Sometimes it's a feeling, a sound, or a smell. It could be a touch, It could be a song, It could be a word. It could be a color, it could be a sign and it could be a flower. It could be a person, place or thing. Somehow something flips a switch and you tap into your sense memory. The smell of new mown grass never fails to bring back memories of those halcyon days of my youth, running from yard to yard, playing until dark, peals of laughter and shouts of joy reverberating between the houses. The golden glow of a simpler time. For a split second the feeling is so real I am back in childhood, reveling in and reliving that exact moment. Care-free abandon and a limitless future. Magic and immortality are just within your grasp. You are the most alive you will ever be. It is both wonderful and bittersweet.
This was kind of one of those moments.
According to the Washington Post, the use of PCP is on the rise. Talk about memories. Like a lot of children, I went through an experimental phase, pushing the limits and boundaries of what was or wasn't acceptable behavior. Who among us hasn't played doctor, started smoking, done some shoplifting, some minor property damage, underage drinking, maybe even a little arson. Or, accidently, started a forest fire during an unusually hot summer and a particularly dry year on a windier than average day that had to be put out by the only fire truck in town which unfortunately was in the 4th of July parade at that moment so they had to stop the parade to put the fire out. I say who? Drugs were off limits and very bad. They showed us all those anti-drug movies in school. You know, where the guy takes a hit off a joint and jumps out a window. "I can fly! I can fly!" Or he runs into oncoming traffic, "Head to the light Gary!, Head to the light!" Even as a child I knew this wasn't true. I had smoked pot, and was already smoking cigarettes by the 3rd grade, and I hadn't jumped out a window or tried to play chicken with an oncoming 18- wheeler yet. So when a friend of mine said "Hey you want to smoke some PCP?" You can imagine my answer...
PCP also known as, Angel Dust, Supergrass, Hog, Wack, Rocket Fuel, Zoot, Killer Joints, Elephant Tranquilizer, Monkey Dust, Gorilla Pills, Tic Tac, Tragic Magic, Dust, Zoom, Buttnaked, DOA, Goon, Lethal Weapon and Mad Dog, was tried out as an anesthetic in the 1950's, until it was discontinued for human use. It was also used for a while as a horse or elephant tranquilizer. The fact that it was deemed unfit for both, human consumption and the animal kingdom, would, I suppose, be a deterrent to most people. But, have you ever met an elephant that really knew how to party? I meanreally party?
It works as a hallucinogen, stimulant, depressant, and anesthetic all at the same time. That's four drugs in one. Just say no? Just say when!
As good as all this sounds, there are some side-effects. Moderate amounts of PCP often causes the user to feel detached, distant and estranged from his surroundings (so does puberty). In some cases, numbness, slurred speech and a loss of coordination may be accompanied by a sense of strength and invulnerability (we're still in puberty people!). It can cause paranoia, and violent hostility. It may even produce a psychoses indistinguishable from schizophrenia. I guess the operative word here being, moderation.
The first time I smoked PCP was at a shopping mall in New Jersey. I was a freshman in high school. The guy we got it from told us, make sure you don't smoke too much. It came in joint form. It was a very small joint. I immediately thought, what a rip-off. I was used to seeing regular sized joints and this didn't seem like it would do the job. Smoking too much didn't look like it was going to be problem. We smoked it inside the mall. We were in a service hallway. It was a medieval labyrinth of shadows and echoes. If you were going to be estranged from your surroundings, this was a real good place to start.
We lurched out into the mall like the cast from Dawn of the Dead the musical, on the first day of rehearsal. Or a bunch of rejects from a Ramones video (lobotomy!). With our dulled frontal lobes and our glassy eyes, with the inability to process language (must. find. words.) we were a lumbering stumbling mob of the teenage undead, (must. find. cerebellum.) We had just dropped a couple of slots on the evolution chart. We were the Children of the Corn! None of which is all that unusual for a mall in Central Jersey.
One of the things I always loved about getting high was how it brought everyday mysteries to light. The mundane as miraculous. Everything was to be explored. You think it's just a paper napkin but it is so much more! I remember spending what seemed like hours, (in fact it was) communicating with a tree.
"I'm telling you man, sometimes I felt the tree and sometimes the tree felt me." Or being utterly stumped by sheer engineering genius of a doorknob. "Wait, do I turn it, or does it turn me?" Boy, talk about the doors of perception! I was actually trapped in a bathroom stall at a baseball game once, after smoking too much pot and was only rescued after one of my buddies came looking for me, because they couldn't figure out what was taking me so long.
This wasn't one of those kind of moments.
I didn't feel high, I didn't really feel anything. It was as if I was on the outside looking in, like there was a filter between me and what was going on around me, like I was in the bottom of a well, or behind glass. It was like I was watching a really boring television show, where nothing happened and I couldn't change the channel. It was like watching paint dry. Slowly. I think I could still speak but I'm not sure. This was definitely an out of body experience, but not in a good way. I wasn't floating above everyone and looking down from the clouds, I didn't turn into a plant or an animal, I didn't have any special powers and no inanimate objects were speaking to me. I was used to the universe opening up to me, not shutting me down. I'm talking about a world of talking plants and smiling appliances. Being shunned by the outside world is one thing, but having a toaster turn it's back on you is just cold. Here there were no insights, visions or wisdom. I was just another slack-jawed catatonic semi-ambulatory mute teenager, with no ability to process feelings or reason.
This seemed as good a time as any to leave the mall.
The plan was to go to the McDonalds across the street. The road we had to cross was a giant 6 lane road and it was in a high traffic area and this being the 70's the speed limit was probably 80. Cars are whipping by, the road is full of big American cars (there wasn't a compact in the bunch), a steady stream of Sea Land trucks and buses heading to and from from New York City. It was an ocean of neon and diesel smoke. The idea was to walk down and cross at the the light. But, it seemed like every step I took the light receded more and more and at this rate we'll never make it. Now, if you're gacked out on Wack, or gooned on Gorilla Pills, the person next to you can seem like they are a million miles away, so the traffic light figured to be at least, a three day trip. And, maybe it was the Monkey Dust talking, but this trip had Donner Party written all over it. We'll be lucky if we get halfway to the light before we started eating each other (hello paranoia!). The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, but I knew immediately I was going to need a shortcut.
Not quite Columbus I set off for the promised land.
Somehow I made it halfway across the road and I am now sitting on top of the center divider like it is Mt. Olympus. The nonstop parade of cars hurtle by like the 24 hours of Le Mans. Which may even be how long I sat there. I have taken root, not quite a sentient being, seeing everything and feeling nothing. I had no desire to "head to the light" like Gary, and this turns out to be a real bad time not to be able to fly. Later, much later, (many years in fact) and only then did it occur to me how close the cars really were. I was less than 6 inches from being hit and killed by cars, trucks and buses going 80 plus miles an hour (oh, that's why they call it DOA!). I wonder if McDonalds delivers?
The second time I smoked PCP was at a High School basketball game...
