Our first kiss was on a magic mushroom trip. Let me tell you, nothing is more passionate than a mushroom kiss. Trust me. Well, at least nothing I’ve experienced. We stood there, upstairs secluded from the party happening below us, exploding with electricity, loud music, neon, and more drugs. The party I mean, not us. I remember feeling her before she was there, soft and wet, gently touching my lips with the delicacy of light bouncing around a room. But maybe it was just the anticipation and expectation and me finally understanding why she’d been acting like she wanted to kiss me.
I remember feeling her hand falling perfectly on my shoulder, with such a weightlessness that I had to look to make sure I wasn’t just imagining that slight touch. I remember mimicking this act by placing my own right hand, in a similar transparency, on the small of her back, open-palmed. The little fingers of her spine locking with mine. So subtle. Ghosts would have been envious.
* * *
The music suddenly dies. It doesn’t matter to us what the DJ is planning on playing next. It doesn’t matter that the stair people, barely alive, shrouded in shadow, could see us if they had the slightest bit of sober competence to just look up. It doesn’t matter that I’m out of smokes and don’t have a way home, or that it’s already pushing four o’clock on a Sunday morning.
There is a lifetime of decadence at this simple little party. Except for us - we have never been more alive.
Birth, rebirth, death, us.
Yes, for this brief moment, I forget about the vibrant symbol comparable to those of the Mayans’ melting out of the previously dull, white wall, save for the little cracks running up and down on the surface. Proof of a long and purposeful existence of holding up a roof. And there: my own personal wallpaper. But I don’t care.
Looking into her eyes I find serenity, a place I don‘t see too often. I see the reflection of my own in a pearly blue world. The thing I remember the most is gazing into her into me as she inches a bit closer, biting at her lower lip, and sighs in a low whisper:
“Can we do that again?”
* * *
My Wingman is the first of us to learn about the existence of the aforementioned mentioned party. I work with my Wingman. Together, at a local restaurant, we cook meals and take shit.
“These fries look burnt.”
“This steak is cold.”
“Where’s my salsa?”
Together we endure a long shift at a job we despise.
“Order up!”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah…”
I briefly wonder how much I would enjoy covertly placing my saliva on those fries, but then my Wingman says something that averts my attention:
“Are you going to that party later?”
This is a vague statement. I am intrigued.
We all gather religiously around him as he clarifies its meaning. Talking in long, articulate syllables, he recites the address over, and over, and over, and over. It becomes a chant. We conjure up the sacred house number.
Finally the simple sequence of numerals are imprinted infinitely in our memories. My response is as blunt and purposely casual as the inquiry:
“Yeah man, can I get a ride?”
“Sure,”
He replies,
“But we have to pick up Dannyboy too.”
This is the moment when he receives the title of Wingman.
And I hope she’ll be there.
I don’t even bother to ask who Dannyboy is.
Let’s take a break for a minute for me to describe my friend:
He is a very important character. He is short. He is surly. He is hairy. He is not always my Wingman, but at this particular outing he was. He is Fowler. Without him this story would not exist. Without him, I would not have been informed. He is just as important as I am. Remember that. Fowler is the kind of guy who understands too much of the world to take it seriously at all. Fowler is the kind of guy who cares about only the subjects that he decides are of the highest importance. To Fowler the world is a bad joke, and he is there to make fun of it. Always, always laughing.
Okay, now you know a little bit about my Wingman, so I’ll continue.
We finish work at the same time, in a sober disappointment that it is already almost midnight on a Saturday and we have a lot of catching up to do. It is a unanimous decision to instead walk the fifteen-or-so blocks to the place so we can begin the alcoholic ingestion on the way.
But there’s that one little thing:
“I got to go to The Man’s house,”
Are the words that come flooding out of my mouth alongside the fog of my breath in the cool winter air,
“and pick up a few grams.”
There is an unspoken agreement between the two figures in the silence of the freezing cold, the night always seeming a little brighter than usual at this time of year. The streetlights reflecting off of the white, powdery ground. They change their direction without discussion. This destination is found almost by instinct. It’s scary stuff kids, your parents got a good mind to warn you.
