Has Anyone Seen My Tab Of LSD? Dad? OMFG!!


A Trip Around The Yard

Alan was feeling a little bit guilty about violating his son‘s trust. He respected Ian’s right to privacy but his suspicions were so deep he felt he had to infringe. He didn’t want his son smoking that evil devils weed or worse. As a devout Jesuit he was responsible to raise his son to be a follower of The Society of Christ and if he found Ian straying he could use that to send his son into a Jesuit school, maybe even go to Loyola someday. His wife Sadie was catholic and had opted not to upset the forbidden apple cart by converting and as long as Ian was swathed in the blanket of Jesus they could compromise. The compromise was a typical agreement between husband and wife in the 50‘s, Sadie agreed not to cut Alan off forcing Alan to agree to just about anything. In truth that was the single bone of contention between them, Sadie insisted on Ian remaining a “Good catholic” and not a Jesuit so Alan gave in “for now“. That was the one and only time she aired dissidence.
All Alan needed to convince her being a Jesuit would be in Ian’s best interests was to catch him in a sin. He was relatively certain his son was smoking pot and he wanted to find some evidence of wrongdoing that would give him the upper hand and release the vaginal wrench Sadie clenched on his desires. Alan was the man of the house and as such he should in theory have final say in major decisions, but in practice he opted for bedroom bliss over being boss on this one. He looked over his shoulder nervously and began opening the desk drawer as silently as possible. After rifling through the entire desk he was disappointed to not find any evidence but relieved his son seemed to be keeping his head on his shoulders. He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular when he placed the life saver in his mouth, it was more of a reflex. He had no way of knowing he had just unwittingly ingested a tasty tab of Orange Sunshine LSD. In fact it would be almost an hour until he even began to feel any effect, much too long of a time lapse to connect the two together even if he had suspected something. The rest of the covert search also turned up nothing so he left his son’s room and went to his secret haven, his escape room to relax before mowing the lawn. He locked the door behind him and sat down in his lounge chair at his sacred sanctuary.
It had always seemed funny to Ian that his Dad spent so much money on a Cadillac but turned the room meant to keep that expensive car into a fortress of escape with no room for the car. A small fridge filled with beers, a lounger, a small TV and radio all surrounded by his tools. But that’s where you could find Alan whenever the stresses of suburban life got to him. He called it his palace. Alan needed to relax because he always stressed out at the thought of performing his most despised suburban chore. Lawn maintenance. People here in Hamilton New Jersey were judged harshly by the state of their lawns. A well kept lawn was the ultimate status in town and would make the homeowner a well respected man about town, but an unkempt lawn was a ticket to the lowest rung of suburban development and a surefire way to have yourself snubbed and ostracized.
But the yard had to be manicured and Alan dutifully mowed and trimmed his sacred acre of green pride with an unusual joviality which at times made him actually laugh to no one in particular. When Alan finished his dreaded chore he smiled having found it mildly amusing and uncharacteristically pleasant. When he performed the finishing touch of edging it was oddly funny for some reason. He had also done some very deep thinking while tackling this normally mundane chore and surprised himself having come up with some new concepts and theories about life. His life to be exact. He put away his lawnmower and edger and then sat back in his recliner to close his eyes and consider the implications of his newly gained perspective. Besides it was a hot one out there today and he was tired so a cold beer and a short nap would fit his bill. As he laid back and relaxed a sense of serenity settled across his body and mind. Alan was meditating without even realizing. After fifteen minutes his cheek muscles began to move involuntarily forcing a rather large smile onto his face. His eyes were closed yet bustling with activity as they entered the rapid eye movement state even though he was far away from sleeping. He found himself inexplicably listening closely to all the sounds around him, the leaves gently tickling the ground a they danced acros the cement floor, the wings of some kind of bug flapping melodically, a cricket scratching a tune on its hind legs. Sounds that were always around but never noticed, at least not is such a grand way. Alan was smiling and humming and the visions in his minds eye were churning up childhood memories. Cartoon characters. He saw Popeye and Olive Oyl, Mighty Mouse, Huckleberry Hound, Top Cat, and many more cherished cartoon characters all involved in some bizarre collective cartoon specifically portrayed for his entertainment. As if he had taken hallucinogens before he rolled with it not for a second letting the images upset or confuse him. He was smiling a huge involuntary smile and he knew it. He felt it! He felt the muscles of his cheeks pulling upwards pressing up against his eye sockets, the corners of his mouth contract inwardly, and his jaw line stretch halfway around his head. He chuckled to himself understanding he was rising to a new conscientiousness.
