A pleasant journey to the Hash Hut

As we floundered around for awhile in Huguenot, I began to think back in thought to last summer. The summer of '81. It was the last time I had taken mescaline, and as I can remember the sun was descending over Oakwood Heights. I had just purchased four large nickel bags of weed at the station, along with 6 hits of double barrel purple mesc. Upon doing this, I decided to pay my friend Richie a visit, and so I hopped on the train and got off
in Huguenot. Rich greeted me at the door and from there we shuffled upstairs to his room. I showed him the four bags and his eyes widened.
I then proceeded to unveil the worlds smallest pills. They were 1/16 in diameter, and looked quite harmless under the warming glow of a 40 watt table lamp, cast in the delightful shape of a little red train. I would say his room had not changed a wink, since he was five years old. Such a calming effect it had on me, I could have almost stayed there. Rich knew better and would not agree to have any part of them. I was now in a precarious situation, for the night was at a standstill until the six little dots were gone. Why was he being so stubborn? Did he not trust me? Were we not friends? Eventually, he would agree to the taking of three as would I, and all seemed to be on an even keel from that moment on. Some time elapsed before we gathered what we needed for the journey and left. As we carried ourselves to the station, I would begin to ascertain in no uncertain words, a mild feeling of intoxication followed by delight. Then, a disoriented mood accompanied by sluggishness and impaired judgment.

An angel crossed my path with amber eyes and a low cut dress.
She was as beautiful as an evening primrose in the dying sun
and while her image left me like a falling tear,
her perfume stayed behind to tantalize my senses.

I now felt as though I had no name.
I was alive but had I ever been born?
Similar to a blade of grass that grows slowly,
or an ant peeking up through a crack in the concrete.
Tonight, I would be traveling incognito.

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A dazed and confused feeling turned to self awareness as I boarded the train. When the conductor came toward us to stretch out his hand, my
first impulse was to shake it, and I like a fool almost did. I stuttered and bumbled my words before grappling for change in my pocket. Rich began laughing uncontrollably and nearly fell to the floor, while the conductor appeared to be growing more and more impatient. I was finally able to give him the desired amount in silver coins which he immediately deposited into the rapid change dispenser attached to his waist. Rich had a harder time for he was debilitated by laughter.

As I watched the conductor pull open the door and enter the next car,
I looked around before coughing into my hand. This action brought about no response from any of the other passengers, and I began to feel almost invisible. As I looked around at all these strange yet interesting people,
I thought of the prospect of one day living a normal life.

There was a venerable woman alongside of us sitting next to an Asian man who had between his legs a tan briefcase. He was reading a newspaper, and I assumed it was stocks but what was in that briefcase I wondered?
I suppose that will forever remain a mystery. Sort of like, what was it exactly that was thrown from the Tallahatchie bridge? An elderly couple
to the right were holding hands and seemed so genuinely happy together
it made me feel as though I could have cried.

How long were they together?
Could they have been in love since high school?

The more I found myself observing them, the less happy I became.
A sadness had begun to well up within me and inside of a minute it
was boiling over into my subconscious thoughts. A sadness I could
not control. A sadness that would take hold of me and consume me,
if I were to let it.

Two rotund women dressed in black were seated together at the
far end of the car and seemed to be communicating with each other
solely by using their hands. There was a bald man whose head appeared
to be filled with knowledge. A timely gentleman who resembled an aged Dr. Martin Luther King and a quiet young boy who adhered to the hand
of a beautiful brunette, while looking patiently out a dark window. Who is
this fashionable woman with a widow's peak and why is there no wedding band on her ring finger? Better still, who is the subdued young boy cleaving unto her? All these questions that needed answers would eventually be long discarded. Meanwhile, however, in my heart I was vicariously yearning to be that boy again. I then realized something was missing from this train car. Reduce the amount of wall space by having fewer windows. Now add some paintings to the wall and a lengthy elongated mural on the ceiling to make all the passengers feel the comforts of home! I didn't find it necessary to tell anyone about this interesting idea of mine. This profound revelation! Not even my insane friend melting!!!

