A Trip Down Chemistry Lane

By Spencer Dawson

What's black, white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple and spins twenty-eight times per second?  The answer I'm looking for, of course, is everything.  It was the worst trip ever, and I really don't think I'm exaggerating in the slightest when I say that.

It all started like any normal day during winter break.  The sky was overcast, there was snow on the ground and it was damn cold.  Perfect weather for recreational drugs, or so I thought.  Rob was the one that suggested it, we were just hanging out playing video games before he opened his mouth.

“You know what we should do today?” Rob asked me.

“Some fine young sorostitutes?” I asked, only half joking.  The half part came from the fact that it was break, so we were home from college, and all the sorority girls were back home at their respective subdivision palaces.

“Tempting, but I was thinking more along the lines of going out of our minds.  Trip more balls than they got in those little kid play palaces,” said Rob.  He had a good heart, but when you get down to it, there's no escaping the fact that he just wasn't the brightest star in the night sky.  He was about as bright as Orion's kneecap.  Sure it's bright enough to see, but nobody ever remembers it.

“You got a hookup?” I asked.  I never had good hookups.  It's probably better that way, since that's the only thing, other than money, that kept me from being under the influence of one substance or another for the majority of my waking hours and a good number of my sleeping hours.

“Hell yeah I do,” said Rob.  The man with the plan, and some shit in his hand, Rob did know how to get things.  I'm pretty sure I've seen Rob while he's been stoned, tripping, rolling, drunk, krunk, spaced out, and probably while he's been sober, but I'd never know the difference between and of his states of consciousness if he didn't tell me.  He's the kind of guy that can really handle his high, the kind that makes you wonder why they even bother with drugs.  “Check it out.  This friend of mine lives on a farm, and he's got himself a little patch of various goodies, mostly for his personal consumption.  Problem is, he had a bumper crop this last season, and all of the excess is going to be no good to anyone in a couple weeks.  He's looking to unload some of his stuff.  That's where we come in.  We help him move it, and we get a nice cut for ourselves.”

“So what'd he grow out there?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” said Rob, with a gleam in his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I said.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  You don't grow mushrooms on a farm, LSD comes from the labs in Northern California, marijuana is too easily spotted by the feds, ecstasy is made in labs all over the place, opium doesn't grow in this climate and neither does peyote.  I was definitely missing something.

“Good,” Rob said as he turned off the TV and Nintendo simultaneously.  “Let's roll.”

Seeing as it was winter break and my parents were at work, I had already smoked a couple bowls with Rob, and I drank a few shots before he came over.  I was not in any condition to drive, especially in that nasty winter weather.  “All right, just let me get me jacket on,” I said.

The driving wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared, once we got on the main roads.  The only reason we survived long enough to get onto the main roads was the fact that nobody was driving down the neighborhood streets.  Other than a couple freakouts caused by passing police cars, we made our way to the back dirt roads that led to the farm without incident.

When we arrived, we were greeted by the whole family; the guy's mother, father, four grandparents, about thirteen uncles and aunts along with twice as many children from ages two to nineteen.  We were directed to the basement, where we discovered a very rank new smell which was not unlike fermented mildew mixed with decomposing organic matter.  I almost choked, but then remembered my manners and that I had spent the night multiple times at my other friend's house which threw a knockout punch at me every time I walked through their door.

“Hey man,” said Rob.  I didn't see who he was talking to.  I had expected to be able to see who he was talking to after I had descended the stair, but no such luck was in store for me.

“Where is he?” I asked.  "I didn't hear any response to your shout out.”

“Don't worry, he's probably just napping,” said Rob.

He was right.  The kid was maybe six years old, tops, with perfect dreadlocks that reached down past his shoulder.  I never saw a white kid that young with dreads that long.  “This is the guy?” I almost shouted, but thankfully ended up whispering in Rob's ear.

“Yes, I am,” said the child only moving his lips.  “You got a problem with that, chump?”

“Uh....” I let out as I searched for words of apology.

"Don't worry about him,” said Rob, cutting me off, "he don't mean anything by it.”

“Uh, yeah, that's right,” I agreed.  “I like your dreads.”