For quite a while Alan merely sat back and enjoyed his trip as he contemplated his life and what it was all about. His smile began to desert him as he realized what a rut he’d found himself in. “What the hell am I doing? The same thing day in and day out, go to work, come home, have dinner, watch TV, and go to bed. What am I doing this all for?” He continued feeling morose and sorry for himself for living what others had convinced themselves was “The American Dream”. But what the hell kind of dream is this drudgery of existence? Why was he just going through the motions, why wasn’t he an international spy, or an astronaut or something exciting? Anything more exciting than a carbon copy of every other shit middle class robot in town. His mood was taking a dangerous turn from comedy to tragedy in mere seconds.
Alan clasped his head between his hands attempting to squeeze the bad thoughts from his mind. Bugs seemed to be buzzing around e3verywhere but one bug in particular was just outside his ear and singing a song to him. Not a song he recognized, more nonsense singing in a weird bug voice like “eyy ya ya dadada dadeedadee, dadada…..get outta my ear!” Wait, was the bug trying to tell him some profound truth? Could this be where he finds true meaning? Alan contemplated intensely what message this omen bug was showing him when he laughed out loud, “Get out of my ear? Hahaha, did some bug just fly in my ear and say get out of my ear?” He laughed some more, not startled or confused but back in a state of control, of understanding, as though tripping on LSD was his true calling and not some foreign experience impossible to understand. He opened his eyes and continued talking to himself, “Holy shit, I feel so strange. I’m not sure what in the Hell is going on but I think I like it. I feel like I‘m in some bizarre 3D movie or one of those optical illusion pictures” The bug continued to sing the same song over and over in his ear and much to his delight he was neither concerned nor puzzled, he was comfortable with it. Suddenly startled Alan thought he saw movement from the corner of his eye as he jumped up from his chair.
“Is someone here? Come on now I know someone else is here, I can hear you and I know you’re in here. Who is it?” Alan was still chuckling lightly but beginning to feel uneasy. The bug stopped singing and in a much deeper and human voice it said to him, “Its me Alan, Franco. You remember me don‘t you? Saint Francis from the days back at the room. I sure as hell remember you, all of you. You guys all laughed and called me Franco. Then you did those things to me, those horrible things. I can still feel the pain.” Alan sat back down now suddenly frightened and uncertain of what was happening. An old buried memory he was unaware of was being stirred up and settling in his head. He was remembering, the room, the lights, the loud noises, and….and “Franco? This can’t be, it wasn’t real. But maybe it was. Oh my God, I remember now Franco. They told us no one would get hurt, we never meant to”….. A knock on the door sent a shiver of paranoia erasing the memory and replacing it with profound worry. “Dad? Its me, Ian. Can I come in? I think we nee to talk.”

