Authors: Chuck Stepanek
Although he was seeing pot and the funny little fairy pipe for the first time, Demon was not alarmed. Curious, yes, skeptical,
maybe a little. But in this one night alone, the Bird had opened up so many new and wonderful doors, that Demon was agreeable to any new adventure. If the Bird had produced a bottle of Drano from the cigar box and suggested they drink it, Demon would have chugged his share.
“What does it do to you?” The question: clinical.
“It makes you feel like you’re floating!” The answer: mysterious, enticing; accurate.
“But don’t expect too much. Most people don’t get high their first time.”
Demon felt reassured if not a little discouraged.
He watched as the Bird carefully filled the fairy pipe with buds and shake from the baggie. He held the cigar box firmly between his legs to prevent the loss of any precious droppings. “If this was plain old Mexican you probably wouldn’t get a buzz. But this is Columbian Gold! “bllp-bllp-bllp-bllp meep! meep!”
Demon produced a smile, but just a small one, as the Bird finished his preparations and then pulled out his bic. With instructional sincerity: “Now this is gonna be harsher than the Kools. Go easy on your first few puffs. After you inhale, try to hold it for 20 seconds.”
The Bird flamed the bic and lit a small corner of the bowl. Immediately the car filled with a pungent tang of smoldering alfalfa. He got a mouthful of smoke and then sucked in air noisily to demonstrate the proper technique for driving the gold deep inside the lungs.
“Here,
”
h
e held out the pipe. The word sounded more like ‘ear’ as the Bird labored not to lose even a wisp of the precious smoke.
Demon took the pipe.
It was small but much heavier than he expected. The bowl and stem were steel at the core. Raised ribs of insulation helped to protect fingers from the hot metal and provide an easy grip for clumsy stoners. He could see the small cherry ember in the bowl and the tendril of smoke it created.
He took a hit.
Unlike the filtered Kools, the pipe offered no resistance. Demon pulled in smoke, then emulated the Bird by sucking in air.
It was too much;
way
too much.
Demon choked and buckled. His body lurched forward, the pipe swaying perilously.
Only the foresight and quick action of the Bird prevented the bowlful of precious golden leaf from being lost on the floorboard. Bird used both hands, one to steady and one to retrieve. He exhaled his own hit, transferred the pipe to his left, and with his right patted the D-man on the back.
“Go easy, I told you to go easy man!” The Bird laughed in commiseration and gave his passenger a few more healthy pats.
When the smoke had entered Demon’s lungs, they revolted. A message was sent to his brain “shut off the intake valve!” His brain responded, closing down his windpipe and alerting the throat to cough. The throat obeyed and all of the smoke in the upper deck was expelled. The smoke in his lower deck, locked in by the windpipe, was driven even deeper into his lungs. There the THC molecules impregnated the virgin alveoli.
“Oh man, that was a monster hit!” the Bird laughed kindly. “Open the door man, get some new air!”
Demon fumbled for the door handle, found it, and then leaned out the Falcon’s right side coughing, wheezing and spitting. The indignity lasted a couple of minutes; the Bird offering bright
words of commiseration. “Don’t go dying on me D-man! You got too much to live for. Bussin’ tables at the Prospect-hole! Plus there’s Rosie the hostess, you know she wants you, I seen it! She wants you to prospect her hole in the Walk-in cooler! Hell you ain’t even been on 14 hills road! So much to live for!” The Bird bounced in his seat, “bllp-bllp-bllp-bllp meep! meep!”
That sent Demon into convulsions. He choked, laughed, cried and whacked his hands on his legs. “The p-prospect h-h-hole!” He wept with laughter, risking a look at the Bird who had the
world’s
biggest shit-eating grin on his face.
He coughed and choked and spit and then coughed some more, but he felt like he was in heaven.
He had tried pot.
It didn’t make him go insane or hallucinate. All it had done was make him cough, and yes the Bird had warned him to go easy. So when the question was raised, if he was ready to try again, he was indeed ready.
It went much better. The pipe was passed, the hits more manageable. His body, now acclimated to the new stranger, accepted it with less protest. As the bowl ebbed, Demon felt a gummy sensation creep over his body. He looked at the Bird who had gone uncharacteristically quiet, then attributed it to the need to hold in the smoke (for 20 seconds) on each hit.
“Hee-hee-hee! Here we go D-man!” The Bird tapped out the burnt residue in the ashtray, stashed his goods back in the cigar box, and fired up the Falcon. “Oh fucking-A! We need tunes!” From the storage tray he selected an eight track and planted it into a clever little trap door on the console. “We got us some fuckin’ Pink Floyd. I even have it cued up to the best part!”
There was a pause as the Bird adjusted a few knobs. And then from the back of the car came the most exquisite sound ever to land upon Demon’s ears.
Cha-chink. Ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet. Plunk-plunk. Ding.
Cha-chink. Ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet. Plunk-plunk. Ding.
The sound! It was on his right side--cha-chink! Then ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet; crossed his brain to the left! And then to the middle where coins plunked into a cash register!
Demon
had
to look. He whipped his head around, knowing better, but still half expecting to see some mechanical source of the sound. The only thing he saw was his derelict bike.
