O Christ, I thought, he’s gone around the bend. “Let’s give this boy a lift,” he said, and before I could mount any argument he was stopped and this poor Okie kid was running up to the car with a big grin on his face, saying, “Hot damn! I never rode in a convertible before!” My attorney saw the hitchhiker long before I did. Avoid those quick bursts of acceleration that drag blood to the back of the brain. On a trip like this one must be careful about gas consumption. A constant speed is good for gas mileage – and for some reason that seemed important at the time. And also to maintain our rhythm on the road. I could barely hear the radio … slumped over on the far side of the seat, grappling with a tape recorder turned all the way up on “Sympathy for the Devil.” That was the only tape we had, so we played it constantly, over and over, as a kind of demented counterpoint to the radio. One toke? You poor fool! Wait till you see those goddamn bats. He leaned over to turn the volume up on the radio, humming along with the rhythm section and kind of moaning the words: “One toke over the line … Sweet Jesus … One toke over the line …” “Man, this is the way to travel,” said my attorney. The only way to keep alert on ether is to do up a lot of amyls – not all at once, but steadily, just enough to maintain the focus at 90 miles an hour through Barstow. And then do the next 100 miles in a horrible, slobbering sort of spastic stupor. We had sampled almost everything else, and now – yes, it was time for a long snort of ether. And I knew we’d get into that rotten stuff pretty soon. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
MIDGET LIMBO BAR FULL
We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers … and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.Īll this had been rounded up the night before, in a frenzy of high-speed driving all over Los Angeles County – from Topanga to Watts, we picked up everything we could get our hands on. The trunk of the car looked like a mobile police narcotics lab. The sporting editors had also given me $300 in cash, most of which was already spent on extremely dangerous drugs. The poor bastard will see them soon enough. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. “It’s your turn to drive.” I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. “What the hell are you yelling about?” he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. And a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?” …” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about 100 miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded maybe you should drive.
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.
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