Busted, Disgusted, and Can’t Be Trusted

“Shit Out Of Luck, South Carolina, 1979”
I couldn’t waste time worrying about tomorrow, I had to deal with right now. I was being taken to my room for the night and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. First came the strip search, which the guards seemed to take a special perverted delight in making rude comments about my naked body. Maybe they were playing some sort of cop intimidation game, or perhaps they really did dig it. Whatever, it made me very uncomfortable and I was especially intimidated when a deep voice bellowed, “Okay boy, now bend on over and spread your cheeks”. Reluctantly I complied to a new round of rude crude and lewd remarks which totally emasculated me, whether as a by product or by design. Feeling oddly dirty, even after being hosed down, a young guard handed me a towel and an orange jumpsuit. I could tell he was not a willing participant and thought it might be a good chance to create an ally, but he was unreceptive to my questions, like “where am I going,” or “what’s gonna happen to me.” I was a bit surprised at how meekly I asked this guard, but he just avoided eye contact and paid me no mind. “C’mon, dry off, git dressed and foller me son.” I obliged, still feeling dirty and not very dapper in my oversized orange jumpsuit with large white letters. ACDC. It wasn’t a rock band. It stood for Aikon County Detention Center. So here I was, dressed in the height of convict fashion following a young guard who had just handed me the thinnest mattress in history, as well as an itchy wool blanket all rolled up like a sleeping bag. “This is your bed.” He informed me. I tucked it under my arm and followed as the guard walked down the hall, through a series of bars and gates. I had my bed tucked under my arm, and my tail tucked between my legs.
The last gate we went through opened up into a sort of Cineplex of jail cells, and I could see many prisoners sticking their heads between the bars to try and get a look at the new arrival. I could hear shouts, mostly things like “Here come some fresh meat,” or “check out this long haired girl,” and other such nonsense that added profoundly to my discomfort. A voice somewhere off in the distance let out a very loud directive. “Alla Y’all Shut up!!! Its time for lights out.” The young guard walked me down a hallway of jail cells, and it looked like a dormitory of bars. He stopped about halfway down the hall, turned and unlocked a set of bars. “Go on ahead in boy” . It was a relatively big room with a stainless steel sort of picnic table and chair to the left, and to the right on the wall was two shower heads but no stalls. “All the way to the back on the left” down a short narrow corridor I saw a room on the end with an open door. I went in, and saw a board flush up against the wall, and a stainless steel toilet and sink. I remember thinking to myself “ I’m going to be seeing a lot of stainless steel here in this joint”. The young guard spoke to me for the final time. “Put yer mattress on there, you will git yer breakfast under the door in the morning, and your cell will open up to the common room at 10AM. Lunch is served around 12 noon, and 6 PM its back in to your personal cell. Every Wednesday the canteen cart comes around so you can buy candy and cigarettes if you have any money. Church is on Sunday Morning at 10AM sharp in the chapel. You will get one clean towel every day, and a clean jumpsuit once a week. Enjoy your stay.” The last part was added with a touch of sarcasm, and the rest of the “speech” seemed to be by rote, like he has said it a million times. But why did he give me the rundown on the entire place. After all I was leaving tomorrow. Wasn’t I? I began to worry again. How the fuck did I get myself into this God damn nightmare? I unrolled my makeshift bed, laid down, and stared at the ceiling. Completely exhausted from an extremely trying day, I fell asleep.
The next morning I woke up to a school cafeteria type of tray scratching along the floor. It was being passed through a rectangular cut out at the bottom of a cell door that was my overnight home. I was somewhat disoriented, the entire thing seeming rather surreal, as if it were happening to either someone else or in a dream. But it wasn’t a dream, and it was happening to me. I looked at the tray which consisted of a bowl of what I could only assume was oatmeal, a small dish of fruit cocktail , and some toast that I had no doubt had ceased being anything remotely close to actual toast hours ago. A very grim reminder that this is a real situation here. I had to do something, had to act and get myself back in control. Was Max coming back? Did Sandy just order him to move on without me? Or more likely, was Max and Sandy both beginning to feel the pains and discomforts of drug withdrawal? That was the most worrisome and most likely of outcomes. They either found some drugs out on the streets of Aikon County South Carolina, or they forged on ahead to the next methadone clinic on their route and turned me into a distant memory. I now knew that I had to take matters into my own hands. I was alone now, too embarrassed or too proud to call my family for help. Again! Too stubborn to just give in call someone, anyone for help. Not only that, I was aware that I had only one phone call, and I needed to make it count. Phone call! That’s it! I get one phone call. Shit man, I better makes this call count. Who to call though, that was the problem. I remembered a girlfriend I had while I was living in Myrtle Beach a few years ago. Rebecca. I could call Rebecca. Surely she would remember her Yankee lover and be willing to help me out. Why she even had a brother who was working a chain gang, so surely she would be sympathetic. So that’s it. I will call Rebecca, and she will rescue me from this hick hell hole. Now I just need to get to a phone. My mind was working overtime devising a plan to escape this nightmare. I was already thinking what I should do, track down Max and Sandy and kick their asses, or head back to New York and regroup. But first things first. I need to make the call.
