The room isn’t right. It’s not like Alice in Wonderland or anything. Just a barely perceptible difference of geometry letting me know something very strange is coming. I turn to my long-haired companion.
“The walls are… off.”
He looks at me, sweating and a little green. “I gotta puke.”
Puking sounds emanate repeatedly from my toilet. I’m handling his vomiting and my solitude better than I would have thought. Vomiting happens. We’ve both ingested poison. I hear him cough and sputter in the next room. I smile, relishing the warm glow coming from inside my body and dance to The Beatles. I hate the fucking Beatles.
I shout out, “I love everything!”
He’s still puking and my bladder is at critical mass.
“I need to piss. Can I have the toilet?”
He thoughtfully considers my proposition. “Nah, man. I need it.” He hugs the porcelain, resting his head against the bowl. The sleeve of his flannel shirt hangs down.
“Do you care if I piss in the shower next to you?”
Without a thought he bleats, “No. Go for it.”
My piss streams next to his head while he retches bright blue foamy chunks into the toilet.
He’s returned from the toilet and we’re both lying on my bed. I notice a discoloration in the paint that I have never seen before; pale yellow on off-white. I stare at it, trying to find meaning, sinking deeper into a glassy-eyed stare as I consider the larger universe I’ve entered.
My companion stares, glassy eyed into the infinite space of a drug haze. “I am tripping so hard right now.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, clutching a letter I wrote to myself explaining what the fuck is going on. “Are we going to be OK?”
He doesn’t hesitate to reassure me. “Yeah. We’re gonna be OK.”
“I thought so, but I figured I’d ask.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Can I touch you?” The letter falls from my hand with the sweat of a clenched fist dampening the words.
I put my arm around him and hold on for dear life.
Two babies cling to one another, shaking ever so slightly in the middle of a blinding brilliant ball of white light.
My roommate bounds merrily through the door and begins putting groceries away. I feel energized and run out to him.
“Joseph, I’m tripping my face off so you have to be nice to me.”
He’s slightly amused, but unfazed. “What did you take?”
“Mescaline. About 500 milligrams. It looks like a big grey aspirin. Did you know it’s made of salt?”
He keeps putting groceries away while I bounce around the room, looking at everything around me, walking for the sake of walking.
The graveyard is silent and peaceful. This is the last place I thought I would want to come in this state, but I feel more at ease here than I have anywhere else. The trees swirl softly in the breeze. The stones provide a deliciously grey foreground in front of the blue-and-purple sky. I stand near under a tree, walking forward two feet, then back.
“This is really peaceful.”
“Yeah, man,” My companion agrees, his hair softly flipping in the breeze “I don’t know why people are afraid of graveyards.”
We stand there, staring off into the distance, the definition of comfortable silence. Everything is fine.
“It would really suck if there were fire ants here.”
Nothing is fine.
“It’s kind of wearing off. Let’s smoke weed.”
We smoke in benumbed silence.
“How do you feel?”
“It’s sort of coming on again,” I smile warmly, glowing from the inside out. “I wish I could tell my dad about this.”
“I know, dude. It’s like you had your bar mitzvah or something.”
I get up, smoke a bowl and try and make some breakfast. I feel the mescaline kick back in and wonder: Will I ever be normal again?
I sure hope not.