The Other Side of the Mountain Ch. 5
Chapter 5: More New Friends and a Twisted Night
The Pleasures of Home Ownership
Some nights are born under the wrong moon. This was one of those nights. But we made it our own anyway.
Back in my camper, Buford took up an entire corner sitting on the floor. Beers were passed around and flavors savored. Halfway through my first beer, Buford pulled a small baggie of white powder from his pocket. He waved it at me.
"Want to try it?" he asked.
"What is it?" I asked.
"It’s a plant-based stimulant designed to be ingested through the nasal passages," he rumbled back.
I perked up. "You mean cocaine?"
He shook his head. "No, this is from a plant."
"Buford, cocaine comes from a plant."
"Oh. Well, maybe it’s a bit like cocaine. But it’s homemade so that makes it better," he said, smiling.
I passed him a spare mirror I happened to have lying around for just these occasions and he deftly cut a few lines for each of us.
The homemade booger sugar went down smooth, and we followed it with rum. Well, I had a sip. Buford’s sip finished the bottle.
A knock at the door froze us mid-sin. At the threshold stood a man—normal-sized, round face, bit of muscle, bit of fat, buried beneath a black web of dreadlocks that hung past his waist.
"Is Buford here?" he asked.
"Chewy!" Buford called from the back.
I opened the door wider. "Sure, come on in," I said, feeling that familiar warmth creeping back. Damned paranoia. Some blame it on drugs. I blame it on doing illegal shit.
Chewy stepped in like he already knew the place. He was shortish, smiling, with a permanent twinkle in his eye. I liked him instantly.
Chewy was a simple man. All he wanted was a good buzz and a warm bed. He measured his experiences on a scale ranging from life-changing to also life-changing, but bad. He’d moved to the valley years ago and acquired himself a fine shed to live in.
He sat down. I handed him a beer, grabbed another round for Buford and myself. Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged. We quickly established an all-around mutual freak status and the paranoia melted like ice in whiskey.
With feelings of camaraderie, Chewy emptied his pockets onto the floor—a potent drug buffet that would rival most pharmacies. From the hodgepodge, he pulled out a pink sheet of paper and sliced it into three thick strips.
"Care for a trip?" he asked.
Even as he spoke, he passed a piece to Buford, who wolfed it down without hesitation.
I shrugged. My acid dose was probably wearing off. "When in Rome!" I said, and ate mine.
A Quick Note on the Effects of Hallucinogens
A magic mushroom trip is a horseback ride through an enchanted forest. You trot past wonders, dismount exhausted, and spend the next day in existential bliss.
An acid trip will take you to the same forest—but you’re riding a bull. A bull with opinions. You hold on to its nose ring like it’s a steering wheel. It’s not. All is bull.
Now this stuff—the pink paper special? Same forest. But you’re guided by someone’s creepy uncle. No shirt. Greasy flashlight. Talking about your aura.
These trips were fucked. Tasted like battery acid distilled in a pedophile’s garage.
After a horrifyingly awkward trip, we all came to the conclusion that something had been a wee bit off. Chewy, ever the generous lunatic, announced himself to be a Professor of Chemicology and began tasting the remaining drugs. Like a true scholar.
He pronounced the batch to be some synthetic variant of LSD. Apparently, in their entrepreneurial kindness, drug manufacturers whip up these off-brand mimics—just a molecule away from the real thing. That’s what keeps them legal-ish and easier to import.
Unfortunately, these legal-ish concoctions sometimes miss the mark and leave the user sweating regret through their teeth.
As we began to come back from that hellish reality of grey aliens and twitchy faces, I made my way to the wood stove. I lit the fire with a few sticks of pine. It wasn’t especially cold, but the fire felt reassuring against all the mental discord.
I set the iron skillet on the stove to warm while I sliced bacon and onions. Once the skillet was hot I added the bacon. When cooking bacon I like to fill the skillet and let the fat boil out of the meat. I watched the fat slowly render out and turn into a sizzling puddle of goodness. I fried the onions in the bacon grease.
Once the onions were cooked, I set the food on a paper towel while I warmed tortillas. Chewy sat at the table. Buford stayed in his corner - too big for the furniture. I brought over the food, and the guys dug in with good appetite. Tall glasses of bourbon washed down the food. A second gave our souls comfort that reality was not lost.
The blend of pork fat and whiskey brought on a welcome drowsiness. Always best to take a nap when you get the chance.
Chewy woke first. He yawned, farted, scratched, and surveyed the chaos. He leaned over the table, eyes half-focused, and found a mound of powder. He cut it into lines and gave it a go, praying for salvation. It was mostly cigarette ash.
A sputter, a gag, and a loud sneeze launched snot and soot into the air. He blinked hard. Then dug through the beer cans until he found one with liquid. It was warm and flat, but it rinsed the ash—until his teeth caught a cigarette butt.
His coughing resumed. He cursed evil spirits, blamed fate, and stumbled outside.
The sun shone bright as he eased into a plastic chair. He cracked a fresh beer and eyed it like it might hit back. A country song hummed through his lips. His gaze wandered.
And there, coming down the road, was a mass of golden curls. Despite his inebriation, Chewy couldn't help but notice the curves beneath those curls.
I came to learn Chewy often confused lust with love.
He held his breath as the love of his life came into view.