I managed to eat about three quarters of the hideous representation of oatmeal and all of the fruit cocktail. I opted out of the born again toast. I now had some nourishment in my stomach, and it was time to get the ball rolling here. I had heard some of the other “Inn” mates call the guards by the term “turnkey” So it was time to establish my dominance with my jailors while developing my “street credentials” with my new roomies. I determined that a perfect place to start was right this very moment by showing these local yokel criminals how we do it up north. So in my toughest NYC voice I let out an authoritative directive. “Ay Oh, Turn-key”. I need to make a phone call.” I had attempted to inject just the perfect modicum of distain and rebellion as was necessary to achieve my goal. An awkward silence befell the cellblock, as a burly mean looking police officer began to stare at me with such a deadpan sarcastic glare, I almost felt jealous. I’m from New York, where sarcasm is a second language and he had just read me a cynical short story without even uttering a single word. I began to wonder if I was taking the proper approach, or if I should rethink my options. It was then that this komodo dragon in uniform began to saunter in my direction with a slow and deliberate pace that screamed “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” The oily haired officer got his face as close to mine as humanly possible, and just stared at me a moment. I had a sudden and humbling memory penetrate my tough NYC exterior and turn me into shimmering mass of spineless amoeba. . “Suey, let me hear you scream suey!” I attempted to coax myself back from my baseless paranoia. Oh Hell, stop thinking like that and get your shit together tough guy. You faced bigger opponents in Spanish Harlem just three days ago. You have spent countless hours in a Pagan Motorcycles Club bar. You have faced off with New York City detectives. (not very successful with the detectives, but stood up none the less. Well maybe stood up was not the right term) I gave my head a hair clearing shake, swallowed hard and began to feel like I was back in charge again. Apparently, none of this mattered to sergeant Komodo dragon. He began to speak, and I swore the voice was the same voice I recalled from that scene in the movie. “Say what boy?…. Did I hear you say turn-key you long haired piece of shit?” I couldn’t help but detect a certain note of arrogance and alarming distain in his voice. But alas it was too late, the drama had begun. I sensed that any second now, the proverbial pig shit was headed directly in the vortex of the rotary oscillator. And the fan was humming! The two of us stared each other down for a minute and the silence began to burn loud in my ears. Then as if right on cue a big shit eating “who the fuck do you think your dealing with” kind of grin broke out on his upper lip and quickly spread across his jaw until it took over his entire face. Now I am staring directly into this shit eating Cheshire smile and I can sense that it is a smile with some very serious implications. I had to think quick to get out of this predicament, to ease the tensions with my captor, while not losing face with my new room mates. “Hey Billy, we got us a real rebel Yankee here what wants to make his phone call.” The silence continued in the most uneasy pause I had ever experienced. After being stared at by a smile for what seemed like ten minutes, an even bigger almost obese guard came walking over with a look so serious I damn near wet myself. His stare was deadly. When he finally spoke, his voice did not match his body or his demeanor. He had a high pitched almost feminine voice. “Well Gawd Dang Jimbo, by all means lets give this boy his call, just as soon as we git his Yankee ass back from the room.” The two of these grease ball cops smiled at some kind of sick inside joke, and Jimbo opened my cell. “Put yaw hans behine you boy, youse comin’ wit us fer a spell.” His Cheshire shit eating grin was in overdrive now and it made me somewhat uncomfortable. They cuffed my hands behind my back and walked me out of the cell, down the corridor and through a few hallways until we stopped at a big wooden door that said Interrogation Room, ACDC. I thought to myself, so this is where they must be where Boss Hog and John Boy are taking me. Jesus when will this fucking nightmare end?