CHAPTER 23--THE LONG STRANGE TRIP

June 1997

There were bottles too, one for me and you, and he said hey now there you are.

-Van Morrison

I

first heard of the Grateful Dead and Garcia, in fact before he was even fat, when I was in my Harley phase. Some of the Hell's Angels were into them, but I never really was.

Just wasn't into it. Something about Garcia dying, the way it makes you think how you just never know. Shit, then I kept thinking "I'm headed for a sudden, violent death, and there ain't no time, then, Queen, is there?

So, in my mind I'm always at that point, as hard as I try to stay alive, I want to be ready to leap into you, Queen, leap into what once was, and what has yet to come. It takes a certain amount of meditation, cigarettes, and weed; sometimes I'd find myself there in the middle of the fucking road, driving to the next quarter slots, and I'd want to laugh. Laugh because it was all so fucking absurd, and yet we all took it so damn seriously, so much of the time.

Like when I awoke in the van, thinking I'd been asleep for maybe an hour. I looked at my watch. Shit. Shit. Shit. It was 6:30. Show started at 7, and Rooster had said they would sell my ticket if I wasn't there by 7:30. Popped the seat back and fired up the Dodge. An hour seemed like plenty of time so for better or for worse, we joined the steady stream of concert traffic on Boulder Highway about a mile down from the entrance to the Silver Bowl. Judging by my estimate I figured thirty minutes. 45 at the max. Meanwhile, the sudden movement and noise stirred the other two.

"What's going on?" Louie asked.

"We're headed for the concert."

"We're going to a concert?" Ginny asked, innocently enough.

"No, I'm going to a concert. You're going to a parking lot."

"Rather than bounce back with a sarcastic retort or even a simple "fuck you," she acted differently.

Sad.

Withdrawn.

"Oh," she said sullenly. "As long as I can sleep in the van."

"Actually," I said, remembering something I had thought of earlier. "I've got a job for you two. When we park the car, I want you to go out, and round up and buy as many Grateful Dead stickers as you possibly can. I want to disguise this thing."

"That sounds like fun," Louie said.

The sister was, as you can imagine, less than enthusiastic.

"Whatever," she muttered.

That's when I remembered I wanted a cigarette. And I remembered I had left some in a pair of pants in the back of the van. Told Ginny this, and she was happy to retrieve them for us, and we both smoked, much to the one-armed bandit's chagrin. But he knew that then was not the time to fight that battle. Too much shit was up.

After awhile Ginny fell asleep in the back.

With our voices lowered, we talked about her.

"Is she gonna be O.K?"

"Yeah, I think so. It's tough. I know what she's going through. I dunno. It's like we have a bond, or something. Think it's because we're both Pisces."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Don't you know anything about astrology, dude?"

"No, I don't. I think it's a bunch of bullshit, myself."

"Well, I don't, and she doesn’t, and we've pretty much found that when you're both born under the same sign, you tend to have a lot in common."

When we finally pulled into the parking space that the parking attendant directed us to, the place was literally a fucking zoo. A psychedelic zoo. I'd never seen so many fucking heads and hippies in one place.

It was like I could almost expect to see you here in this young, wild crowd. Still just 18, your long brown hair, green eyes. I could see you dancing with these people, just like we innocently danced to the Monkees and the Beatles back in '67. I could see you here, and, every once in a while, I caught a glimpse out the corner of my eye of a girl that looked like you, and I'd almost think it was you. And I'd catch myself.

Thought this because here was this young girl looking a lot like you, skipping up to me as I stepped out of the Dodge.

"Excuse me, Mister, but do you have an extra?"

"An extra what?"

"A ticket, silly?"

"Uh, no, sorry."

"OK thanks," she smiled, and bounced off shouting "Who's got my miracle?"

The sound of drums, congas, and other percussive instruments filtered across the dusty lot. Milling about in every direction, tie-dyed relics and young girls in granny dresses, with unshaven armpits, and wearing very few bras. The smell of marijuana, human sweat, incense, and tobacco swam in the air.

