L-25.  Ain’t No Jive

8ish PM July 1979

I’m alone. I’m 15 years old. I’m home alone and I’m frying on acid. I dripped two drops (hits) of liquid L-25 into my eyes, from a medicine dropper.

A friend convinced me to drop it in the eyes to get it, “closer to the grey matter.’’

It worked! Everything is so alive. Vibrating & moving! Colors galore!

My father has ridiculous rooms decorated with rare art, Lladros, and Hummels. They’re all moving and marching!

The art, every oil telling a story on canvas. The Ivory Netsuke’s, pointing and laughing at me!

The Louie Couture style wallpaper moving & speaking regal! I’m appreciating what was boring and old just hours ago.

I’m running through all of it, trying to catch air. I’m like a ballet dancer.

Jumping off Chippendale lounge chairs and a Queen Anne style sofa!

I really believe I can fly. This is happening. I’m floating.

Maybe I have to jump off the roof. There is a pool to break my fall.

I forget the house alarm is on and set it off by stepping on a sensor pad in the living room.

I can’t make the bell connection, where is it coming from? I look at myself in a mirror above the mantle; my face is pulled and taffy-like and urgent. The sound, the ringing?

I have an alarm clock. I wake to an alarm clock, am I dreaming?

But it’s not that. I’m not dreaming, I’m on acid and I know that much.

I don’t get it!

I didn’t set the alarm or the clock.

Finally, I get it.

I turn the house alarm off.

The police are there in what seems like seconds.

‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’

They are trying the doorknob. I see it moving. Ringing the doorbell. They are persistent to get in. To find out who has trespassed.

I’m scared shitless. I breathe deeply. I’m sweating. It’s grim.

I’m at the pinnacle of the L-25 and it’s going to be wrecked by the men in blue.

I open the door.

One cop who’s melting away backward with a .38 special pointed at me, and another with a shotgun, who appears cartoonish and taffy-like.

I feel like I’m looking at them through a ‘fish eye’ lens. Then the questions come quickly.

Like they’re robots and their speech mechanically operated.

“What’s your name?”

“Michael Marcus.”            

“Where do you live?” the shotgun officer says.

“Here,” I say.

“What’s the address here?” the .38 officer says.

“13691, Tea House Lane,” I say.

“Zip Code?”

“927, oh fuck. I don’t know”

“The phone?”

“714 731-1883,” I say.

“Your father?”

“Carl Marcus,” I say.

“Your mother?”

“Which one?”

That breaks his rhythm, confuses him, and he asks if I’m on medication.

“No,” I say.  “Why?”

“Because your eyes are dilated, son.”

“I’m not well,” I say.  “And if you’re done with the questions, I’d like to go to sleep.”

“One minute, son.”

“Yes,”

“What’s the code word?”

The seconds start passing like hours.  There is a code word but I forgot it…then it comes…

“Vent,” I holler.

“Good night, son.” Why does this guy keep calling me “Son?’

The cops leave.

I go to the backyard with a flashlight and explore my Father’s meticulously manicured Banzai garden. Small people inhabit the banzai village. 

I trip around the house, the garage, rummage through photos, boxes, and drawers.

I find super 8 porno films, “Swedish Erotica” and a hand held projector.

I thread the film through the hand-held viewer.

the images are more tiny through the little peep hole they’re moving and going at it in there a group of tiny naked bodies in a little birdhouse I seem to be holding.

I try to jerk-off, but I feel like I’m going to pull my dick off my body. So I stop.  

Then I take my fathers car for a drive, a 1978 Red Corniche Rolls Royce, I’m cruising Lemon Heights. It’s all twinkly and shiny out.

Everything is moving and swirling by. I’m fully aware that I’m in a $115,000 car.

I will get her home safely, my dad and stepmother are on an antique buying trip in New York.

I go home and furiously drink a six pack of Heineken.

Then I sleep. I think I slept, or I hallucinated that I slept.

I woke up and felt like an overgrown putty product, yanked and pulled through this reality’s wormhole. 

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