I can remember many times walking along the river under the bright moonlight and daydreaming of sharing these times with Evon. There was a certain section along the river, beyond the silo of Triple C Farms along the road to Mom and Dad’s, that I really enjoyed visiting. On the far riverbank was a large bluff that overshadowed a long section of the riverbank. Above it were a number of houses, and there was one in particular that looked like a castle, its lights shining down from the heights above.
Leading up to this section of river was a large field, and, as I have noticed with many other fields in the moonlight, it looked like a vast body of water until I got a little closer. The dim moonlight played this trick on my mind, while my eyes strained to penetrate through the misty shimmer. I rarely had any trouble finding my way, though. It is just that when I tried to identify something over about fifteen yards away, it often looked totally different in the subtle lighting.
For example, I remember on the occasion I went with Mike and Jeremy to the lakehouse on the youth retreat with my sister’s church, some of the guys liked to stand silently in the middle of the gravel road like a sentinel. Then they would suddenly spring into motion when you got close, laughing as you jumped out of your skin. You could see something there in the moonlight road, or at least you thought you could, but if you tried looking at the shape for very long it swam before your eyes, blurring into a haze. I suppose that is what gives moonlit nights such a sense of mystique.
Anyway, the first time that I went to this section of river it seemed a little creepy in a way. Not only did it look like a castle, but its lights actually resembled the features of a skull, the darkness veiling its true structure in opaque camouflaging. It did not help matters any that I attracted unwarranted attention to myself, stirring up a dog in the process, its razor sharp hearing picking up the sounds of my floundering around on the riverbank far below under the moonlight.
In addition to the house looking pretty ominous, my first visit was during the month of October. For some reason around that time of year I would frequently get moody. I did not know whether to attribute this to my birthday or the Halloween season, or both, though I suppose the latter won out, my fanciful imagination and belief in evil spirits getting the better of me. I did not suppose that what I was seeing was actually demonic, but it did send a chill or two down my spine nonetheless.
I mean, here I am, I’m all alone. I’m walking along this riverbank in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. Suddenly I look up, and there is this huge house far up on the opposite side of the riverbank that looks really gothic, and I feel strangely unsettled all of a sudden for some reason. It looks really eerie, and I feel really odd, but I think its pretty cool, anyway. I mean, I loved thrills—I got off on freaking myself out sometimes.
I finally managed to talk Evon into going down there with me one night, though I don’t think I dramatized the “castle” up to any great extent, short of mentioning that there was a house that reminded me of such. I was so looking forward to it! She would finally be able to see this “fantasy” world I loved so much.
When we started off down to the river I could tell she was less than thrilled with how far we had to walk, as it is a good quarter a mile or more from the road. There was an evening dew on the knee high alfalfa, and soon our pant legs were soaked. As we went along she was getting more and more irritable. When she got up to the field next to the river, she also thought it was a large body of water. I will admit it did look like it—so much so in fact, that the first time I came down there I was literally almost afraid to cross the fence.
Unfortunately, she was not too much of an “outdoorswoman,” at least not at night, and the field had a number of unseen thorn bushes. Soon, she had thoroughly scratched her legs up and was getting rather upset. We had to cross another barbed-wire fence before we got to the water, and, as fate would have it, she snagged herself. By then she was practically snarling. When we finally were standing on the bank, she was so upset with me that she let me have it, telling me just how unimpressed she was by what she saw, and what a wasted, senseless walk it had been—and remember, we hadn’t even begun to walk back yet. I was really disappointed and a little angry, and she was absolutely seething. We both considered the night shot. Needless to say, we did not stick around to enjoy the scenery.
June was a little more inclined to be up to such things, and I got a chance to take her down there on another occasion. I don’t think she was real crazy about it either, and truthfully I think she was a little nervous, especially since she had poor depth perception at night. She got a little scratched up too, but she fared it a little better than Evon and took it pretty well.
For that matter, June and I went walking along the river and other such places quite a lot—often at night but sometimes during the day too. I will admit that there was somewhat of a physical attraction between us, but more than anything we were just friends who were lonesome and liked to hang out together. Undoubtedly, she liked the countryside, but I really think she walked with me more than anything else because it was special to me, and she enjoyed my company. I really don’t think she would have gone walking alone the way that I did in some of those places.
Anyway, we frequently would make a bowl out of an aluminum can and smoke marijuana along the riverbank, crushing the evidence once we were sufficiently stoked. Those periods represent some very tranquil and pleasant memories, though there were times I had a hard time resisting the physical attraction for her that would sometimes come strongly over me, especially when the pot had fully kicked in. Sometimes the warmth of her body and the fact that she was female were almost too much for me to bear, and I would have to move away from her. I’m sure there were times that she had similar sensations, but nothing ever came of our encounters, and these times usually passed without incident, and we were able to hang out and be sociable.
Another reason I think I enjoyed her company so much and felt attracted to her was that during this period of time, Evon and I were at odds with each other more often than not, and I saw the situation as being hopeless. I often felt a little blue, and June was often the one who came around after school, offering to drive me home. I always agreed, and more often than not, she sealed the deal by procuring some marijuana. She knew that I loved to get high. She could have talked me into most anything if I knew that pot was involved. I’m not sure that she would have smoked as often as she did, but it was a sure-fire way to make me happy and ensure that I would be up to an amiable walk. Getting high always relaxed me, and I was sure to be more talkative. Plus, she did not have to worry about me walking too fast, as I ambled along in my rosy stupor.
Truthfully, much of this period is a blur. I’m sure she would say the same. She was out of school and out of touch with her friends—The Family—and trying to deal with her after high school identity crisis. I don’t think she really knew what she wanted to do with herself and often felt a little bummed and lonesome. She would no doubt have spent more time with Sylvester, but he often couldn’t get out. In addition, she dreaded going over to his house as his step-mom did not take too keenly to her because of some of the excursions she and Sheila had been on. In their Mutt and Jeff days, they would often hang out together and talk about the guys, coming back with the red, droopy eyelids that told of their love of getting high. Since Sheila was Sylvester’s stepsister, June would frequently ask about him.
So as it was, I was perfect company for her. Unlike Sylvester, I was almost always free to pick up and go, and my life also consisted of a blue daze, though only my close friends probably really noticed. I did not really have too much of a sense of direction either.
Outwardly I was still the charismatic rebel, albeit a little quieter, but inwardly I just felt a kind of numbness. It wasn’t something I thought of as being unpleasant per se, it was just sort of an odd detachment, an emptiness if you will. I suppose knowing that Evon and I were basically through and that I was getting older and my beloved Family was slowly tearing apart had a lot to do with it. I sensed change blowing in the wind. I spent much of my time alone: thinking, writing, and playing guitar.