Then I could hear the sound coming from the Silver Bowl. They were rolling the tape of the first set. Looked at my watch: 7:15. Shit, not even the Virtual Dead can start on time. And then that's when the rain came. And lightning. Could tell right away this was going to be one hell of a night. And if I hadn't felt like I was in so much danger, I thought, I might have tried to enjoy it. But, shit, if I didn't dig the Dead when Garcia was alive, well, then what was the point?

Louie came around from the side. I could see Ginny, across the row talking to some folks, bumming a cigarette from one of them. Clearly the party in the parking lot wasn't going to end just because the party on the inside was getting underway. The two of them might have fun out here, I figured. Shit, I pretty much wished I could stay in the parking lot and party.

"Hey, man, this is pretty cool," Louie said. It's like a big party out here. Everybody's mellow. Dig the scene. Check it out, some guy gave me this."

It was a joint. He put in his lips, flicked a lighter, and lit it up. He handed it to me. Cool. I still had a few minutes to smoke a joint. It was the sweetest tasting kind bud I'd smoked in a long time, Queen. The Northern California variety. And tasting that kind cannabis, watching the born-again flower children whirring about, it just felt pretty authentic. This is funny, because it wasn’t like there was a real band in there. No, but through holography, computer animation, and other feats of technological wonder, the experience may as well have been real. With this technology, and these parlor tricks, there wasn't a bad seat in the house. Everyone felt like they were in the 15th row. I was certainly curious about that aspect, at least. And this crowd was anything but virtual. These people sweat, bled, ate, shit and died just like the rest of us. Or did they? Sometimes, I wondered, Queen. I really did.

Looked at my watch again and it was about 7:25. Shit, between smoking pot and day-dreaming, I'd lost track of time. Knew my watch was running a little fast, but not that fast.

Louie was standing there still hitting on the joint. Gave him my instructions point blank. "Give me a $100 and take $300 of what you made this morning, and have a good time tonight, but only after you, and you can grab the sister if you want-this could be fun-go buy all sorts of stickers and things and put them on the Dodge. But do it fast. I think we ought to play it safe. So let's make it look like a different car."

"Consider it done, amigo."

He handed me $100. Turned and started jogging towards the Silver Bowl. Asked one guy passing by selling T-shirts if he knew where Will Call was.

"Way over on the other side, man," he said.

Shit.

Took off running as fast a 200-pound middle-aged white male can. When I finally stumbled to a halt at will call, I was hot, tired and most of all, because of the heat, dust, and marijuana, very thirsty. I was also relieved. The clock in the Will Call booth was slow. It said it was only 7:25. There were three folks ahead of me in line, and the guy right in front of me, a long-haired guy about thirty, was sipping from a water bottle.

"Mind if I have a sip?" I asked. He kind of mumbled something and held the bottle towards me. I grabbed it, sated my thirst, and handed it back to him.

He kind of mumbled something again, and then turned to face the person at Will Call, a young black lady, as the two people in front of him left together.

"Not you again," the women exclaimed. "Will somebody call security? This guy is so wasted he don't know where he's at."

All of a sudden, Queen, I wasn't too confident about that sip of water I'd just taken. Two security guards arrived in no time and escorted my inebriated little good Samaritan friend away. Walked up to the window.

"Hi. I'm supposed to have a ticket waiting for me. The name's Jack. Jack Hart."

"Oh, OK, here you go Mr. Hart."

Well, for better or for worse, began making my way to the very top back. Figured I'd just wait there for Rooster's point man Junior.

Must admit, I was taken in immediately by the laid-backness of the crowd. It was almost overwhelming. Life had gotten too serious, and here I was in the middle of a fucking circus. And there was felt this strong temptation to join the circus.

I had made up my mind. I was here on business, Queen. Yeah, I could take in some of the atmosphere, but that was just incidental. Just to be safe, I pulled my hat out of my side pocket and put on my sunglasses....no telling who I might run into. And, you know, I did feel kind of nervous. Knew I'd be searched, so I left the Glock under the front seat. And it occurred to me that if I did run into Tony, I was defenseless.