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Everything was now coming together in such a blundering way, I wasn't sure I could stay on the train a minute longer. My emotions were scattered, and so we exited the train at Oakwood Heights. One stop shy of our intended destination. Stepping across the gap that separated the train from the platform was like reaching out to step over a small creek, while trying not to get one's shoes wet. Waking life had suddenly undergone an intense transformation and was now overblown and baffling. While the ascension was somewhat taxing, the view from the moderately enclosed walkway was rather pleasant.

As I continued my analysis of man's perception in its moot order, the
very night itself which seemed to be pulled from the sky was now falling.
So terribly thick, so viscid was that spectral haze that lined e'er pleasant things. Things no human being should ever fathom, but in this current plane of time, inceptions had already danced around the deja vu.
Two parts logic; a breath into the overture of madness.

Impulsively, a clan of children began taunting each other while laughing forcefully. I threw my mind's switch to the ON position and jumbled a phrase in my head. "Be not deceived by the jeering of the procacious."

A leaf scuttled near my foot before stopping, and I froze in anticipation of its next move. It then made a run for the trees down on Guyon, and I was relieved. I knew that by hurting the thing would have brought God's wrath down upon me faster than a harlot with a hankering for obliquity, and so I allowed him the dignity to continue leafing. I then breathed a sigh of relief before motioning across the street, where my friend followed.

Suddenly, he let go a burst of laughter where he stood teetering in
the mild breeze! He then looked dispassionately at his feet, as if he
was staring down the precipice of a tall building while attempting to
meld within the housing of a dream! Rich, come on man, focus!
He did as he was told, and together we walked the portentous road.

Lifting my head like a whooping crane, I gazed up into the tunnel of trees. Pointing at them, I stood staring, entranced. Ever since I was a young boy, I always loved it when trees on one side of the street connected with trees on the other side of the street to form one joining. Tree tunnels I used to call them, before the city changed the streetlights in the mid 60's from a white luminescent green to gentle amber glow, and I found my attention shifting toward more delicate matters. On some exceedingly narrow
streets you will find, they can even blot out the sun.

Rich then looked up into the fabric of time. Ever wondering. Ever knowing. Hampered by nothing and empowered by all, his mind dripped in a dreamlike setting. He appeared to have a vested interest in things, which had no purpose being, such as, I, and I tried to ascertain if he was learning. Without warning he began twirling 'round and round' to the limbs, which skirted the sky! When he stopped, to look at me, I must have been everywhere as his equilibrium shifted, sending him down to the fading tarmac. His face in awe, he stretched out his arms like, he was on a beach in Aruba! Trying to locate my shirt, he reached out and grabbed only air. After this we proceeded to walk to Master's.

The difference between one and two hits was enormous.
It is the difference between that of night and day.
The difference between two and three hits is beyond logic.
It is the heart of delirium. It is madness redefined.

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As I bathed in the glow of a red neon sign, I watched people enter. Staggering into the department store, I found it to be as long as an
aircraft carrier and as wide as an airplane hanger! I marveled at it quietly for I was totally impressed! While my outer appearance was one of pure contentment, inside, I was struggling to comprehend the majority of everything going on around me.

We walked through a wide maze of clothing until I found, I had gotten the both of us lost. I listened to the instrumental version of a Diane Warwick song being piped in through an inconspicuous air vent in the ceiling. I then asked my friend if he knew the way to San Jose. When he asked me who San Jose was, I knew it was going to be a very long and enduring night.
At which point I figured, why bother explaining something to someone who was slowly slipping away and would soon be gone completely. Follow me, I said to my deranged friend who was now more lost than even I, "we're going to San Jose!" We never quite made it there sadly
and ended up somewhere in the tobacco aisle.