In Buffalo the juniors and seniors both participate in the high school prom. Amanda wanted me to go, so I did, though I did not dance. As you may recall, dancing and I did not mix too well.
I did not tell my folks about the prom, as they hadn’t let my brother or sister go to theirs. This was because they did not endorse coed dancing, unless the couple was married. Having become more lenient in the thirteen years between my sister and me, I’m sure they would have allowed me to go if I’d asked. They did, after all, let me go to Amanda’s senior prom when I asked. (More on that later.)
Nonetheless, as Christians it was their moral standing. Their rationale was (since premarital and extramarital sex is wrong) that dancing so closely with warm body grinding against warm body encouraged temptations that could very, very easily lead to illicit behavior. If you are truly honest about it, you will have to admit that there is wisdom behind their logic, regardless of how you may personally feel about the subject.
Anyway, I did not want to chance telling them, so I did not. I scrounged through Mom and Dad’s closet looking for a suit jacket, as I had no dress clothes to wear whatsoever. I finally settled for all grey—a pair of jeans which started out being black, but had long since faded from all the multiple trips around the inside of the washing machine, a pair of dark grey western boots I’d had for a long time but rarely wore and a blue-grey tweed suit jacket of my Dad’s. The only black accessories I had were my shirt and perhaps my dad’s tie—I don’t remember which one I dug up. I must admit the outfit looked as thrown together as it sounds, but it worked.
I can’t remember what reason I gave them for borrowing the car, though I’m sure it entailed playing guitar for some friends, as that was pretty much a given in my life at the time. I grabbed my acoustic guitar and left in a different outfit, having snuck the other one out to the car a little earlier. Then I eased the car out of the drive and was soon on my way to pick up Amanda. I was hours ahead of schedule, a real rarity for me.
When I got to Amanda’s, she had on a lavender dress, and her hair was done up tightly around her head. She had obviously spent a lot of time on it, and though I did not really like it that way, I lied and told her it looked good when she asked. I mean, it did to her, right? (A creative mind can rationalize away most anything if so inclined, huh?) It would have hurt her feelings for me to have told her the truth.
I partied a lot during those years, and so many of the events, like this one, all melted together. I really don’t remember too much else about the evening, except that while we were waiting to go, we stopped at the house of a friend whose name was Wes. After playing guitar for the usual houseful he had over, I ended up in the parking lot in conversation with an acquaintance we called Little Jim, who was a talented martial arts guru and on his way to go spelunking with some friends. As it would turn out, I ended up meeting him on the job a few years later, and he remembered the encounter better than I did. Anyway, I wasn’t too crazy about the event, but I think it meant a lot to Amanda.
The following year Amanda decided that she would also take radio broadcasting. I spent a lot of time flirting with her, writing perverse things all over her folders. She would then in turn write some comeback such as “Oh, please. In your dreams.” (She almost always added her trademark double underlines to punctuate her point.) We continued to trade back and forth throughout the year, and everyone in the class knew we had a thing going.
To see one such folder, click here.
The following year KBFL shut down and a number of contenders cast their bids on it. I don’t know who bought it out, but it is still operational today. I recently tuned it in out of curiosity, and it still goes by KBFL, 99.9 FM. However, the format has changed. It’s now “your favorite light 70’s hits station.”
Amanda was always a good listener, and I spent quite a bit of time hanging out with her. She always represented a degree of moral stability to my out-of-control life. She did not smoke, and though she did sometimes drink, she was totally against marijuana. I could tell her all the crazy things that my friends and I had done. I freely admitted to her my insecurities and the things I was ashamed of.
I had told her many times about my friends, and admitted that I smoked pot. I felt really guilty when I was stoned around her, and truthfully I felt guilty anyway. I knew that smoking pot wasn’t really right. I kept telling her I should quit, then I would come back to her and shamefully tell her I had blown it again.
I also described to her many of my near encounters with the girls as they happened. I spent a lot of time moaning and whining about Evon. Amanda was my shoulder to cry on, and she played a sort of motherly role to me. Telling her all these things would have been a good thing, if she hadn’t ended up becoming my girlfriend. Then it is extremely dangerous to admit to your girlfriend the things that you know she hates when you still continue to do them.
Somewhere in the course of time, Amanda became the best friend of a girl whose name was Charlene, but who went by Chuck. Her mother was a Japanese native, and her father a white serviceman. Her mother had passed away—I think from cancer, but I’m not sure—and she lived with her father in a trailer house. She was very artistic, and the last I heard from her she was going to an art school to further develop her talent.
Amanda hung out there a lot, and by extension so did I. One of the first times I came over, I had my cherry sunburst Gibson Les Paul and my amp with me. Chuck said she had just the thing for me and proceeded to pull out a brown gig bag. Ever the artist, she had drawn her name on the outside—a black, permanent markered, big, bold “CHUCK.”
I unzipped it, peeling back the leather-like material to reveal a really sharp, metallic blue, Strat-style guitar—a Marina Concord Version. Her older brother, who played in a moderately successful metal band in Japan, had given it to her. It was his “clubbing” guitar, and since he had apparently outgrown the clubs he had given it to his sister.
She let me play it, and I instantly fell in love with it. Its action felt really smooth, it looked really sharp, and what’s more it had 24 frets (the Les Paul had only 21) and a Floyd Rose tremolo bar (Les Paul guitars always have fixed bridges). It was obviously a lead guitar (right up my alley), unlike the Les Paul, which can be used for either lead or rhythm, but is commonly associated with playing rhythm, characterized by its thick, biting overdriven tone. One thing I particularly liked about it was the mother-of-pearl, fish-eye inlays, reminiscent of its Japanese heritage. Considering that I played lead, loved Oriental art, and my playing style had a Middle to Far Eastern bent, it seemed perfect. So I bought it.
* * * * *
Joe had wanted to learn how to play guitar for some time. Gradually we had begun to spend more time together, and I got to know him pretty well. He had an old Sears and Roebuck guitar that had a badly bowed neck and no amp. I agreed to teach him to play, but more than anything it amounted to me showing him one or two things and then playing for several hours, practically forgetting he was there. I’d usually pause only long enough to take a few deep drags off what was left of the cigarette wasting away in his Grandmother’s “half ash” ashtray. (The ashtray I generally used looked like it had been cut in half and had “A half ash tray for my half ash friends” inscribed in its bottom.)
He finally acquired an old amp, and I conned him into playing with me at church. The congregation had been pressuring me to play, and despite my disdain for church, I saw it as an excellent opportunity to show off my chops. I really did not want to take the time to learn a church hymn, so I came up with a devious scam: we’d play our stuff at church.
