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?”
“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.
“927, oh fuck. I don’t know”
“714 731-1883,” I say.
“Carl Marcus,” I say.
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.”
“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.
Tamarind and I walked the produce section of Ralph’s. I stopped to check the ripeness of the Radicchio.
‘I need a painter,’ she said as she squeezed melons.
I watched her meticulously unpack and then restock cantaloupes out of the bin, but made no decision. She didn’t find the ripeness she was on a quest for.
‘Mathias will do it.’ The Radicchio looked fine. I mean how do you even really tell the difference anyway? Must be a color thing. Outside of iceberg lettuce and tomatoes and basic table veggies, I really haven’t a clue.
‘I need my apartment painted.’
‘Oh, he’s not that kind of painter.’ I looked over the herbs and spices. I don’t know. What am I doing? All the sudden I was overwhelmed with everything in the store. Where does all this go if nobody buys it? Right in the garbage, I presume. What a waste.
‘Oh? I see he’s a painter painter?’ Now she was on to the bananas. She took a combo of half-green and half-yellow. Smart move.
‘Yeah but not a paInter’s painter.’
‘So like a man’s man painter, canvases? Like a gay painter.’
That threw me, ‘No not gay, but angry and edgy. Does oil paintings. Like most artists. a self-centered prick.”
‘Is he a drug addict, an alcoholic? Any redeeming damage that would spell talent?’
‘No. He’s very green, still lives at home. Paints still life stuff, country cottage shit, but with a twist.’
‘What possible twist could make those Kincadian abortions palatable?’
‘Whoa! Easy! He paints them with military scenes, foot soldiers & drones. Like, circling the cottages and bombing them. It’s kind of cool.’ I picked up a bag of lettuce, “pre-washed” it said, with what? Did some guy squirt it with a garden hose while it’s in the picking basket? Did it get sprayed with reclaimed water on a conveyor belt? While all this spun in my head.
‘Oh my god! No way!” She squealed. She picked up a watermelon. Can’t check that for ripeness. Or can you? She tossed it in the cart, smashing the bananas.
‘Fuck it! I want him to paint that scene on my living room fucking wall!’ A young hippie(ish) mom quickly covered her son’s ears and shushed her. She waved her off, ‘are you kidding that is unique and cool as fuck!’
‘On canvas or on the bare wall?’
‘What’s the difference?’ Tamarind was now just throwing things in the cart, grapes, mangoes, obviously, she no longer focused or cares about freshness or ripeness. She was obsessing on the “Kincade” cottage explosion scenes.
‘Well there’s a big difference, if he puts it on a canvas at least you can take it with you when you move.’
‘Oh yeah. I want a canvas. Definitely’ she said simultaneously squeezing peaches. I picked up a plastic box of spinach. “Organic,” it said. Was it? Was anything organic? Isn’t there carcinogens free-floating everywhere at this point? But that wouldn’t have to do with organically grown I guess. I placed it in the cart.
‘How big is the wall.’ Seriously who would want to put a whole scene of an apocalyptic Kincaid on their wall? Maybe I can make a commission if I get him to paint it?
‘Oh like,’ she spread her arms across and up and down.
‘That’s like 8×10 feet. You’re talking like thousands and thousands of dollars.’
‘I don’t care call him!’ I decided it best to give her the number directly. I don’t need a commission. They’ll both have to fight it out.