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Thursday, March 28, 2024

"Wait ‘til you try this. You won't believe it."

Byers figured it was a foregone conclusion I was going to swallow this shit. He knew my weaknesses.

"I don't know Ron, LSD is an acronym. It's ‘Lookout Super Dope.' You just started smoking pot, and already you're screwing around with this shit."

"Exactly," he said. "You turned me on to pot, now I'll do you a favor. You'll love it. Come on, it's a beautiful day to trip. You'll thank me for this."

I met Ron at Charleston Air Force Base. I had completed basic training and had volunteered worldwide. With the military's trademark wisdom, they sent me to South Carolina.

Ron was dead-on about the beautiful day, so maybe he was right about this. It was May, and Charleston's palmettos sported the small white flowers that blossomed on their long green leaves in early summer. The Spanish moss hung like tinsel, and the air was thick with all sorts of pleasant smells.

It was a perfect day to get whacked.

I examined the small orange keg. It was no bigger than a rice kernel. How much damage could it do?

We dropped the barrel acid on the way to the diner. Shortly after breakfast, we were driving in Ron's car, and I felt a funny flavor in my mouth.

An acerbic, tart tang, like lemon drops, made me rub my tongue across my teeth. My lips reacted involuntarily and mimicked sounds crude construction workers make when a pretty girl walks by.

I glanced at Byers. His head was inflating. Waves of exhilaration fluttered through my body as an effulgent smile tattooed my face. Moments ago, I was colorblind, but now everything was bright, crisp and clear.

I tossed a piece of gum in my mouth. It exploded with flavors.

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"Oh my God this gum is fantastic," I thought to myself. "What is this shit called? ‘Juicy Fruit'? Do other people know about this stuff? How do they keep this on the shelves? Wait until people hear about this stuff."

The radio knobs began to melt and dripped onto the floor mat. The radio dissolved completely, but the music continued. A shiver started at my heels, crept up my spine and then exploded into my brain.

I grasped a shaky Marlboro. I brought the cigarette to my mouth, but my Zippo was expanding and shrinking in my hand. It was as complicated as the spaceship's cockpit. I couldn't figure out how it opened. It took three traffic lights to light my cigarette.

Then came the epiphany - the lunatic driving the car was as whacked as I am. Christ, tying a shoelace would be complicated.

When another rush of the acid staggers me, I sneaked a cautious peak over at Ron. His tongue was thrust out of his mouth like a fat, sleek seal. It belonged in a cartoon.

"Holy shit Byers! How in the hell can you drive?"

"I just follow the white line, man," he said. "Wherever it goes, I go."

This wisdom placated my twisted brain a moment until I turned to look out of the passenger window. Another vehicle was passing, but its four wheels were facing me. My head shook violently from side to side, hoping to correct my vision; nothing changed. The car lay completely on its side, yet it was zooming past me. The car's front had passed, but the rear end lagged way behind - stretched, elongated, like a slinky. The hood patiently waited. Magically, the trunk scurried to catch up.

"Byers," I screeched, "did you see that car?"

He laughed and nodded rapidly like a bobble head.

I relaxed a moment.

Then I remembered; he was still driving.

What little part of my brain still functioned screamed, "Wake up asshole! This guy has your life in his hands."

"Byers, you can't drive like this," I yelled. "You've got to pull over."

Traffic suddenly stopped. Ahead loomed a bridge. The two or three cars ahead of us awaited the go-ahead. Swing-bridges dipped on pivot mechanisms to open.

Once turned at right angles, boats cruised through the newly created void. The bridge turned 90 degrees instead of opening vertically like usual drawbridges.

When the structure swiveled, Byers said, "Isn't this acid amazing? Doesn't it look like the bridge is rotating?"

"Yeah, holy shit it does - unbelievable. The steel looks like it's going sideways."

But wait a minute. If the bridge was not actually turning, why were all the other cars stopping?

"I got it," said the man behind the wheel. "Everybody's tripping."

Of course, he was right. Everybody was doing LSD. What was I worried about? The driver had everything under control. Byers' cunning analysis reassured me. I was in competent hands.

After the bridge incident, Byers drove to what appeared to be a park, acres and acres of uninhabited land. I was besieged by massive amounts of birds: flocks and flocks of screeching, cawing, squawking pelicans, seagulls and pigeons.

This was more like it. No stress. I didn't want to deal with straight people. If I saw a cop, I'd collapse.

With just a nice leisurely stroll around this glorious acreage, the waves of exhilaration continued, and the colors and sounds were absolutely beautiful - really gorgeous.

Suddenly the movie "Yellow Submarine" became clear. The colors, the swollen body shapes, the elongated appendages-they now made sense.

Everything was exactly like that. I was living in a cartoon. I had a new perspective. The insight the LSD implanted in my brain blew my mind, and for the first time, I recognized reality.

I turned to Byers, "Wow man, thanks, this is the greatest day of my life. Really cool, and this place you brought me to, perfect. It's really beautiful: all the wildlife, the pelicans, seagulls and pigeons. I mean really exquisite."

"I knew you'd love the acid," Ron said. "But try and keep things in perspective. We're in the Charleston city dump." But just as he spoke, a seagull rose like the phoenix from one pile of garbage and settled effortlessly on another. In majestic slow motion, the bird's wings fluttered to a halt and seemed to flap in a magical, poetic cadence. It was a rhythm that only a musician or spiritualist could appreciate.

"Wow man, garbage dump or not, this place is magnificent. It's paradise. I could stay here forever."

Well, at least until the acid wore off, or I found another bridge to drive off.

Bill O'Connor is a Vietnam veteran, former Bronx firefighter and pub and restaurant owner. O'Connor is currently a journalism major at UF and a standup comic. The irreverent and acerbic O'Connor performs free standup around Gainesville.

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