I had been working on my lead playing and he on his rhythm. A lot of the original material I played sounded exotic and foreign, and neither one of us sang, so we did not have to bother with lyrics. That was a good thing, because neither Joe nor I were exactly angels, and we weren’t going to even pretend to be.
He came up with a simple ballad-style riff, and I added my typical pseudo-Middle Eastern flair, and it sounded kind of like Metallica trying to charm a snake. When we stood up to play, with my usual dry, mischievous humor I announced that we would be performing an instrumental entitled The Arabian Hymn. After all, if you write it, you can name it anything you want, can’t you? It went over well, and everyone seemed to genuinely like it. No one except Mom and Dad were the wiser, thinking it an authentic “Psalm of a Sheik” so to speak.
Joe was nervous, but he held up his end of the bargain, and it was good experience for him. Because it was entirely original, my playing was flawless and silky smooth unlike the constraining church hymns, and so we raked in the compliments. I still smile over that one to this day.
Joe, Brandon and Gordon had been talking about getting a band together, and they were hoping I would join them. The problem was that Joe had been playing only six months or so, Brandon and Gordon had not played before at all.
-Introduction of the band—Hypnosis
After high school, June bought a powder blue Ford Mustang that got her around, but had seen its better days. Among other things it burned too much oil and fuel, emitting foul “blue black” smoke from its tailpipe. She sold it to me for the price she had paid for it—$50.
The spark plugs had a habit of fouling up really bad, and after about every fifty miles or so, I would have to pull the spark plugs out and scrape them just to keep on going down the road, it would start missing so badly. What a car! It was the furthest cry from a precision machine you’ve ever seen. It had virtually no power—going up a steep hill with my foot buried to the floor it would soon drop to less than 45 mph on a good day, the other cars passing me in a blur. The main thing was that it had four tires—severely bald ones—but four tires nonetheless that carried me where I needed to go.
-Our Marriage
My folks made it quite clear that we needed to be out on our own if we were going to be married. We did not have a lot of money, and my job at Petit Jean Poultry in Buffalo, Missouri was pretty much our main source of income. I do not remember if Amanda was working anywhere or not.
We found a tiny apartment in Bolivar that was really just one room with a wall dividing off our bedroom and bathroom. It really did not matter that much—we were newlyweds and happy. We lived there for about six months.
-Settling down into married life and calming down. Getting into mellower and mellower music—a lot of new age music
-Jeremy Erickson, my son, is born
Joe and Wendy were looking for a place to live in Springfield because the thirty-mile commute between Bolivar and Springfield ate up time and money and created a lot of wear on their car. Plus, Wendy and Amanda liked to spend time together, though they got into it at times like the sisters that they were. Their worse halves were musicians who were good friends, and musicians are people notorious for spending most of their free time practicing, or daydreaming about music. Since their menfolk were otherwise occupied, they’d spent the time hanging out, catching up on the latest gossip.
Amanda recommended our apartment complex to them. Chaparral Apartments was rough, but an improvement over Wendy’s mom’s house. Rent was inexpensive, and most anyone that put in an application was accepted.
It was housed in an old three-story building with three sections of twelve apartments each. Amanda and I lived on the third floor in the first set. There was a small laundry across the parking lot and an old swimming pool filled with nasty brown rainwater. Eventually, management filled it in, and no one shed any tears over that one.
They applied, were approved, and soon moved into the second section, second floor, next door. Joe set up his recording studio in their bedroom, and Wendy’s girls got the other bedroom. Soon he and I were working together in the home studio scene.
Since we lived so close, the women would call each other and often escape into town to go shopping, or take the girls to the park. Joe and I would call each other up to make sure the other wasn’t busy with the “old lady,” or in the studio. That made it incredibly easy to walk over to the next section whenever the notion struck us and trade tips, gear and ideas. It was extremely convenient.
We’d spend all the money that the womenfolk let us on music gear. We spent hours poring over technical publications about the latest in technology and equipment, trade secrets, “how to” guides, tips, etc. Eventually, over the course of time we began to tire of the sterile environment of the studio and reminisced about the days of old and the times we’d had playing live music in a group.
We also talked about our high school friends and got an invitation in the mail one day for a “Family” reunion. It was to be held over Memorial Day weekend. Remembering how much of a case of hormones we once were, we joked about getting into trouble with the wives, as Joe referred to Wendy as “the wife.”
We both made plans to go, and I invited Amanda to go with me. Joe did not invite Wendy, though. I was really looking forward to it, and I think he was too. However, I don’t think either of the women were that enthused, and I don’t blame them.
Memorial Day finally came, and I’d bought a quarter bag the week before because I did not want to be without my smoke on such a festive occasion. We left Jeremy with Wendy and the girls, and Amanda, Joe, and I all rode down to Bolivar.
It was held at Francka Bridge where The Family often used to frequent. It was a beautiful, moonlit summer night, just the kind I loved. The air was soon filled with whoops and the sound of a party in full swing.
We built a bonfire and had a cooler filled with alcohol. Sheila was down from Idaho, and she and June were partying it up. Brandon and his wife were there. He was the smart one and focused his attention on her, leaving early before anything might get out of hand. Junior wanted to make it, but his wife said “No way.” The twins weren’t there either. They were both in the hospital giving birth.
I kept making excuses to venture off and smoke yet another bowl of marijuana. As usual, Amanda was sullen. She knew what we were doing. Not only was I smoking pot, but I was also disappearing off with June. She remembered all too well how many close encounters I’d had with “that woman” and now that woman’s husband was at home.
There was a hayfield on the other side of the road. June, Sheila, Joe and I all walked down the riverside to get there. We were chasing each other through the freshly cut alfalfa and frolicking on the big round bales. Obviously Joe wasn’t smoking like the rest of us, but we were all playing with fire because we all had relationships.
We were well aware of what was going on. Back in high school we were a little more innocent, but now we knew all too well what we were up against. I did not care, though, and I doubt they did either. I had felt so constricted with Amanda, and it felt good to just let go and forget my sanity.
Meanwhile, Amanda also knew altogether too well what she was up against. She was feeling torn inside. Her man had forgotten her and was off cavorting around with another woman that she doesn’t trust as far as she could throw, and there was nothing she could do about it.
The night finally came to an end, and I had left Amanda’s feelings once more crushed in the dirt. I was ecstatic, and her world felt like it’d fallen apart. The atmosphere around the house was argumentative, and I knew I was treading thin ice.