Considering that the place appeared to be deserted and knowing full well that I was never going to find a bathroom, I had to think fast. Feeling an intense urge to urinate, I looked around carefully before unzipping my fly near a tall black column. I was in a state of complete disorientation as my penis came out. "Am I crazy? Have I become an animal, to stoop so low as this?" Not as long as I still have a shred of moral fiber left in my being and an ounce of intelligence, for that matter! With extreme caution, I slipped the dark adder back into my pants and zipped up before turning
to my friend who was found gawking at a mannequin.

Let's pull out, we're pulling out now.

I hastened from that building leaving a trail of electro-charged static
in my ardor! Rich followed behind me in pace, unknowingly collecting
all the lost debris for it clung unto him like a magnet.

We then began the brief walk to my father's house where I was living, at a time when my sisters were still very young and my step mom was really cool. As we walked, I noticed all the phone poles were reclining back, as if they were all playing a lighted jazz horn. How mellow was everything now, in a grotesquely deformed kind of way! Not wanting to go into the house as of yet, we went across the street to the rotting facade of the old Calabrase house. Some people called it the haunted house, but me and my friend Steve had nicknamed it the hash hut. Do I have to explain why? I didn't think so! On a vacant stretch of land sat this dilapidated shack and to me, it looked like it would soon collapse.

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Like it was trying so hard to keep itself fastened to the earth for fear of falling. Its sovereignty had long since moved on never to return, leaving
it to fend for itself and from a distance it resembled an evil doll house.
How daunting it looked toward evening!

When I asked my grandmother about the house, she told me that
Pasquelle and Mira moved there in 1932 and left in 1956. She said they were very quiet people who always kept to themselves and never bothered anyone. No one knew anything about them, and they were rarely seen outside the premises. That was all she ever told me about the Calabrase's. Why the house still stood, I could never know.

From the street we entered, moving the trees and shrubs aside
and walking carefully to the entranceway of the house. The door
was not facing my father's house, but to the left of it.

We walked in white shadows of ominous street lamps glowing to a deafening stillness within the portal of a dark domain. What a weird layout, I thought as I made my ascent up the stairs. Oddly, the stairs were not mounted to the floor, but rather to the side of the house! Like the house was a big block of redwood that the staircase was chiseled out of. Not built from single layers! I then told myself that nothing would be as it seemed tonight. Richie remained behind me the entire way, until we reached the second floor. The big wooden table was still in the center
of the room and there was an empty keg 'o colt six pack just sitting there. Beside it was a piece of cardboard with strange words written on it. I couldn't make anything out of it, because of the darkness, and so I held
it outside to where the light was brightest and the message was revealed.
"I must have just missed you guys. Went to the Monkey Woods today and had three beers in thee ole' tree fort. Then I had a beer in the park by the swings before coming here. Don't know where anyone is today, so I will finish my last two beers in here, before riding off into the sunset. Adios amigos! *8* 6 *81. It was signed, your friend Pete.

I thought of the Monkey Woods then as it flourished in an abundance of green. Such a wonderful escape was it from the sun and the heat. Populated with yellow snapdragons, orange jewelweed and heavenly blue morning glory's sprouting like weeds. What adventurous souls were we, living free and according to our own will. Going wherever our feet would take us, and then returning in the evening hours to sleep. There was nothing wrong or oppressive about us respecting and enjoying that of nature. Or did we have to leave the state to put a bullet through a deer's head to justify ourselves through our actions? Ah, that wonderful place. What went wrong?

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Today it is overrun with oriental bittersweet and has become a tree graveyard. Whenever you see trees with no boughs or branches on them, but yet rather, what looks like a rounded green tombstone or a cluster resembling a cenotaph, it is usually this. Not to mention those cursid thorns! They grow in bushes, as do roses in a garden while circumventing everything in their immediate path! Me and Peter used to go back there in the early 80's with machetes, pruning sheers and a small hand saw to cut them. Some of the individual thorn vines had a diameter of a large orange and a length of over forty feet. We would frequently leave covered in blood, but hey, at least we killed something that deserved it.