“My parents make me have them,” said the boy, still lying on the heap of clothes on top of the sofa.  “I hate them, the god damn hippies.”

“His parents were crazy hippies back in the day,” Rob explained to me.  “Now, they gotta put up a front of being on the straight and narrow for their parents.  This is his Tom's mom's parents' farm.  All of Tom's mom's brothers and sisters got real jobs.”  I made a mental note that the kid's name was Tom.

“Okay, nice story, I feel like I'm on one of those stupid ‘this is your life' TV shows,” said Tom.  “So you gonna help me move this shit or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, we didn't come out here just to chill with your family up there,” said Rob.  “Not that a couple of our cousins look pretty damn good.”

“Dude, we've been over this before,” said Tom angrily as he suddenly jumped to his feet.  “You do not want want to get in the pants of anyone in my family.”

“Why's that?” I was too curious not to ask.  In response, Tom walked over to me and kneed me in the danglies as hard as he could, causing me to take his place on the couch, but in the fetal position.

“Sorry,” said Rob.  “I guess I should have warned you about that.  It's kind of a touchy subject.”

“Oh really?” I was just barely able to squeak.  “I hadn't noticed.”

“Come on man, I said I'm sorry,” said Rob.  “So where's your shit?”

“Over here," said the diminutive Tom, gesturing to a closed door.  He opened it and went it.  Rob supported my left side as I limped into the room.  Inside was the largest collection of Legos I had ever seen.  “My parents say they help expand my mind,” said Tom, answering my unspoken question.  “I found something just a little better.”

Tom popped off the top of one of the numerous buckets shaped like oversized Lego blocks.  It was halfway full with half red, half transparent pills that were filled with something yellow and gummy.  “You can sell them for thirty dollars each to suckers, friend prices are four dollars each,” said Tom as he held the bucket up to Rob.

“What are they?” I asked.  Neither one of them said anything.  Instead, Rob gripped the handle of the box and guided me out to my car.  I was still feeling nauseous, so I opened my door, threw up on the ground, wiped my chin on my jacket, and drove off.  I turned to Rob and repeated my question as we flew down the snow covered dirt road at sixty miles per hour.

In response, Rob held reached into the bucket, then reached over towards me with his hand turned down.  “Open your hand,” he said.  Still being rather stoned, I did just as he asked.  He dropped between five and eight capsules into my hand, which I promptly popped into my mouth.  Rob picked up my day old Taco Bell cup and handed it to me.  I downed the mouthful of pills with a swig of flat, weak and stale Dr. Pepper.

As we continued to drive back home, my body started tingling and all the lights I saw left trails behind them.  I knew I shouldn't drive while tripping, so I decided that the best thing to do was get home as fast as possible.  By this time, we were back on the main roads.  I sped up to ninety miles per hour.  My car couldn't go any faster than that.

I turned to look at Rob.  He flashed me a big smile that stretched all the way from ear to ear.  Literally.  I noticed that the stubble on his face was moving around in a sort of beautiful ballet.  I shook my head and glanced in my rear view mirror, which informed me that my eyebrows were migrating up my forehead to join the rest of the hair on my head.  At this point, I was no longer watching the road at all.  I guess I strayed into the other lane, and we would have hit the car that was coming toward us if Rob hadn't grabbed the steering wheel and made us flip over into the ditch on the side of the road.

Everything was spinning, and nothing stayed the same color.  I could hear Rob asking me if I was okay.  “Yeah, sure, don't worry about me,” I said as blood oozed from my mouth.  “Shit!” I shouted, spraying blood on the shattered windshield.  Rob got out of the car, stuck the bucket of pills in a snowbank and called a tow truck.

When the tow truck showed up, I tried to come up with an explanation of what had, or rather hadn't, happened.  “Well, see, car.  Zoom zoom.  Honk!  Eeeeee!  Boom!” I said.  The tow truck driver said nothing.

“It doesn't matter,” said Rob.  “Just try and relax, this accident has taken quite a bit out of you.”

When I got home, I turned on some music, lay down on my floor and watched my room expand and contract with every beat of the music.  I awoke the next day to the ringing of the phone.  It was two o'clock.

“Come on, get up,” said Rob.  “We've got work to do."