Nov. 1, `70
I had just finished eating a can of cold mushroom soup (but I wasn’t
hungry enough to enjoy it) when two guys and a girl walked up to me. They had just dropped Psylocybin and had one hit left. They figured it would be easier to give it away than to try and divide it among each other. I thanked the trio, dropped the dope, and walked down the beach. I hadn’t gone far when a car pulled up. It was the trio; they asked me if I wanted to drive into Corpus with them. They were on their way to score some acid. I had nothing to lose, so I went too, and when we got to the place where the acid was, there was a party going on. The driver went into the house while the chick, her boyfriend, and I stayed in the car. One of the dudes from the party returned with the driver and he was holding a cup. He said, “Have a drink of punch, but be careful. This stuff is really powerful. There’s 18 hits of Psylocybin in it and 15 hits of acid.” We all agreed, after everybody took a couple sips of the punch, to stay at the party.
Inside the house, I sat with my back to the punchbowl, close to the
speakers. After the bowl was empty (I helped out in that
department), more dope was brought out. The boys having the party were well equipped; I saw a plastic bag full of acid being passed around, and, on another occasion (for a different clientele I
suspect), a bag of heroin was briefly brought out and paraded about. The place was packed with every kind of person.
This seemed to be a revolving door kind of party. I enjoyed watching the comings and goings while I listened to good music. When it came time to go, I was enjoying myself so much that I told my ride “No thanks.” That turned out to be a huge mistake. Around 10 p.m., everybody split except the dudes who threw the party. By that time, I couldn’t even swallow, let alone talk. I was still sitting next to the music (now at low volume) when my hosts began discussing their displeasure. They were upset because everybody grabbed their dope and ran. One of these dudes angrily said, “Fuck; I didn’t even know most of the people.”
I was already uncomfortable, but then it became obvious that these
boys wanted me to explain who I was (or at least give them a sign
that I wasn’t a narc), but I was too blown away. I couldn’t even ask
them if I could crash at their place because I couldn’t talk. When I
thought they were getting ready to throw me out anyway, I stood up and walked out the door. Outside, on the steps, I took a deep breath and everything in front of me melted beyond recognition. It didn’t matter though; I hadn’t a clue as to where I was. I just knew I had to keep moving.
I walked in the direction of the brightest lights. At the corner, I
found myself standing on the drive of a gas station, but it took me
a while to realize it. I had to find out how to get back to the
beach. Even though entering the gas station terrified me, I walked
through the door. In the midst of melting walls and rivers of color,
I managed to stutter, “P-a-a-dre Is-land.” The attendant gave me a strange look and then pointed down the road as he said, “It’s at the end of the highway, you can’t miss it.” Back on the gas station
drive, I breathed a sigh of relief and started walking the twenty
miles back to the beach. In the darkness, I regained a sense of
When the road narrowed, a nightmarish thought hit me, “What if
somebody offered me a ride?” “I will refuse,” I told myself. Soon
after that a car pulled up and the guy in the passenger seat asked
me if I needed a lift, and without hesitation I opened the back door
and climbed into the backseat of the brand new Plymouth Roadrunner. I got the words “P-a-a-dre Is-land” out of my mouth, and the guy who offered me the ride, after handing me a cold beer, said, “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Then, with beer spilling all over my shirt, I was thrust against the seat as the car accelerated. From the front seat came a voice that said, “I hope you don’t mind speed.” Fortunately, there were no cars in the oncoming lane. After passing the five or six cars in front of us, the driver opened the car up as he continued to accelerate. We were going so fast that we needed both lanes to keep the car on the highway. At that speed, and on that not so good road, the car jumped from lane to lane. I was hemorrhaging in the backseat. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. The roar of the car’s engine was all that could be heard until the driver shouted, “It’s at 140. I think I can get 160.” That did it! I screamed, “I want out! Let me out!” That worked because the driver took his foot off the gas. As the car slowed to a reasonable speed, nobody said anything. I guess the silence was our reality check. Finally, the guy in the passenger seat turned to me and said, “No sense getting out now, were almost there.” I responded by remaining silent. When I did get out of the car, I found myself trembling and glad to be alive. In fact, I was really glad to be alive!