That Sunday Sheila was going home, and she and June came up to say goodbye to Joe and me. They stayed out in the parking lot, and I came down with my weed. Joe, of course, did not smoke and Sheila had quit, but June and I got stoned. We then took a walk around the block to discuss old times. Little did I realize that Amanda was watching out the window and saw the whole thing.
She asked me what we did, and I lied to her. Busted again. Some people never learn. Needless to say, the tension continued to mount.
Throughout the next several days she was left with her own helplessness to go through the cycle of leaving for work, coming home to a house that left her feeling cold and empty and taking care of Jeremy by herself. In her free time she worked crossword puzzles to occupy her mind and did not say much to me because she was so upset. I was extremely defensive and spent my time with Joe, or working in my own studio. We were barely going through the motions of living.
When I got a call from June saying she’d like to come up and visit me, it seemed like a bright glimmer in the dreariness of “our happy home.” She came over a few days later and invited Joe to go along too. He wanted to, but Wendy said no way. He was thinking straighter than I was, and when she came, he did not even dare look out the window.
A thousand times over I wish Amanda had put her foot down too. But she did not. And so June and I pulled away from the parking lot on a suicide ride.
At first it was casual conversation. We stopped at Pizza Hut to eat and ordered some beer with our pizza. I did not have any smoke left, so we settled with drinking. Then we stopped at a place called The Bar Next Door and ordered a couple of pitchers. I was getting inebriated.
We finally left, and she asked me if I wanted to drive. I was agreeable, and after asking me if I was sure I was okay for the road, we drove away. Soon we were tooling around in the countryside.
I had driven drunk before, so it was no big deal, and we went driving in the general direction of Nixa. We decided to pull off, and I stopped at a pier. We got out of the car, and she sat on the hood.
She asked me to sit beside her, but I was a little reluctant. When I finally did, I was somewhat distant, and my head was spinning badly from all the beer. I made an attempt at conversation, but I was feeling rather ill. It was getting chilly outside, so we soon climbed back in the car.
Before long, I got really sick and excused myself. I stepped outside to get relief, closing the door in hopes of camouflaging the sound. After vomiting liquid near the rear of the car, I opened the door and climbed back in.
She asked me, “Feel any better?”
I managed a “Yeah,” and started the car, lethargically pulling away. I was too trashed to care that she’d overheard me puking. By now it was getting late.
When we’d gotten a few miles down the road she asked me, “Why can’t I have you?”
I asked her, “What?” but she did not repeat herself. We both knew what she’d said anyway.
Like a fool, I played into it. I asked, “Well, do you want to?”
She said, “That’s up to you.”
I wrestled with myself for some time and finally reached my decision. I started looking for a spot to pull off, my mind made up on the iniquity I was about to commit. We drove around looking for all kinds of spots and finally found one.
We climbed in the back seat and started kissing. We removed each other’s clothing, running our hands over each other’s bodies. Despite her slim figure, her body felt rather strange, as it was a little heavier than Amanda’s, and I was used to her ultra-petite frame. I gently caressed her nipples with my teeth, but I don’t think either one of us was feeling very aroused. This did not go on for very long before she pulled away and told me she couldn’t do it. I don’t know what I felt. I’m not sure if it was disappointment or relief. I imagine she harbored similar sentiments.
We got dressed again, and she asked me if I knew the way back. I said I thought I did and proceeded to get us thoroughly lost. We weren’t talking much and finally she told me to pull over and we traded sides. She got us back safely, and I was just as glad because by then I was seeing three images of everything.
I got home and said goodbye to June in the parking lot. She did not want to come in, and I did not want her to come in. I was going to try to be nonchalant. I stumbled through the door, and Amanda was waiting up for me.
I mumbled “Hello,” apologizing for being late.
I walked past her, and was nearly into the bathroom, thinking I might actually pull it off when I heard, her voice high pitched and frenzied, “You’ve been gone for fourteen hours . . . and KEITH ERIC KNICKERBOCKER. What is your shirt doing on backwards?”
I don’t even remember what I said now, but I was drunk, panicked and defensive. The evening finally came to an end, and I had my temporary job to go to the next day. I thought of June all day long. I think it was a kind of displacement.
Joe and I decided that since we worked so well together, we would try to resurrect the old band, only this time stronger and better than ever. We put up ads around all the music shops in town and had a fairly good response. In fact, I was getting calls a year later because the ads never got taken down.
Russ, one of the individuals who responded, was a long-haired, “goateed” guitar player who had come out of a lifestyle of hard drugs and had become a Christian. He did not have a job at the time, so he was very focused on his music. His playing style was very much progressive metal, and we had a more unique approach to music. I suppose the alternative label would have fit us well. Our sound was rawer and more spontaneous, civilized and yet barbaric. We would go out to his grandparent’s house he was staying at on the outskirts of town and practice there.
Because I had enjoyed working with Melinda, I recommended we talk to her about working with this project. I thought a female vocalist with the additional boon of her proficiency on flute would really set the band off, and Joe agreed. I did not know if she would agree, but I called her up, and it sparked her interest. We felt it would be better to try her out in Joe’s studio since he had equipment more tailored for vocals there.
Another idea Joe and I entertained is one that I could still envision to this day. We both had plans of starting our own professional studios and from there launching our own independent record labels. The cost of recording equipment continued to decrease in price and increase in quality. We thoroughly enjoyed working in the studio and were both “tech” heads. We were also well versed in computer applications, including document processing, so laying out album jackets, etc., would be no problem either.
We’d spent hours learning the tricks of recording, etc. and knew we had a good market and a good start. We both owned somewhere around $10-20,000 worth of studio gear we had plead with the women to buy. We’d sweated blood and tears to earn the money and shopped around for the best deals in new and used equipment, and I must say we had come across some really unbelievable bargains.
So why not pool our resources and knowledge? We worked well together, we would have the means to ride our own recordings out the record label doors, and we wouldn’t have to answer to any record executives telling us we had to do things a certain way, as we were both nonconformists anyway.
We talked to Melinda about the idea, and she was attending Southwest Missouri State University. Her specialty was marketing and public relations, and she fell in love with the idea of working for a record company. She was excited about that concept even if the band did not work out.
We were becoming pretty good friends with Russ too, and we really respected him and his Christianity, though neither of us agreed with his beliefs. I was agnostic, and Joe was more sympathetic toward God, but held to a more Avalon-inspired system of beliefs. Among those was the belief that he would fight for God’s army during the great battle of Armageddon.
Before long it was evident that we weren’t working out musically with Russ because our styles were so much different. Thankfully, it was a mutual decision. He just wasn’t the player we were interested in. We had given it our best shot, and it just wasn’t cutting it.
