer, met at the all night campus coffee shop, the DMZ. We were werewolves by then, happy at 3a.m. with long hair, and twitchy, chain smoking, used to changing into monsters. This restaurant was for some reason neutral, a safe zone, and earned its name, so there were police and dealers and high school girls and we strange illegal people, all together in a truce, just keep down your red eyes and be quiet.
Although by then Yardley was dealing and later got busted and went full-blown narc to stay out of jail, and was working in Tulsa, Oklahoma, undercover amidst heroin people, because the Viet Nam war was creating heroin tribes, anyway, somebody killed Yardley and fit his tiny body into a garbage can with room leftover, we heard, for his German Shepherd who they killed as well.
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