Oh man, I must have just missed him on Thursday! I went into the other room where I kept a bottle of Passport scotch. Want a hit? No thanks, said my friend with great effort as this withered, pathetic, tired old home sighed through its exposed plaster, as if trying to accentuate some hidden emotion. As I began to touch gently, the wounded interior of its wood lath, I must have disturbed something in its temporal lay-out, because like a wooden sloth, the whole house stood up on all fours and slowly began to move down the street! Let us out first, I screamed, without thinking!!!
I then looked out the rectangular hole where a window had once been set, to find that the house had not moved at all. It was simply a dead tree limb slapping against the side of the house, but for that one brief moment,
I was truly terrified!

How would I have been able to explain it to the authorities, I thought? If the house had actually decided to shlep over to the next block? I cannot imagine the face of Phil Martinelli waking up in the morning to see this weather-beaten old home resting its britches on his front lawn! I think
his face would fall off!!! It now seems, I was trying to analyze and apply logic to a situation that was so overblown, it lacked the coordinance to redirect itself. So high was I at this point, it was getting difficult to distinguish that which was real from that which was not. The logical from the illogical. I placed the sapphire green bottle upon the old wooden table and looked at my friend. Didn't it just feel like we were on Jumbo the elephant? Then, with a Moroccan accent, I bounced swayingly like a limbo dancer while balancing both arms in the air, as if I were on the giant beast! I then sang a strange and melodic tune. Ga-nna ride Jum-bo, ga-nna ride! I Ga-nna ride Jum-bo, ya wa-nna ride Jum-bo? Rich immediately screamed out and began kicking the table! The mann, he's unstoppable! Please go easy on the laughter, we're gonna wind up in the hoosegow!
"Whose Cow? A boozecow!!!"

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Shhhhh damn it, we could get arrested for being here. Keep it down! So much was this laughter that he was now drooling on the table. I can't help it, he cackled as he thrashed and knocked over my bottle, nearly breaking it. He then began stomping his feet loudly, and I warned him about weak spots in the flooring! Never again, God! Never again!!! Oh boy I said, scrambling for a place to stash the bottle. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. He's gonna fall through the floor, I just know it! Let's go, I said, overflowing with panic at the thought of seeing cop cars and wailing ambulance sirens! Being hauled off to prison was now the worst thought
I could think of. Aside from my friend going through the floorboards and becoming impaled or devoured on whatever was down there! Or even worse, if the floor gave out, and we were both trapped in that sinister darkness! Living bait to become a hollowed out carcass for rats. Under this side room was no floor for it led straight to a locked cellar.

Hide the bottle! Gotta hide the bottle!!! A car is coming, what am I
to do with this bottle? As I scurried about the room like a distressed hamster looking for an adequate hiding spot, I felt like I was becoming more disoriented. This of course, made my friend laugh even harder.
At that exact moment, I felt like a complete and utter horse's ass.

Are you happy now? I said, you made me nervous!

He just kept on laughing and laughing and laughing. We have to leave,
I said panicking. You're going too far now. As Rich went to stand up,
he abruptly threw himself back down into the chair. The only thing
I could see was this crazy bastard going straight down
into a basement full of shovels!

I hid the scotch bottle in the kitchen behind the stove and upon entry into the main room, I lit up a brown Grenadier! So soft were these cigars. So fresh! Ah the pleasantries of home old chap, I said in a Sherlock Holmes voice that seemed to reverberate through the entire house. How about a smoke there laddy? I was very much enjoying the air I was creating, and truly enjoyed speaking this way! Would it be wrong of me to speak this way forever? Would my parent's frown upon my newly adopted tongue? Why should I care what they thought?

You can't boss me around now
and make me adhere to your ways now!!!

"I'll take one of them" said Richie boy, and so I calmly peeled the
cigar band in a circular motion and slid the cigar from its thin cellophane wrapper. I then lit it up for him. "Here you go and be careful; that's the live end." With this he exploded, falling off the chair and crushing
a perfectly good cigar. I helped him up and escorted him carefully
down the stairs, so that there wasn't a tragedy. All the way down
those stairs and all the way out of that house, he guffawed!!!

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