First Trip

Tony, a kid in my French class, came up to me after class and said, “Hey, you still want some acid?”

                I said, “Yeah.”

                “Well, there's a guy I know in Del Monte Park that has some hits. He lives in that little house in the middle of the block, on Montecito. He has a van with a peace sign on the side, you can't miss it,” he said.

                He went on to ask, “Can you get me a hit, too?”

                “Sure,” I said, “Montecito is just down the street from me.”

                It would be worth it. I would buy him a hit.

                So, after school I went straight to the guy's house and knocked on the door. I had no problem finding it.

                Montecito was a short street, only a block long, and I knew it was his house for sure by the VW bus parked in front with the big yellow peace sign. It had been hand painted and was the only peace sign in the ultra conservative neighborhood.

                The door opened, and I smiled and lied, saying, “I'm a friend of Tony's.”

                I barely knew Tony, but whatever would get me in the door, I would do or say.

                The dealer was what you would call a real hippie-type looking guy. He had extremely long brownish blonde hair and dressed cool too. He wore old tattered bell-bottom jeans and a fringe leather vest.

                He didn't tell me his name, and I didn't tell him mine. I was just happy that he let me into his pad and didn't tell me to hit the road.

                I could hear the sound of Creedence's “Proud Mary” playing from somewhere in the house. Cool, he liked Creedence, too.

                It was dark in his house and the few scented candles burning on various tables and surfaces did little to light the room. The scent of incense and patchouli oil was in the air, but couldn't quite cover the strong smell of cannabis.

                He seemed real cagey and looked deep into my eyes when I asked him if he had some acid. I must have passed whatever reservations he had about me. All that mattered to me was that he mumbled, “Yeah,” and went into the back room through some hanging beads to retrieve an envelope.

                Inside the envelope were several small pieces of white paper squares. I had doubts it was really acid. I wondered, "Could a simple piece of paper do much?  Should I trust him?"

                “It's $3 a hit, if you want it,” he said.

                 I bought two. One for me, and the one I promised to Tony.

                There was only one way to find out if it was real, so I immediately popped one in my mouth, chewed it up and swallowed it. It didn't have much of a taste. We'll see, I thought and resigned myself to the immediate future, whatever it might be.

                The dealer plopped down on an old ratty sofa and lit a joint. He patted the seat next to him and I sat down. We had passed the joint back and forth a couple of times when he asked me if I would supercharge him.

                “Huh?” I queried.

                He laughed and showed me how to do it. He took a deep toke, held it, then took the joint and turned it around and put the hot part in his mouth. Carefully pursing his lips on the joint in the middle, he blew a steady stream of smoke out the end of the joint. I inhaled it through my mouth and nose.

                Wow! “Learn something new every day,” I thought. I returned the favor. We were both feeling pretty good by then. “They Call Me Mellow Yellow” was running through my head.

&nbs