Michael Dibdin: Dark Specter

“I see! So our pain doesn’t matter to God, that’s what you’re saying. Have you ever stuck your hand in boiling water? Can you begin to imagine what that child must have suffered? But of course that’s as nothing in the eye of eternity. Probably the kid hadn’t been baptized. That would explain everything. Original sin. It’s going to burn in hell anyway, so why not boil it up a little first, get it used to the idea. Right?”

“It’s not for us to judge the Almighty!” Larry broke out.

“Why the fuck not?” Sam shouted. “What would you have thought of Phil here, or me, or Vince, or Greg, if we’d been in that apartment and just stood there and watched the kid stew? Would you have got down on your knees and worshiped us? No fucking way! You’d have called us sadistic perverts who should be locked up forever. So where does that leave your just and loving God?”

An embarrassed silence fell. We knew Sam as a good-time guy, laid-back, mellow and very funny, someone for whom nothing was worth hassling about. This was a Sam none of us had glimpsed before: engaged, angry, articulate, dominating. He seemed to pick up on the vibes himself.

“What do the rest of you think?” he asked with a visible effort to lighten up.

Greg scowled into his beer.

“I think this whole thing’s a downer,” he said.

“I think we should get stoned,” added Vince.

“We could go home and smoke some more,” I suggested.

Vince stood up.

“I mean really stoned. I’ll go see what I can score.”

Just then the band came back for another set, we all sank a few more beers and Greg launched into a story about a cheerleader who’d reportedly been slamdunked by the entire U of M basketball team after their recent triumph over a rival institution out in the sticks known around campus as Moo U. By the time Vince returned, the earlier incident seemed to have been forgotten. We had blowups like that all the time, and they didn’t faze us too much. Worse things happen when you’re stoned. Straight people might get hung up on disagreements and dissent, but we knew it was all in your head.

Vince had bought six tabs of what was billed as “organic mescaline.” This evoked a round of skeptical groans. Ever since Huxley and Castaneda, mescaline was the buzzword in drugs, but the chances of being sold the real stuff was just about zip. This almost certainly wasn’t mescaline at all, and sure as hell not organic. What we’d scored was most likely some cocktail such as acid cut with downers. Vince said he knew the dealer, though, and it was bound to be good shit whatever it was. That silenced any complaints. Another aspect of drug etiquette was that it was a point of honor never to refuse anything supplied by a friend of a friend. If Vince’s buddy said it was OK, that was good enough for us.

Riding home in the car, we passed another joint around and fiddled with the radio. Larry sat up front beside Greg, who was driving. Sam, Vince and I swayed from side to side in the back, singing along to the Allman Brothers’ “Whipping Post” with Vince playing a mean air guitar. Suddenly a flashing blue light flooded the car.

“Holy fuck!” said Greg, glancing in the mirror. “It’s the pigs.”

We totally lost it. Some friends of ours had got busted a couple of weeks earlier. They were only holding a couple of grams of hash, but they’d been charged with possession and were in jail awaiting trial. We had six tabs of some unknown psychedelic plus a whole bag of weed. To make matters worse, the thought flashing through each of our drug-and-booze-hazed brains was that Vince’s “friend” had done a deal with the nares. How else could they have got on to us? It all made sense. The dealer had copped a plea in return for fingering his clients so that the cops could bust them on the way home. Now they would strip-search us, do a rectal frisk and pack us off to the state pen where we’d be buggered and beaten up by redneck cons who thought hippies were faggot commie scum.

“Open the windows,” said Sam. “Vince, pass me the shit.”

Vince handed Sam the stapled plastic pouch containing the tablets. As the car slowed to a halt, we wound down the windows in an attempt to flush out the sweet, herby smell of marijuana. The police cruiser came to a stop right behind us, lights still flashing. Greg turned off the radio and took a deep breath.

“Jesus Christ,” said Larry quietly.

The patrolman sidled up to the driver’s door and asked for Greg’s license. We all sat very still while he scrutinized it.

“Get out of the car,” said the cop.

We obediently opened the doors and struggled out. The policeman stared at us irritably.

“Not all of you!” he snapped. “Just the driver.”

We climbed back into the car again. The patrolman led Greg away. I thought about another night, when I’d been driving from one party to another with some people I didn’t even know. We’d done some speed before leaving, so we drove very carefully, chanting “Take it easy!” like a mantra. We thought we were maintaining really well until the State Patrol pulled us over on the highway. “You know how fast you were going?” the cop asked. “Gee, officer,” said our driver, “I was just keeping up with traffic.” “You were doing ten miles an hour,” the guy replied. That time, fortunately, we were clean.

After a few minutes, Greg reappeared and the police cruiser pulled out and roared away. We all stared at him as though he’d come back from the dead.

“What happened?”

“What did he say to you, man?”

Greg got back behind the wheel.

“One of the taillights is out,” he announced laconically. “He gave me a ticket.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Far out!”

We laughed like maniacs all the way back to the house. We’d beaten the system yet again, put one over on the whole Establishment crock of shit. The episode just confirmed our conviction that we were cooler, smarter and better adapted for survival than our enemies. They got so obsessed with their uptight rules and regulations they didn’t even notice what was going on right under their very noses! There we were committing a major drug offense, and the dumb patrolman cites us for a traffic violation!

It wasn’t till we got inside the house that someone sobered up enough to ask, “So where’s the mescaline?”

“I ate it,” said Sam.

There was a stunned silence.

“I thought the guy was going to bust us,” Sam went on calmly. “A few ounces of weed we might talk our way out of, but not the tabs.”

“You ate them all?” asked Greg incredulously.

Sam nodded.

“What strength were they?” I asked Vince.

He shrugged.

“Who knows? Couple of hundred migs, the guy said.”

“We’ve got to get him to the hospital fast, get his stomach pumped.”

“No way!” said Sam forcefully.

“Sam, you’ve just dropped over a gram of whatever that shit is. You could die.”

He shrugged and smiled.

“We’re all going to die, man.”

“For Christ’s sake, Sam! This is serious. Even if it doesn’t kill you, it’s going to screw your head up completely!”

Sam stared at me.

“You figure I can’t handle it?”

There was nothing I could say to that. Our cardinal rule was that drugs don’t fuck you up, hang-ups do. An oft-repeated story described how when the Beatles made their first pilgrimage to India to see the Maharishi, he noticed that they were stoned and asked to see the stuff they’d been taking. They hand over their stash and the guy swallows it like candy right in front of their eyes. Fifty tabs of acid, man! Grade A, unadulterated, full-strength sunshine, nothing but the best for the Fab Four! And the Maharishi gobbles the lot and then sits there all night, calmly discoursing on the Path of True Knowledge until the sun comes up! Even a dose big enough to turn on a small town couldn’t disturb his Inner Peace and Purity, dig?