Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘What changed?’ asks Elf.

‘Exposure,’ says Pigpen. ‘Word got out. The media pumped the whole thing up. “Middle America! Your kids too could fall into Satan’s trap of free love, free dope and free music!” Which made damn sure those kids showed up, all wearing flowers in their hair.’

‘By the hundreds of thousands,’ says Jerry. ‘Heading right here. Where, it turned out, Diggers didn’t dig up meals, not literally. They needed hard cash from the likes of Bill Graham. Demand was infinite. Supply was not.’

‘Drugs dealers saw pay dirt,’ says Paul. ‘Turf wars kicked off. A kid got stabbed to death thirty feet from this house. Then the first acid burn-outs showed up. Owsley gave everyone the same dose. Beefy jocks and skinny chicks. People just ain’t built the same.’

Dean thinks of the sorry state of Syd Barrett.

‘Anti-commercialism got commercialised,’ says Jerry.

‘We saw all the head-shops from the taxi,’ says Jasper.

‘Exactly,’ says Marty. ‘It’s T-shirts, I Ching sets, pentagrams. Racks of crap. It’s all gotten less “Turn on, tune in, drop out” and more “Roll up, cash in, sell out.”’

‘Here’s the difference between then and now.’ Paul dabs sauce off his substantial chin. ‘A friend of mine was flying back to New Mexico in June of last year. He’s a classic hippie who doesn’t wear shoes. At San Francisco Airport, the clerk said the airline wouldn’t let him on board barefoot. So my friend looked around, saw a fellow freak arriving in San Francisco, and asked, “Hey, man, could I borrow your sandals? I’ll miss my flight if I don’t find some shoes right now.” This total stranger said, “Sure”, handed them over, and my friend flew home with no further trouble. Now that exchange could only have happened in a narrow window of a few months between ’sixty-six and ’sixty-seven. ’Sixty-five would’ve been too early. The stranger would’ve said, “Are you nuts ? Buy your own frickin’ sandals.” Now, in 1968, it’s too late. The stranger would say, “Sure you can have them – five bucks, plus sales tax.”’

Jerry Garcia fires off a closing blues-riff.

‘Is anything left of that time?’ asks Elf.

The San Franciscans look at each other.

‘I’d say not a lot,’ says Paul Kantner.

‘Only a few hollow slogans,’ says Pigpen.

Jerry strums his guitar. ‘Every third or fourth generation is a generation of radicals, of revolutionaries. We, my friends, are the bottle-smashers. We release the genies. We run riot, get shot, get infiltrated, get bought off. We die, go bust, sell out to the man. Sure as eggs is eggs. But the genies we let loose stay loose. In the ears of the young the genies whisper what was unsayable. “ Hey, kids – there’s nothing wrong with being gay. ” Or “ What if war isn’t a patriotism test, but really fucking dumb? ” Or “ Why do so few own so goddamn much? ” In the short run, not a lot seems to change. Those kids are nowhere near the levers of power. Not yet. But in the long run? Those whispers are the blueprints of the future.’

‘Who’s in the mood for acid?’ asks Jerry.

‘Me and Paul have an early flight over to Denver,’ says Marty Balin. ‘Bill’s got us on a treadmill.’

‘LSD and I do not get along,’ says Elf. ‘I’ll bow out.’

‘Same story here, Elf.’ Pigpen pours himself a tumbler of Southern Comfort. ‘My last trip – freakin’ nightmare.’

‘I’ll regret turning down an acid trip with Jerry Garcia,’ says Griff, ‘for a date with two kick-boxers, but the flesh is weak.’

‘Jasper?’ asks Jerry. ‘You can’t tell me “Sound Mind” and “Darkroom” came from smoking Marlboro.’

‘If my mind was one of the three little pigs’ houses,’ replies Jasper, ‘it would not be the house made of bricks.’

‘Man,’ Pigpen turns to Elf. ‘Does this dude ever give a straight answer to a straight question?’

Elf pats Jasper’s hand. ‘His answers are either alarmingly straight or cryptic crossword clues.’

‘Schizophrenia is an old friend of mine,’ says Jasper. ‘It was trippy enough for a lifetime. My girlfriend’s going to a cabal of west-coast photographers, so I’ll join her.’

Jerry looks at Dean. ‘You’re my only hope, Mr Moss.’

Tonight’s the night. ‘I’m in, Mr Garcia.’

‘Ever tripped before?’

‘I have not,’ admits Dean. ‘Not properly.’

‘Then, as a virgin, I’ll give you a light dose.’

Elf, Jasper and Griff stand up to go. ‘Look after our Dean,’ Elf tells Jerry. ‘Good bassists are hard to find.’

‘If we venture out, I’ll summon up a guardian angel. Dean can crash on our sofa, so he won’t have to get back to your hotel.’

‘See yer all at the studio in the morning,’ says Dean.

‘Session starts nine sharp,’ says Griff. ‘There or square.’

Jasper tells him, ‘Bring us back a souvenir.’

‘Acid is a box of mystery chocolates.’ Dean and his host sit on the floor of Jerry’s room, on cushions at a low table made of a slab of tree trunk. ‘Ten lines of coke from the same batch’ll give you the same bump. Ten reefers of the same weed will give you the same buzz. Ten trips with LSD of the same potency is ten different trips. A lot depends on where your head’s at, so only do this if you’ve got your shit together. This trip has no ejector seat.’

Mandy Craddock? Her son? Rod Dempsey? My father? ‘My shit is as together as it can be, right now, right here.’

‘Then behind you is a big red book. Jules Verne.’

Dean turns: ‘ Journey to the Centre of the Earth ?’

‘Put it on the table.’ Dean does as asked. Jerry turns to the rear cover and lifts a hidden flap in the thick board. Under the flap is a tiny brown envelope, one-inch by three. Using tweezers, Jerry extracts a square of yellow paper the size of a postage stamp. ‘This is rice-paper, impregnated with a dose of liquid acid. Lick your thumb.’ Jerry puts the yellow paper on the damp patch, and follows suit. ‘Here we go.’

They put the papers onto their tongues.

Dean’s dissolves in seconds.

‘The magic carpet will arrive shortly. Pick out a record.’ Jerry returns his stash and replaces Jules Verne while Dean pulls out the Band’s Music from Big Pink and puts on side two. Jerry and Dean bongo along until ‘Chest Fever’ ignites with a fiery burst of organ.

‘Bloody incredible playing, this,’ says Dean.

‘It’s a Lowrey. Garth’s the Band’s secret weapon. Sweetest guy you ever met, too. How’re you feeling now?’

‘Like I need a dump.’

‘That’s your body saying, “Something celestial’s on its way, I’ll attend to the earthier stuff now.” Bathroom’s thataway.’ Dean goes and Dean goes. He washes his hands. The water feels silky. Gravity is lessening. Back in Jerry’s room, Jerry asks, ‘Is it kicking in?’

‘I feel atoms of air bouncing in my lungs, like popcorn.’

‘Let’s go out for a walk in the park.’

The possible Indian’s name turns out to be Chayton. ‘One half Navajo,’ he tells Dean, as they descend to the street, ‘one quarter Sioux, one quarter who the hell knows?’ He follows a step or two behind Dean and Jerry. Jerry talks about the neighbourhood. Chayton walks with a panther’s gait, emanating a forcefield that the hustlers, beggars and sightseers of Haight Street detect and do not test. Jerry’s wearing a vast-brimmed hat and mirror sunglasses, and nobody bothers him. His cigarette smells of sage. The sky is a no man’s land between afternoon and evening. Clouds are few, high and puffy, like dragon-smoke. Three jet-trails make a triangle.