We spark a match and light up a bunch of broken-up marijuana that has been avidly wrapped in a little piece of paper. This is a joint, and its purpose is to warm our lungs up on the way, and to also suddenly change simple tasks into an overwhelming sense of confusion and doubt. The world becomes judgmental and slightly fuzzy. The light snow falling like God’s dandruff from the sky, and the wind blowing unceasingly like a slap in the face just kind of stop mattering for a little while.
We stumble.
We giggle.
We have the inability to use proper sentence structure.
I look at Fowler:
“Hey man, you know, uh…fuck, what was I saying…?”
* * *
Our eyes stare into pink hell. We’re now about twenty minutes into the future, or about twelve blocks away. This is the little pink house where the deals are done.
This house stands alone on the block. It seems secluded by all things, and I see a single light on in a back room. This is the only house I can go to at any hour unexpected and be welcomed with open arms. This is the only house I’d want to go to at any hour anyways.
We make our way to the front steps, thick ice covering them for weeks, and attempt to knock. During my first try, I realize that the window has since been punched out following my previous meeting. The second knock proves successful as I connect with wood. Loud and resonating.
A movement from inside. Strange how you can always feel if a person is home before you see them answering the door.
Then, there he was. The Man stood before me with a friendly grin on his face, ready to welcome me into the house of madness. At least madness would be warm.
The Man: this is a guy who may be the last authentic hippie I know. His hair is long and blonde, riddled with curls. It hasn’t been washed in weeks, and the same goes for his clothes. These are thrift store clothes, and they’ve been dirty since before he got them. His broad chin juts out as he reveals his surprisingly perfect teeth in a smile used to comfort old friends, and I fail in my attempt to reanimate it on my own face. He has a theory about shoes: “why should my feet fear mother nature?” he preaches. He doesn’t wear shoes. He talks in a type of formality that isn’t heard anywhere anymore, but it’s just the thing you’d expect from him.
“Why hello there, Mr. Matthews,”
He verbalizes as he moves in to shake my hand. He smells like body odour and I find a hypocrisy to his speech craft. The Man gives a nod to Fowler, who is standing loyally beside me and continues,
“Well, come in my friend, let us speak awhile!”
I take a couple of steps towards a chaotic scene hidden behind a great wall of pink.
In the entranceway of this pink little house, there are mismatched shoes everywhere. I decide that there may only be two of these that have a corresponding counterpart, then avert my eyes. Random pots, some empty, some hosting a variety of plants, cover the rest of the floor space. Let me tell you, it is impossible for me to judge whether it’s strange that these plants aren‘t illegal. But in any case, there they are. Everywhere. A sea of foliage.
It is necessary at this point for me to explain that this is Fowler’s first visit to The Man’s house, so as we hop over the plants and into the living room, he gives me a glance that exposes his awkwardness. A glance that screams:
“Fuck you, I’m leaving!”
But there’s business to be done, and he knows it, too.
The living room is generally where our transactions take place, and this time there is no exception. We take our seats respectively on the stinky old brown couches with the golden floral pattern. These were probably salvaged from an alley near here, but nothing is mentioned. In the right corner of the room stands a mannequin. She holds a burned copy of the Book of Mormon, triumphantly raised in her left hand. On her head rests a mitre. I have no idea where The Man got this. The mannequin stands proudly naked, and someone has taken the liberty of adding the correct anatomical features with a magic marker, as well with some supplemental handwriting.
“suck here,” is written next to the nipple.
“squeeze here,” on the ass.
“bite here,” is next to the left ear.
This is all very useful information, but it is unimportant at the time being.
The coffee table lays host to piles of pizza boxes from a variety of franchises, along with a surplus of ashtrays, pipes, and beer cans. The walls of this room are covered in gibberish written by whoever, alongside some of The Man’s personal artwork. The mysteries of the mind can be endless when you’re stoned.
“So, what are you looking for today, Bernie?”
Comes The Man’s straightforward question. This is good, I think. The less small talk the better. Being in a house this crazy makes me begin to question my own sanity.
“About three,”
This is my two-word response, but he knows what I mean. Fowler sits beside me. Destitute.
