Page 31 of Road Refugees

“No.” I moved away, hoping Crybaby would drop it, but he didn’t.

“Pippa? You do know she’s married to Fox Isherwood, don’t you? Guy who runs the falcon sanctuary?”

I flashed him a thankless frown. “I do. Not Pippa.”

“Faux Pas? Duji? Tuzigoot?” He rattled off names of Bare Bones elders, guys who’d founded the club along with Ford and Lytton’s father, now deceased.

“No! You think I’m trying to brownnose it? No! That girl I brought down from Flagstaff. Heaven.”

“Oh. Why didn’t I think of her? You’ve been foaming at the mouth about her since you came down.” He paused thoughtfully. “A Mormon wants to do shrooms?”

“Yes. Hey, Passwater. I’ve heard that psilocybin can help with addiction problems?”

“Hell to the yeah,” said Passwater. He leaned against the counter and dumped the contents of one bag into his mouth. Speaking through a wad of mushrooms, he said, “What people have said to me, psychedelic journeys give them a new distance on their lives. You gain a better vantage point, and things that once seemed overwhelming suddenly seem handleable. Some of them, it’s amazing how they overcome old habits so easily.”

“Yeah?” I encouraged Passwater as I spilled the shrooms into my palm.

Passwater spoke drily as he struggled to chomp the fungi. “Yeah. Seems like the trippers who had the biggest mystical experiences were best able to do things like quit smoking.”

“Cigarettes, you mean,” said Crybaby, still masticating his own share.

“Or anything addictive,” said Passwater. “I think addiction is a narrative people get mired in. It gets reinforced every time we fail to quit. The hallucinogenic journey lets them see the immediate pleasures of their habit in the long-term window of their lives.”

Hmm. I liked the way Passwater put it, so I tossed the fungi into my mouth and chewed. Yeah, they were rubbery and dry. Now I spoke like Passwater, cottonmouthed. “So someone like Wolf, who doesn’t see his addictions as problems, won’t emerge from the trip enlightened.”

“Right,” said Passwater, finally swallowing. “Losing the habit has to be the overt intent of the journey.”

I was confident I was completely over my drinking habit, so I went out to the backyard. My overt intent of my session was to study the effects, so I could better resonate with my buyers. I sat in an Adirondack chair on the flagstone patio and watched Wolf grill. He declared himself a “mushroom head” because he’d found an apron and one of those chef’s hats. The mood was light and high-spirited, so to speak. Passwater and Crybaby were interested in the pond, sticking their hands in and examining the droplets from their fingers.

When I tried running my spread fingers before my eyes, that’s when it started. They left streaks, or trails of luminescent, ah . . . stardust? It reminded me of the moon dust that covered much of Syria, or maybe the pink mist that sprayed from one’s body with certain gunshot wounds. Oh no. Now I’m thinking of Syria. I tried to stay in the moment, at the log cabin with my old and newfound friends, so I talked to Wolf.

“Do you see color trails in the air?”

“Oh, yeah! You know?” He even splayed his hand and moved it in front of his eyes, like I had. “Sort of fragile floating trails of color, mostly purples and pinks. Sometimes I get a rush of endless points of light, like the Milky Way flowing across a river right in front of my eyes.” His giant, dorky grin seemed to envelope his entire face, and I laughed. He didn’t ask why I was laughing. Over by the pond, Crybaby and Passwater were chortling like goons, loud and boisterous. This, in turn, made me cackle and roar.

However, I wasn’t having any spiritual breakthrough. The Ponderosa pines sheltering us from neighbors stood like giant, benevolent guardsmen, pulsing and teeming with life. Wolf declared the steaks done, but when I looked at them writhing on the platter, I knew I’d never eat anything like that again in my life. Passwater was game, and took a plate at the picnic table, but Crybaby agreed with me.

He said, “Looks like it’s gonna get up and walk off the plate.”

“Right!” I cried. “Like with little legs.”

“You’re not grossing me out,” said Wolf, stuffing his mouth with meat.

Crybaby pointed. “That fallen tree looks like a hell cannon.”

I glanced over my shoulder. He was right. It did resemble one of the improvised mortars insurgents used to make. Bringing me back around to Syria made me temporarily panic I’d become so unmoored I might have a flashback—the night of the assassination attempt, probably. Crybaby didn’t help by continuing to point into the underbrush.

“Around that corner are people ambushed, waiting for us. Oh my God! Check out that eagle. Looks like that golden eagle we used to see over our base.”

Glad to have something pleasant to look at, I shielded my eyes and watched the eagle. Strange he circled right over us, as though he knew we were dead already. This reverie was pierced by the sharp cry of an outsider.

“Cap’n! Permission to come aboard!”

I swiveled my torso. That’s when I knew I was irredeemably high, because it sure looked like Slappy Lomax standing there by the house. Goofy Slappy, his long arms hanging at his sides.

And who . . . wait a minute . . . who was that female vision next to him?

“First dibs on Slappy’s woman,” said Crybaby.

My brain struggled piecemeal to remember who she was. Her upturned nose and wide, white-toothed smile prodded at me. The cabin’s logs behind her seemed to grow into monoliths, soon a medieval palisade complete with turrets. The woman now became a King Arthur legend, her impossibly long flowing hair blending into misty skirts, possessed of an interior light. Every color I’d ever seen was dull as boiled codfish compared to the clusters of transparent fruit that made up her being—viridian, crimson, royal purple more vibrant than the setting sun . . .

She waved at me. “Town!”

As I stood, Slappy came toward me. He bro-hugged me with such force I went “ooph.” I watched the woman over his shoulder. She was shy, holding her giant purse in front of her as she took several determined steps, like a proper soldier. It seemed like she even saluted!

“Captain Spiro!” she barked. “Private Heaven Larimore at your service!”

All sorts of absurd comments erupted around me. “Oh, I’d like you to service me.” That probably came from Wolf. “Yeah, I need a tune-up!”

“See who I ran into,” said Slappy. “I was in town looking for you. This little angel said you saved her life and she wanted to thank you.”

“Ooo!” cooed Wolf. “You better thank him appropriately, young lady!”

But she only had eyes for me. With the smile still lighting up her face, she came to me. “Hi, Town,” she said quietly. “I’d like to try some of those mushrooms, too. I’ll need to, if I’m going to be farming them.”

“Passwater!” bellowed Wolf, without checking with me first. “Another round, please!”

I reached out and took her hand.