Made me wish for a second, I'd joined Louie on some those karate excursions.

God's will.

And halfway to the top, as I'm twisting and turning, trying not to spill the beer I bought moments earlier, as I weave among the real spaced-out heads who "moved with the music."

And suddenly the way they danced reminded me of how Louie and Ginny danced that Roswell morning which, at this point, seemed like an eternity ago. Finally made it to the top. No sign of a guy with long black hair and a Deadheadland T-shirt. So I just sat there and sipped my beer. If Rooster said he's gonna be here, then he's gonna be here. And finally I felt I had a chance to actually tune into the fucking show. I was prepared to not like it. In fact, at first I looked for every reason not to like it, to justify my prejudice of the past. Queen, it was awesome. It was beyond awesome. There's almost no way to describe it. It was like I was in the 15th row, and yet I could see the entire crowd. This huge image of Jerry Garcia-alive and breathing, singing, playing guitar like he did for so many years-hovered in front of me. And he was very fat.

Went down to play the slot machine.

It was during the next song, a Bob Dylan cover of a song called “Desolation Row,” I believe, that Bob Weir sang, that I started feeling it. Queasy. Uneasy. Shit. I looked at my watch. It was almost 8 o'clock. A half hour since I availed myself of that young man’s inebriated generosity. Shit, I wonder what was in that water. Shit, I didn't have to wonder.

The next song began and never ended. Or so it seemed. It was somewhere amongst all those notes washing all over each other that I realized I really was tripping. And, like, how could I even be mad at the guy?

I mean, I just sort of grabbed the water without thinking. And that was what I got for it. An unscheduled voyage to the other side. An evening of music and self-realization. Never, Queen, have I felt so confused. The rush of feelings, of paranoia and joy, of certainty and doubt, the wild mental journey that is an acid trip on the day after I killed someone. Not on the day before I'm supposed to hook up with an eccentric genius so I can transport his million-dollar pornware to Los Angeles. Not on a day when I feel all but too certain that my past is closing in on me fast.

Ingredients for a bad trip, Queen. I tell you.

I mean, here I was almost dancing. Almost enjoying myself. And I was afraid. I began to think that some of those folks might recognize me from the news. That's why, just before the first set ended, which was capped with a version of Chuck Berry's "Promised Land," I headed for the bathroom and staked out a hiding space in a stall inside the men's restroom. I was really starting to feel way high at this point, and sat there and read the graffiti on the wall of the stall.

Saw where I could get a really good blow job from a really horny guy.

What kind of sick motherfuckers write on these walls, anyway?

Sat there and tried to sober myself up, fighting real hard the sensation that I was tripping even harder. Had to come down some before I was supposed to meet the contact. Looked at my watch. It was 8:45. Don't remember exactly when they stopped playing, but it seemed like about 15 minutes had passed. And I was so lost in the illusion at this point that I actually sat there in that stall and figured I had about twenty minutes, because the boys themselves had to get a little bit of a rest. It's when I heard the notes of the song of the second set that I realized that Virtual Dead musicians need no time. The break was truncated to be just a simulation of the past. At the same time, why keep the fans waiting if you really don't have to?

Knew I had to get back to my seat, and fast. Began making my way past the oncoming rush of ecstatic faces. And, somewhere along the way, instead of trying to just dodge the hallway dancers, I danced with them, always moving in the direction of the appointed meeting place. Before I knew it I was back at the meeting place, and you know, Queen, at this point, I let go. I squashed the bad trip by just letting go. I didn't look for Rooster's contact. Let him find me. And if he didn't find me, or we didn't hook up I'd just call Rooster tomorrow and say, "Hey, Roos, what's Plan B?"

The Dead had been resurrected, and here they were kicking out an impossibly fun, funky jam. I realized, at once, and lamented the loss of their greatness, kicking myself for never being hip to them when they were real. And I danced that bad trip away, Queen. With the help of the Dead beyond the grave itself, I danced it into the ground.