The Man begins to dig around through several different soup bowls that lie underneath his coffee table. This house continues to gnaw at my unconscious, so I reach into my pocket to retrieve my smokes. As I bring the stick to my mouth, he suddenly stops his searching and gives me a cold look.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa man. No smoking in here. Didn’t you see the sign?”
The Man points to a non-smoking sign stuck to the ceiling and I wonder if he’s joking, but decide to play it safe.
“Oh,” I say, “sorry,” I say, and remove the smoke from my mouth and place it back in the pack with its friends.
Suddenly, Fowler speaks for the first time:
“Where’s the bathroom, man?”
He inquires. That little something extra. “Man.” This is tactful to feign a friendship between the two. It makes Fowler seem more casual than he feels in here.
“Go through the kitchen,”
The Man responds, pointing into the next room without looking,
“And it will be that first door you see on your left, sir.”
As Fowler makes his exit from the living room, I get handed a small sealable bag with a few miniature green pinecones inside.
“That is some good stuff my friend,”
The Man assures me I‘ll have myself an enjoyable time,
“You will have yourself an enjoyable time. That comes to thirty dollars, please.”
I cough up the dough.
“Oh!”
He suddenly shouts in an excitement that causes me to startle, confused,
“I just received a shipment of chocolate snacks. Are you interested?”
Now, a chocolate snack is his way of asking me if I want to buy some magic mushrooms from him. However, these are no ordinary mushrooms. These have been ground up and thrown into a recipe along with cocoa and butter and various other unimportant ingredients to create a little ball of chocolate hallucinogenic. This is nice because it eliminates the cat-piss taste of mushrooms, and I know his shit is usually good.
So I think, why not? I’m already here. The Man is a terrific salesman in this sense. I’m convinced:
“Sure, how much?”
“Ten.”
That’s just the price you pay for artificial enlightenment. Another deal is made as Fowler returns to the room, and I can tell that he wasn’t expecting every square-inch of the bathroom to be covered in pornography. Things like a picture of a woman brandishing an erect penis with the subtitle “Oh Man!” Things like a picture of a sixty-year-old woman performing fellatio on a man young enough to be her grandson. And finally, things like your traditional sex positions, but a little exaggerated. Nothing feels that good. Well, at least nothing I’ve experienced. I almost laugh at my Wingman, but decide it would be rude. The Man takes his abode seriously. Taking his seat, Fowler leans into me:
“Dannyboy is already waiting for us at the party.”
He says with some urgency. Again, I’ve never met Dannyboy before, but from what I understand, he and Fowler go way back.
“Well, we should get going,”
Is what I breathe a little clumsily as I begin to stand,
“We have a party to get to…”
The Man leads us to the door with a speed I was too happy to experience. It is understood that this meeting was just business.
I pop the little snack into my mouth as we exit down the front steps. I’m never happier to gaze into civilization as we leave that house, stinking of insanity. Personal pink hell. I enjoy the hurt of the cold, and I’m sure Fowler’s thoughts are similar.
I’ve got about thirty minutes before this shit hits me.
* * *
Much later:
I’m sitting shotgun in a car making its way to the city. The capital. This is a drive that runs about two hours long. Golden streaks bless the sky as natural colour is introduced back into the world for the first time in hours. The mushrooms might be almost done, but I can still feel a love for all things during the serenity of the dawn. The pot might have caused me to burn out ages ago, but I still feel alive as we accelerate down the highway leaking into a new day. The alcohol might still be in my system, but I don’t feel like puking. Not anymore. My night promised me a heap of shit for the future, but right then, in that moment, I didn’t care.
“Almost there,”
Comes Marshall’s voice from beside me, as he skips through the tracks on the CD player in his attempt to find any traces of Led Zeppelin.
Who’s Marshall?
A character irrelevant to the sum of this story.
I close my eyes and engross myself in dreams. There’s a whole world waiting inside. An internal place that confuses me more than anything out here ever can.
Much, much later:
I wake up in a parking lot.
* * *
It’s only at the last moment that doubt begins to creep up on us. Taped to the front door of the house is a bright green sign proclaiming:
“NEON OR NAKED”
As we quickly analyze ourselves, we conclude that we definitely are not wearing anything neon. Also, we are not naked.