“Ha! You like that De-man? Fuckin’ Dark side of the Moon rocks. Now, let’s do some hills!” The Falcon was put into drive. And unlike his tire-spinning departure from the Prospector, the Bird deliberately eased back onto the highway and turned right onto highway 6, a.k.a. fourteen hills road.
4
For his entire life, Demon’s view of the world had been one dimensional. Now, finally, he was getting a glimpse at how other people experienced the world.
Everything had suddenly become
two
-dimensional.
As they drove toward the promised land of 14 hills road he focused on the music. The sounds touched one ear, the other, then crossed and merged in-between. The thumping cadence of a guitar sounded like (felt like) footsteps trudging across his brain. He could see, imagine, a little man (with heavy shoes) thumping around in his head. The sensation was exquisite.
“Money, it’s a crime.” The Bird joined the lyrics. “Good, good, good bullshit.” He shouted the last word defiantly and laughed at the D-man.
Demon was enthralled by the music. It floated this way and that through his mind. It seemed to match the pace of the Falcon. The ride and the music commingled. He settled into the seat, feeling the cushion of the padding and the smooth drone of the tires.
“Aww man, I should have cleaned the windshield.” A lament from the Bird. Demon gradually interpreted the comment but could not think of how to respond. The best he could do was slowly, ever so slowly take in the windshield. He looked at the glass above the dash; then stared directly ahead. What he saw caused him to involuntarily drop his mouth in stunned fantasy.
The road was crawling along in slow motion.
In the dead of night the world glowed with vibrant tones. Reflecting off the headlights, the painted shoulder and center lines looked nearly radiant. They appeared to lift off the surface and create individual channels to drive through. It was like gliding along a plastic open air tunnel. The landscape unfolded before his eyes. Windbreaks of ponderosa pines extended their arms and waved the duo along their way. Majestic wooden telephone poles with double struts acted like roadside sentries. The poles floated by, their grandfatherly wise faces acknowledging the progress of the travelers and approving their passage. “Fuckin A, I loooove a smooth road. You ready for the hills D- man?”
Horizontal music had introduced Demon to the second dimension. Time and space relationships had launched him into the third.
Unable to form an answer he merely breathed: “Woooohhh”
The Bird looked at him appreciably. “You stoned?” He laughed victoriously. “That gold must be
really
good to get someone off the first time.”
It
was
really good. And as the first hill approached, Bird slowed the Falcon to allow “Money” to segue into “Us and them.”
“See that sign up there?” The Bird nodded knowingly toward a lighted billboard about a quarter mile ahead. “If I time it just perfect, the hills and the music match!” The pace of both birds, Falcon and Humming, had slowed appreciably. “And you know what’s funny?” He tittered almost girlishly. “That sign” he repeated. “It’s a Rexall
Drug
sign!” He punctuated the word ‘drug’ and laughed hard, taking no offense at the lack of response from his stoned companion.
The car continued its deceleration, from 60, down to 50, 40 and just under. To Demon it felt like 5 miles per hour. Everything was so slow, so easy, and yes, so very, very smooth.
Bird gauged the approach of the sign with his eyes and the final chords of “Money” with his well-trained ears. “D-man,” he teased. “When did we pick up hitchhikers?”
The timing was perfect. Ghostly voices emanated from the back seat, escorting the final chords and sound effects of “Money” to the next track.
This time Demon did not turn to look, the visions in front of him were too captivating. He allowed the voices, and the chink, rattle and plunk, to fade deep into the trunk of the Falcon.
“Money” settled, crossing paths with the dawning of “Us and them,” and they passed the drug sign at the optimum rate of 35 miles an hour.
“Nice.” It would be the last word contributed by the Bird for the next seven minutes and 15 seconds. To interrupt such a wicked combination as ‘Pink Floyd,’ ‘the hills,’ and kick ass Columbian gold would not be cool at all.
5
They were called ‘the hills,’ but a more fitting description would be gentle rolling mounds. Approaching the first rise, mystical softness emanated from the speakers
and visions of twinkling stars and gently moving planets entered their minds. A low saxophone announced their approach. The notes were slow, assuring, their meaning clear: “I understand. Let me guide the way.’
The sax offered mournful encouragement as the first rise unveiled in ultra slow motion. Soulful wails reminded the riders of the need to move slow, avoid fatigue, relax. A single sharp tone was a hint of warning; possible failure. But then the sax laughed; playfully teasing with a little ditty of notes ‘not to worry, all is right, listen to me, feel my music and let it be your friend.’
It was a happy, smiling sound. The car coasted, luxuriating in the easy soulful lullaby.
The foot of hill one.
The Falcon addressed the rise, and as it took to the ascent, the sax gracefully stepped aside. A gentle voice from somewhere beyond the moon took its place.
“Us, us, us, us, us, us, us…”
the Falcon matched the subtle cadence to the precipice.
“and them, them, them, them, them…”
softly back down the gentle mound. They leveled at the bottom:
“And after all we’re only ordinary men.”
Demon was awestruck. He was awash in waves of sensory awareness. In his ears: enchanted magic. His eyes beheld a fantasy world of fluid, vivid depth. His mind; the absence of equilibrium. And throughout his body a feeling of total weightlessness.