In about this stretch of time, the city or Springfield was buying the apartment building Joe and I lived in as part of a restoration project of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), a governmental housing program for low-income families. We were all given a six-month eviction notice, with the promise of retribution for our trouble. One of the vacant apartments was set up as a temporary office to confer with Marti, the city representative. She was a really nice, friendly lady and very helpful. She sat down with us and figured our how much adjustment we were eligible for.
After much agonizing, Joe and Wendy took their rental allotment and decided to move to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, so there was to be no band and no record label after all. The day they left, Amanda and I rather numbly helped them finish loading the U-Haul and said our final good-byes. As fate would have it, they had some really tough times and eventually split up. Wendy stayed in Oklahoma City and Joe moved to Colorado Springs, Colorado. The last I heard from him, he was sharing an apartment with a lesbian couple.
Amanda and I got a rental subsidy for $120.00 per month guaranteed for five full years, and soon thereafter we moved into a much nicer apartment a few blocks away. I was in need of a steady job, and I knew that Hudson Foods would hire anyone who walked through their doors. They paid rather well in the area for the general labor market.
At first I was a little testy, as being no different than anyone else I really did not want to work, and especially not at a turkey factory. When I was working at Petit Jean Poultry I vowed that I would never again work at another poultry plant. I should never have said never, huh?
I filled out an application and had my first interview the same day. I was working the following week cutting meat off the breastbones. I thought the first several weeks were rough. Working with knives all day was hard on my hands, and my fingers were often too stiff to play guitar, and music was obviously a very important part of my world.
I was completely clean from marijuana and had been for several months, though Amanda did not believe it. I can’t say that I blamed her, as I’d lied so many times before, each time with the best intentions that always fell pathetically short of the mark. I was trying to buckle down and was clutching desperately at the few remaining threads of our marriage.
I would go out of my way to be gentle and kind to Amanda, and I felt a great deal of remorse over my actions and a strong desire to do anything I had to do to hold on to her. Disturbingly however, I still did not feel a great deal of affection toward Jeremy and did not pay him the attention he required.
Amanda had her heart set on having children, and I did not. I wasn’t prepared for children and would ride her about taking birth control pills. I resented the added level of responsibility. I knew that I wasn’t being fair, but I couldn’t seem to help it. She was the one who had wanted kids, not me. In many ways I was very immature and selfish and couldn’t see past my own nose.
She would chide me to go pick him up from his crib when he was crying and hold him or the like, and I would throw a fit. That was no doubt another fatal mistake, though I think nothing short of a miracle would have saved our marriage. Still, I am inclined to wonder “What if?” as is human wont: what if I had been a better father to Jeremy?
My determination was strong, and I refused to stop hoping. I had not been working at Hudson long before she began her basic training at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. The day before she left she once again said, “Eric, I want a divorce.” Her voice was very flat and matter of fact. It felt like she had driven an icicle through my heart. That would be the last full day we ever spent together as a complete family.
I had to work the next day, so I wasn’t there to see her off. The recruiter had arranged for a ride to pick her up at the house, and Jeremy was at the baby-sitter’s. I called her from work to say goodbye, and though I tried to be guarded, out of habit I told her “I love you,” as I was saying my final goodbye. The minute it slipped out I could have killed myself.
She seemed to be in a pleasant mood and responded “I love you, too,” in turn. That little statement, and the mood she seemed to be in, was the first in a long battle of false starts and dashed dreams. It is amazing how strong the human will is to hope even when there is none. I refused to give up and determined I would stay clean off pot, especially as Jeremy would be staying with me, since a military cadet is not allowed to have dependents in basic training.
In addition to settling in at work and saying goodbye to the wife for good, I had to find another baby sitter for him, as the current one was no longer able to. She was a really nice Christian lady, and I had no idea how I would manage that one.
After Amanda got back from basic training, I helped her pack her things. She never was very orderly when it came to organizing a house or cleaning up clutter, and I remember she had things strewn everywhere. I can remember helping her roll pennies and stuff her bags. Then she was gone.
I first met Peter6 at work. His drug of choice was methamphetamine, and he was nearly certain to score, so I began to buy my crank from him rather frequently. The powder he got usually had a reddish tint to it, and he often referred to it as “them red devils.” Whenever he’d talk about “them red devils” at work, we knew exactly what he meant, though that term could also refer to the ordinary “peanut butter crank” (so named because of its color) that was so popular in Springfield at the time.
He wasn’t exactly a dealer, per se. He was just a tweaker who would buy an 8-ball7 or so and sell part of it off, getting an ounce or so for himself for free. Though he no doubt cut it a bit, he was “from the old-school” and was often too generous for his own good. Being a banger,8 his powder tested out pure when flamed in a spoon. Plus, he’d sell weighing quarter grams to Jimmy for $20, and the going rate was $25, though I preferred just buying grams for $80 (as opposed to $100).
I’d usually go through about two to three grams (almost a full 8) in a weekend, though that was usually with treating whoever I spent the weekend with to large, generous lines of pure, uncut powder. I’d be pleasantly surprised when my stash began to run low, and they’d treat me in return—I guess I was pretty generous too—I liked to treat my friends and had the money to do it. If I had known powder better then, I would have just bought an entire ball and gotten it over with.
Peter had gotten several convictions for meth before and was always running the risk of getting busted breaking his probation. He wasn’t too concerned about it, though, since he knew meth only stayed in your system for about 72 hours. In fact, he freely admitted to his probation officer that meth was his drug of choice and that he “sometimes slipped.” I can remember dropping him off at the treatment center called The Sigma House when he was totally inebriated.
One weekend Peter had just freshly broken up with his long-term girlfriend and was hanging out at my pad tweaking with Jimmy and me. We had started tweaking just a few hours that Friday night after work. He was taking his break-up really hard and had just banged over a half-ounce of “them red devils” of his into his veins. Jeremy was lost in the shuffle, neglected in his crib and high chair for hours. I found this annoying, but I was too strung out to step in and do anything about it, partly because Peter was making me nervous and on top of that, Jimmy was very suspicious.
Peter kept philosophizing about something that did not seem very profound at all to me, repeatedly going on and on about the same thing, some obsession his tweaked out mind had dreamt up he was desperate to tell us, thinking it was really deep, and getting on our nerves really bad. It had something to do with the origin of the universe, I think, though I was way too strung out to really remember.
Finally, after staying all day and all night and not responding to our increasingly less than subtle hints, Jimmy finally succeeded in driving Peter out. About five hours later Jimmy left, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t over yet, though. Soon Peter came back over with his cute little friend, Susie.9
There was an instant attraction that developed between us.