“This party might be lame,”
Fowler voices what’s on both of our minds, as he scans himself over once more for good measure. I nod in agreement, unsure of what my next move should be, but I do want to venture into the thing. I just needed to know if she was in there amongst it all.
Finding the house was not difficult at all. We heard the vibrations of the bass from a block away, its intensity increasing with every step we took closer to the DJ. As the shit began to flow through me, I had the sudden realization that I could see music. And it was beautiful.
But then, as if he was making a decision for us, Dannyboy opens the door to escape into the pleasures of a cigarette. This is the first time I have ever seen Dannyboy, but from the immediate impression I got that Fowler and him went way back it dawned on me that he was the face to match the guy I’d heard so much about.
“Fowler!”
Shouts Dannyboy, arms embracing.
“Danny!”
Fowler replies, his own arms an echo.
I slip inside while they begin to talk about things foreign to me. This is the last you’ll hear about Fowler, I hope you liked him.
Dannyboy: this man is everything I am not. Just glancing at him I feel the weightlessness of innocence and purity. It seems to me that he’s the type of friend who would take a knife to the throat for you just so you wouldn’t have to feel the pain. He’s tall, blonde, and soft spoken. All over the party people line up to talk to him about inebriated feelings. The whole time I observe in a jealous stupor.
When I get inside I finally stop asking myself
“Am I high yet?”
And start having to remind myself
“Just chill, you’re on mushrooms.”
Strange vibes suddenly come rushing like an eruption out of everything. And I mean everything. Everywhere things get a little more personal as I find myself asking
“What did I do to piss off the fish tank?”
I sit and wonder which rooms of the house could be conspiring against me, or what the couch thinks about my clothes. The ground beneath my feet turns into a rushing river of bubbling magma, and all around the neon people come dancing, brighter than the sun.
In the living room I sit myself down beside a circle of fiends taking heaves from a bubbling concoction. All this time and anticipation and I don’t even notice that I’m seated right beside her until she breathes the smoke into my face.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Our eyes meet and stay locked for what seems like an eternity, and I’m glad. She’s got what the kids call “vampire eyes“. I know those pupils are just as dilated as mine, and for the exact same reason. Don’t ask me why they call it “vampire eyes”. What ghouls we are. As if to prove my point further, a person walking by with a glow stick is what breaks our eye contact, and we’re both delighted.
Suddenly, I recognize all the eyes to be on me, and she’s been holding out the bong for what seems like ages. I take it, embarrassed.
Light.
Suck.
Pull.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I look up and her spot is vacant. Whatever, I have to take a piss anyways.
Upstairs, past the fiends, past the dance floor, past the loud music, past the neon, past the stair people, the bathroom door is locked. I sigh. But then:
“Bernie…”
It’s the only voice I want to hear. Sweet and quiet, it’s:
“Audry…”
I answer, turning. Looking into that pearly blue abyss. She stands off by the stair people, dark hair hiding her shoulders. Vintage yellow shorts, a David Bowie t-shirt. Her hands are dry, but so are mine. I sigh.
“I need to talk to you about something,”
Comes that low whisper. I nod. She blushes as she comes towards me, back to the door, and begins talking only in similes:
“Its like, uh, you know as if… um, like you know what I mean, right?”
Her arms grasp around the air as if she could pull words out of nowhere. Like two subdivisions of a singular consciousness, I do. Somehow I do. I extract what little I can from the sentence and I know what she means. She means exactly what I mean. It's like love, or more like psilocybin I guess. Moving with purpose, our lips meet with such an electric charge that the party below should have died in a flicker. One powerful surge after another, nothing exists but this.
But there’s that one little thing:
“Hold on,”
I hear Audry’s voice speak,
“I just,”
She searches for a way to explain without grasping for her nowhere words,
“I’m kind of seeing this guy, so…”
I don’t care to listen anymore. The end is just as sudden as the beginning.
Emerging from the doorway of the bathroom, standing like a fibre-optic Jesus in all his purity, I understand. The figure outlined with the bright light from the shitter makes my gut sink like an anchor in a sea of sorrow. I realize why Dannyboy has looked so shocked for the past five minutes.
“Can we do that again?”