For all the fun I was having, the next few songs were a blur. The extended trip into drums and space, however, in which large hollow sounds resounded with all the sound and glory I might use to describe God, took me all the way back to a place all mankind must remember. The place. The spot. The peace. Where I'm trying to get even when I'm cold sober. A place where all you have is faith and hope and the love in your heart. And you could die any second and it's OK There is no fear. I was in that space, courtesy of the LSD, and knew I'd be there for only a few precious moments. I promised myself I would always remember there was nothing to fear. Life is good. Fuck DDT. Believe it or not, in that moment I thought I could forgive Tony. I wanted to think I could forgive him.

After a tediously long excursion into some strange noodling and drumming, the Dead noodled their way into another number. Garcia & Co. sang:

The Wheel is turning and you can't slow it down,

You can't let go and you can't hold on

You can't go back and you can't stand still

If the thunder don't get ya then the lighting will.

When I heard and sang those, I laughed. Of course. What is the day after you die like for you, but like the day before you were born? And on the day you're born, you cry while everyone shouts with joy. And on the day you die, everyone cries while it is you that shouts with joy. And, meanwhile, your whole life, in between those two points, is all orchestrated by invisible design. So invisible it seems like random chaos. I make my choices. You make yours. And God makes the choices God makes. And in the end we all design. Realized how what we do combines with the bigger picture. How we're all one in the bigger picture. How faith means not just living for my own life, but for the life I touch in the bigger picture.

Speaking of bigger pictures, the light show at that point was incredible. Above the band, the wizards behind this event were projecting fractals and other eye candy.

And, in between shots of the band and fractals, were shots of the crowd. And, for one fleeting second, I could have sworn I saw the two of them, dancing just the way they had danced together in Roswell the night I christened Ginny Seton the sugar-spun sister. But it passed too quickly, and I was high, and I forgot about it.

Marveled at the production values. Then I remembered Rooster saying he'd produced some of the special effects being used as part of the show. Made sense. The man who wanted to bring us virtual sex could just as easily dish up some digital virtual Dead.

"Rooster!" I shouted, as I twirled.

Then I stumbled. And I fell. Came to sometime later, dizzy and disoriented. Everything was quiet. This guy was standing over me, and as he looked down at me, all I could see were colorful dancing bears, dancing around with balloons. And the balloons were shaped like mouse ears. They were dancing in front of a castle. The Disney Castle! That's when I heard him say, "Did you say, 'Rooster'? Are you Jack of Hearts, by any chance?"

Calling me by my handle snapped me back to reality. "Yeah. Are you Junior?"

"Yeah, man, I'm glad I found you. Sorry I was late, man. Here, you need a hand up? Are you OK?"

Junior reached down and gave me his hand, and helped me up.

I looked around. Everybody was still there. The lights were still off but the band was quiet.

Looked at Junior. Intuitively, he seemed to understand my confusion.

"They're going to come back for one more encore. You look like you've been having fun," he added.

"Fun is a word. Yes."

"Well, I'm glad you made it."

Finally, I was starting to come down, Queen. My euphoria was slowly fading as it dawned on me: Yeah, sure, you can walk through life and dance and live and sing, and take drugs, and act like there's no tomorrow, but if some asshole's on your ass to kill you and may kill others in the process, you really can't afford that kind of freedom.

Sure, the trip was still happening, and I was still feeling good. Just knew I had good reason to remain paranoid. No amount of acid was going to make the danger I sensed disappear. Once again, I was the level-headed survivalist I knew I had to be.

"Want a sip of water?" Junior said.

Remembering my fucked-up doser, I asked first, "Is it just water?"

"Of course," he said. "Why?"

"The last guy who let me have a sip of water failed to mention it was spiked with acid. I'm tripping right now, and I haven't tripped in years."

"Bummer. That sucks. Dosing people without them knowing is bullshit. Are you still hallucinating? You look OK to me."

"Yeah, well, I'm all right, I guess."

Reached and took the water bottle and gulped.

Burped.

Handed it back to him.

"Well, thanks. I guess. I am coming down. I guess it's time to discuss business," I said.

"Sure thing. Let's split," Junior said.