Peter was still talking about his theory of the universe or whatever it was, and I got annoyed with her because she kept saying something to him about believing in God, and I did not want to hear it. She was extremely tweaked out too, and I thought to myself, “I wish Peter weren’t here,” as I knew I could probably strike something up with her, especially between my bed covers. There was just that strong of a chemistry there. Soon they left for a few hours, and Jimmy came back over. Then Peter came back again, alone this time.
He excitedly told Jimmy and me about the rocks that he had found on Susie’s floorboard. He told us he’d give us a discount on it if we wanted any. Jimmy was suspicious and reported back to me (I was trying to feed Jeremy) and had asked Peter to show him some of the powder. Before he could finish, Peter came barging back in and asked me if I had a hammer. I said, “Uh . . . yeah sure,” and told him which drawer it was in.
Soon I heard this awful pounding, and I looked in. There was Peter, and he was pounding on my counter-top with a hammer. I thought, What in the hell is he doing? I was disgusted that he was hammering on top of my counter-top, disgusted because of all the noise and sorry that I was such a loser that I was subjecting my own son—my own flesh and blood—to this kind of insanity.
Jimmy came back, and I asked him what Peter was doing. Jimmy showed me some of the powder Peter had given him as a sample. We gingerly smelled it and tasted a bit on our tongue. It was mainly a mixture of pebbles, sand, and gravel. He was crushing literal rocks that he had picked up off Susie’s floorboard on my countertop. Before we knew what was up, he had proceeded to bang over a quarter gram of the pebble dust into his arm. It’s a wonder the guy did not die.
I was too irritated, strung-out and exhausted to care and strongly hinted that he leave. It wasn’t my problem. He apparently took my hint and like a dejected animal, slunk out my door, but he just sat there. Then I looked out again, and there he was, his pathetically thin, shirtless frame showing all his ribs; he was crawling on all fours down my sidewalk like a deranged dog, wheezing and choking for air. He looked possessed. I was disgusted and frankly more concerned with what my neighbors might think than about his well being. He had just annoyed me that badly; I was sick of him, not to mention I had now been up for over 60 hours by this time.
I knew I had to be to work at Hudson’s the next day so I went to bed. All night long he crawled up and down the sidewalk under my window, occasionally moaning my name. After a fitful night’s worth of sleep, I got up and went out to check on him. He was sitting at the end of my sidewalk dry heaving really badly. I asked him if he was all right and could I get him anything to drink. He told me to go buy him an orange juice out of the machine. I finally realized that he seriously thought he was at work. When I finally convinced him that he was at the end of the sidewalk in the parking lot at my apartment complex, I asked him if he needed me to call an ambulance.
He said he did, and I went in and dialed the number. Fumbling for words and feeling foolish, I managed to utter, “Uh, there’s this guy at the end of my sidewalk who, uh, seems really sick. I don’t know what he’s doing out there, but, uh, he’s been out there all night, and, uh, he’s making this awful wheezing noise, and, uh, he keeps acting like he’s going to vomit, but, uh, nothing is coming out.” Then I gave them my address and went back out to tell Peter they were on their way. After that, I went back in to fix some breakfast for Jeremy and me and get ready for work. I kept watching out my kitchen window to the drive outside, and soon two ambulances came and whisked him away.
I got to work, and I still felt pretty strung out, feeling like I’d been raped emotionally, physically, and spiritually, the way coming off a sleepless weekend of tweaking always made me feel. As usual, I cursed myself for my stupidity, vowing I’d never do it again and knowing that it was a lie; I’d be right back at it the very next weekend.
There was a man from Michigan who used to be a biker, and I was talking to him on the line at work. I almost fell off the line, its motion was making me so dizzy. I thought all the people were talking about me—another common side effect of meth—and was talking some crazy stuff into this guy’s ear. I don’t know what he thought, but I’m sure he knew something was up. For that matter, I don’t even know what all I said. I just remember that I really did believe that there was some big conspiracy against me. Simply put, I was still tweaked.
The next evening I was standing outside, and Susie drove up with Peter in the car. He looked his usual self and in his right mind, and he said, “Man, I just want to apologize about the other day.” By that time, I had rested up a little more. I let it slide with, “Oh, that’s cool, Man. I understand,” and for that matter, I did. It was the kind of insanity we all lived with.
He also apologized several times to Jimmy and Leann and said he wasn’t acting his usual self. Jimmy and I did not fault him for it. He was obviously stressed out, and we weren’t really any better. Soon things were all back to “normal,” and we were back to buying his red devils again.
It was not long before I had to be out of the apartment, and Jimmy and Leann invited me to stay with them, living out of their basement.
After helping some friends move all their stuff in one day, Jimmy and I went to take the U-Haul back they had rented for the occasion. It was three in the morning, and we had been tweaking hard. We had just dropped the keys off in the night slot, when Jimmy saw an unchained rental cherry picker: several thousand dollars worth of hydraulic engine crane. I was not much of thief, but it had been a way of life for him and his friends in California. He proposed the idea, and I said, “Sure. Sounds like fun.”
I mean, my life was a living hell, I was tweaked, it was 3 AM, and I wasn’t feeling too much of anything other than mindless insanity. We looked around and found a coat hanger, and after checking to make sure there were no security cameras around, we used it to snake the keys back out of the slot. I jumped in the truck and backed it up to the cherry picker, and we hitched it up. There wasn’t a soul around that early in the morning.
Feeling smug, we climbed back in and started down the street, the cherry picker following along beautifully. We hadn’t gotten too far when I looked in my mirror, and there was a cop right on our tail. He had just appeared out of nowhere.
I did not lose my cool, but I wasn’t exactly prepared to get pulled over either, especially not when driving this big, awkward U-Haul. Plus it was a stick shift, and I was sadly out of practice with a five speed. So I decided to pull into the next turn-off I saw, just like I knew exactly what I was doing.
So onto the next turn-off I went, willing the officer aloud, “Just keep driving right on by.” Sure enough, he did, and I said, “Good boy,” feeling a bit more smug yet. That is, until it turned out to be a cul-de-sac, and I did not have enough room to cut the loop.
Unfortunately, I did not know how to back a trailer very well, especially not this dumb cherry picker, and I’m all tweaked out to the max. I had visions of that stupid cop coming back around to double check, so I just backed straight up, the cherry picker hugging the side of the U-Haul, forcing its tires to drag across the concrete. Jimmy got a good laugh out of that one, and soon we were on our way home without further incident. When we got home we kicked back, he with his ever present beer and me with my ever present bowl and just decided to drop the truck back off in the daylight.
As for what became of the cherry picker? Jimmy bought my powder blue Ford Mustang for the same price that I had paid June for it: fifty dollars. He dropped it off at a coworker’s house in Pleasant Hope because he had no place to park it. The guy had a backwoods junkyard with several cars sitting out front in various states of disarray. Jimmy agreed to give him the cherry picker in exchange for his mechanical skills and services to get the Mustang up and running. The guy agreed, but ironically it was never to happen. I would imagine that the cherry picker still sits in his colleague’s yard to this very day. If I remember right, the guy spray-painted it black to hide the telltale U-Haul orange.
Click here to see Jimmy forever frozen in motion as he plummets to the shallows.
I remember the first time I tried LSD. I was over at my Number 2 Man’s house, and he had some really potent blotter. For some reason I was a little nervous trying that first hit, as that was all I took. I usually had very few inhibitions about trying a new drug, but I guess my friends had just hyped it up to such a degree that I did not know quite what to expect.
Allegedly someone had made their own using a drop of LSD per tab. Whatever the reason, it was on just plain white blotter paper. It looked a lot different than the White Lightening we got later, which was really good. The White Lightning formed a green grid comprised of varying size diamonds, like the 3D computer mapping of the holodecks in Star Trek®. Also, we frequently got Orange Sunshine, which was really popular in the Springfield area at the time. It had pictures of little orange pits all over it.
Anyway, there were about twelve people or so over. It was almost always a crowded house when the good drugs came around: anybody who was anybody was sure to be there, and everybody who wasn’t a somebody got green eyes because word always got around. I rarely made those judgment calls, as this was my Number 2 Man’s turf. Of course, I never had to worry about it, as I was the dealer man. I was usually pretty lenient myself, unless there was someone who I got a bad feeling about, someone I did not trust. Otherwise, if you were cool, you were cool with me. I wasn’t big on kicking people out “just because.”
I never really liked that about my Number 2 Man, but then again there were a lot of things I did not really like about him. I do, however, understand why he did not like having freeloaders around, but I usually had money to burn, and I well remembered my penniless days. Plus, I was often a little lonely. I usually did not mind as long as the person was truly grateful, but the minute I thought they were taking me for granted or playing me for a fool, they’d find themselves out in the cold.
I never really fit in with these people anyway and especially not with my Number 2 Man. I was older, and I did not have the same senseless disrespect for everybody and everything they way that they did. I was certainly no saint, but I did not make it a point to make fun of people or intentionally be disrespectful in public. I thought that the latter was just plain stupid, if for no other reason than it attracts the attention of the law dogs, and a dope dealer sure doesn’t want them sniffing around.
They were just a bunch of kids who loved to party hard, and I was trying to run a business without getting busted. I used my head a little more, at least in business matters and respect toward others. I always followed the unwritten rule that you needed to “be cool.” Being cool involved living and letting live, showing respect to those who respected you and laying down the law to those who did not. It certainly did not involve making fun of people or being a menace to society just because you had a bad attitude. I should have listened to my good sense then and told the Number 2 Man and his crowd where to go.
Yet in many ways, while I was the dealer man, I really did not really run the show: it ran me. The number one unwritten rule that I knew so well was “players get played.” We lived by that rule and died by that rule. You see, people only think that they play games. In reality, games play people. Anyone who has ever played very hard intuitively knows this rule, whether they consciously acknowledge it or not. People can’t quit even when they want to: without first paying the piper an exacting toll for playing, that is. I knew that my Number 2 Man was conniving, and the thought of putting me out would no doubt have painted a momentary smile on his face.
He looked a lot like me: thin, longhaired, etc., and he frequently got dubbed “Greasy Jesus.” But his real ace was his mind. He was very intelligent and vindictive. It would have gone a lot better for me if I had never hooked up with him at all. He was no physical threat to me: I’m certain that I could have snapped him like a twig and was seriously tempted to do so on more than one occasion. From a drug dealer mentality, I really should have. I would have saved myself a lot of stress and grief, and I probably could have maintained the loyalty of my Number 1 Man, before he got his mind poisoned by Number 2.
So as I was saying, everybody was lining up to take their hits. My Number 2 Man was feeding hits to everyone on the end of a pair of hemostats. I remember Helen10 took her hit right before mine. She was single and one of the four girls in the group who stripped for a living. Two of the other ones were single too, and the third was my Number 2 Man’s girlfriend, Suzy.11 Besides Helen and Suzy, the other two’s names were Sharon12 and Pam.13
Pam was a little older, about my age, and I liked her, though I really wasn’t shopping very hard for any woman. I liked her more than the other girls because of her maturity, but in my opinion she also happened to be about the best looking one in the bunch, second only to my Number 1 Man’s girl, Sally,14 who incidentally was not a stripper. In fact, for a brief time my Number 1 Man and Sally broke up, and he went out with Pam, though they only slept together once or maybe twice. That is a little surprising for a drug dealer and a stripper.
She and Suzy seemed to get along startlingly well. In all honesty, I always had to wonder if, particularly when tweaked, they did not have a lesbian relationship going on to the side. I could be mistaken about the two of them, but it has been my observation that methamphetamines do seem to promote homosexual tendencies, and particularly in women. Perhaps it affects them more rapidly because they have less body weight making them more susceptible. Who knows? I do know that it generally took less of whatever drug it might happen to be to get the girls off than it did for us.
But anyway, I’ll get back to trying acid. When it was my turn, I took the hemostats and gingerly pulled the centimeter by centimeter tab off, taking it between my front teeth. I had asked what I was supposed to do with it, and everybody told me to just chew it up and swallow it. They were all curious to see how it would affect me and how I would like it, especially since it was such a novelty to treat the dealer man.
Nothing seemed to happen at all at first. I was complaining because I thought it was bunk. Everyone else was beginning to say that it was working, but I told them that while I was no expert since I had never tried it, I did know what I felt, and I did not feel any different. This was a disappointment to my Number 2 Man, but everyone else had—to borrow an expression from the 70’s—“tuned in, tuned out, and dropped out,” so I doubt they cared too much. I was smoking heavily and was about the only one who actually had cigarettes, and everybody was bumming me dry.
Finally, I got disgusted and volunteered to go on a cigarette run, as everyone else said that they were unwilling or unable to go. I must admit that I felt a little strange walking, but I did not know the full extent until I got to Git N’ Go. Fortunately, it was only a block away. I embarrassed myself badly, suddenly realizing that I was in no condition to be seen in a public place. After making a total fool of myself at the counter, I spent several tries on the door, trying to push instead of pull (or vice versa, I don’t remember now). I couldn’t get out.
I was absolutely fried. My pupils had to have been the size of saucers. I wonder what the person behind the register thought. It must have been obvious I was on something, but then again the neighborhood I was in was notorious for such things.
I’m not exactly sure how to describe how that first hit made me feel, but I can tell you that I found car headlights rather captivating (though it was only dusk), and I felt really strange, but I liked it. Since that time, I’ve tripped acid many times and had a number of different trips.
I did not stay around long after that. Everyone told me it was dangerous and abnormal to trip alone, but I knew my feelings, and I knew I would climb the wall if I stayed there. I was a little uncertain of myself while driving and proceeded with a little extra caution, but was grateful to enjoy the rest of my trip alone in the comfort of my own room. After that, I tripped a lot, but I usually preferred to trip alone. I know that I never felt very comfortable at my Number 2 Man’s place or in that company while tripping
As for what tripping acid is like, the best description that I can give you it this. Imagine yourself asleep in bed one night in full fledged REM15 sleep—you know, the state of very vivid dreaming—and your fairy godmother sweeps in and touches the base of your skull with her magic wand. You suddenly find yourself fully awake, but your brain is still functioning in an REM state. That is what it was like to me. I saw everything anyone ever does, but I felt as though I were in a dream state: literally. Strange.
Over time, my emotions became catatonic and numb, and I felt an usual level of aggression and adrenaline, which paved the way for the evil tendency. I mean, imagine dreaming that you are bashing someone’s head in. It might seem a little strange, but it is only a dream. That is how reality felt, except I might have felt more remorse from bashing someone’s head in an actual dream than literally doing it while tripping. Doing it while tripping would have probably made me feel a kind of power; it would probably have been somewhat enjoyable in a perverse way.
I will admit that while I loved the drug, it seemed that as time went on my trips got worse and worse, and it brought out an evil side in me. I was talking to a friend of mine at work who no longer trips acid, but used to love to as a teenager, and she said the same thing. She admitted that if she were to go back to doping, that acid would probably be her number one drug of choice.
Mine would have been pot, but I definitely did like acid, though I never much cared for the last several hours of coming down off it. I felt like my brain had been wrenched out of socket: my mind was really tired and stressed out. Words really don’t capture it. Since I never knew how to describe it, I just coined the term “brain-rot.” My friends always knew what I meant when I was talking about the feeling of brain-rot.
And then there were the intermittent, small-time deals. One time an occasional Mexican customer of mine wanted to know if he could trade a sheet of prescription Valium tablets for some marijuana. It was practically a joke, but I was still using my street smarts. Anyone who has ever lived this life knows that there are always rapid decisions that you have to arrive at, taking into consideration a number of different factors. To begin with, you have to weigh the risk. How bad do you want what they have? How bad do they want what you have? Where will you draw the line?
First, I knew that this guy wanted some smoke. He had probably stolen the pills, or at least had little invested in them, or else he wouldn’t be trying to trade them. I knew that even if I wanted to be generous, that would be a sign of weakness, encouraging him to rip me off in the future. I mean, if he thought I did not know my business well, or that I wouldn’t or couldn’t enforce my dealings, or that I was hurting for his drugs, that would mean that he would have me over a barrel. He would be in control, and as the dealer I had to be in control of my customers.
I knew I had to be a professional, showing my street smarts and displaying the necessary brawn to enforce them. I couldn’t back down. I also knew I could always lower my barter if I so desired, but I couldn’t do it the other way around, ya know? I knew that I had a good profit invested here, and I was curious to try the pills, as I had never had occasion to try Valium before. And I knew that money talks loudest.
It is an unwritten rule that you never get as good of a deal on a trade as what you do for hard, cold cash. I mean, the dealer man asks for cash. If you can’t meet his prices with cash, then you try to trade. You are already showing your weakness then; in fact, many dealers will send you packing until you come up with the cash. And if you don’t? Well, they really don’t want you back anyhow.
See, the dealer needs cash because he owes his man. He’s going to have to turn around and unload your trade, and he doesn’t want to get stuck with something he can’t unload, something that won’t turn him over an extra buck or two for all his troubles. He doesn’t want to spend all day trying to sell something else, when his priority is supplying his customers and keeping them happy. He needs to be sure he’ll have a profit. The players either understand these rules or else they’ll keep getting played until they learn to play by them.
And finally, I knew that if he did not go for it, I wasn’t out anything. I really did not care that much, so I had little to lose. I also knew that he was a shyster and had ripped me off in days gone by, so I did not have too much sympathy for him. I certainly was not going to let him outsmart me or walk on me again, and I knew that he wanted some smoke.
So considering all these factors in a matter of seconds, I said in an unhurried, level voice, “Sure. I’ll tell you what, Man. I’ll give you an eighth of smoke for the whole sheet.” It was impersonal and matter of fact, saying in effect, “Take it or leave it. This is my final offer.” If he took it, he left happy. If he did not, he just left. Either way, I was happy. As it turns out, he took it with scarcely a word and left without incident. According to the streets it was fair, and we both knew it.
That much smoke would have cost him $20, my prices. I could unload the Valium for over $160 and still have some to try. If I couldn’t unload them, or if I liked them too well, I was only out a measly twenty dollars. Actually, I had only about a fraction of that invested in it anyway. It was a good rule of thumb that you could easily double your money and often more than that.
I had never taken Valium before and did not know how many it would take to get a good buzz going. As soon as he left, I popped one and impatiently waited about ten minutes. Nothing. So I took another one. And another one. And another one. By the time I finally began to feel the effect I had taken six. After that, I remember only bits and pieces, except that it cured me of ever wanting to take that many Valium again. I ended up making my runs as usual and dropped off the goods at my Number 1 and 2 Man’s house.
They told me later it was a good thing that they were honest, as they could have ripped off over five hundred bucks cash I had left unguarded in front of me on the coffee table. Actually, they probably would have, but they weren’t one hundred percent certain how lucid I really was, having seen me in all kinds of altered mind frames, and only a fool bites the hand that feeds it, especially when the hand knows good and well who bit it. They told me how good and honest they were, implying that it was because they thought I was such a wonderful guy, to gain my favor and hopefully a little extra dope in the bag or a little lower prices, truth be told. You see, it has a name. It’s called flattery.
All total, I lost the better part of two days and nights of memory, which is why I haven’t told you more about what happened. Hmm. Six Valium. Why do you suppose I lost so much time?
Note: You’ve come to the end of what I’ve managed to write in the autobiography, which as you can tell from the unfinished headings was already beginning to thin out. Things got much, much crazier before they got better. My turn to spirituality and the hair-raising tale that follows this one is documented in the more recent 2003 newsletter Why Doesn’t He Give His Life to God? Either click on the preceding link or the “Continue?” link below.
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