3 years ago1,000+ Views
Reading my fellow Vingler @tessstevens card about her subway ride from hell this morning prompted a memory of my own. Not nearly so dangerous (or even really as interesting) as hers, it still does have a subway ride in it.
Basically it's just one of the stories that makes me love New York so much. It's a true story, with only minor creative license employed and names omitted.
Just a warning. This card features strong language and heavy drug use. I don't want to chase anyone away, but I also want to be considerate of people's feelings and potential triggers.
Some of you guys might like this. @paulisaverage, @jeff4122, @shannonl5. I can't tell, though. It was a great night.
It's the summertime. It's a steamy Friday night and you're done with work for the week. Monotonous physical labor. You work as an HVAC helper. not technically or mechanically skilled, you basically just assist the actual mechanic in his endeavors.
The real annoyance of the job is that you go from hot place to hot place, get the cool air moving, then leave. You're hot all god damn day.
So after another week of doing this, you really need to unwind, just relax a bit. You lay on the black pleather couch in your carrot-colored living room with the air conditioner blasting its little heart out. You're aimlessly scrolling through your Facebook on your piece of shit phone, and you notice an intriguing status a friend has posted up.

"Some people wanna watch the world burn. I just wanna watch the walls melt. #Dosed"

Being the drug enthusiast that you are, you know exactly what he's talking about. You drop a comment: "dude, you know where to find that?". Acid is hard to come by. Especially good stuff.
10 minutes pass, and you get a text from him: "Dude, I have that." That's all you need to know. You ask him how much for some. "I don't know, like ten? But it's free if you do it with me."
Done. and Done.
You shower and get dressed. It's only about 8 o'clock, ample time for a great night. You text him to tell him you're on you're way uptown to his apartment in Spanish Harlem. You hop on the subway and you're there in a flash.
You come into the rinky-dink apartment, the graffiti'd couch sitting basically in front of the door. Your buddy is sitting on it, watching some TV. You exchange pleasantries and talk about work stuff, life stuff. He's seeing somebody, you're with the same somebody. Neither are here, though. That's well enough for the plans.
After about an hour of chatting it up, you guys embark on the quest for which you set out. He pulls out the vial of it (he bought a fucking vial's worth, jesus christ) and tells you to grab the frozen sour patch kids from the freezer. He puts two drops on two candies, and you both pop them into your mouths.
You sit and play some music for a half an hour or so, and he talks about how his pal is downtown doing something fun. He asks if you wanna meet up with him, but he phrases it in the best way:

"Wanna go on a fucking adventure?"

Yeah, you do.
The drugs have you enthralled by the time you guys get on the downtown 6 train. It's glorious. The thing about acid is that it draws everything mundane into a new, idiosyncratic light. Nothing is 'normal' and everything is extraordinary.
Hallucinations from it don't go the way that pop media would have you believe. A lot of it is more subtle. When it's great, it's amazing whirls of color and static objects moving in ways they shouldn't. but you're not gonna see any pink elephants, not on two drops anyway.
Combine that with raw euphoria and it's all a great shitshow.
So you jump onto the train. It's pretty empty and the two of you grab seats next to one another. The brilliant luminesence of the train is such a blinding contrast to the night you walked in from, it floors you for a minute. You look around the car with the ecstatic bewilderment only acid gives you.
It's a weird ride. It would have been kinda weird without the drugs, but add LSD to anything and the weirdness factor jumps by about 15x. A few feet away from you is the most beautiful French girl you've ever seen. She's petit, and bottle-blonde, and wearing Daisy Duke shorts that she couldn't even try to fill out.
You're in love. Like with the artist, that last time.
About halfway to the destination, a group of youths get onto the train. They're smiling and laughing and loud, as youths are wont to be. They're dicking around for each other, calling deliberate attention to themselves. One is going up to a lady sitting down, and asking her about her love for Jesus Christ.
He's no missionary. That's obvious. But it's still entertaining to watch the upper-crust white lady squirm with the questions from the young black kid.
Then he comes to you, and asks the same questions, though adding that Jesus loves you. He couldn't know your mental state. For you, though, the weirdness factor has jumped up. You just start dying of laughter. He laughs a little, too, but wants to keep up the act.

"No man, it's not a joke! Jesus does love you, sir!"

It's too much to handle. Your friend sitting beside you is laughing too. This is just so fucking absurd.
You love it.
You get to your destination; Astor Place. Re-emerging from the subway is amazing, for the change of zones that you feel.
That's another thing about acid; you start thinking of space in terms of zones. There's where you started, your home base generally, and every change brings with it a whole plethora of new feelings. It can be jarring at times depending on the cosmonaut. (That's the term you like to call people on a trip. You don't know if it's an original thought or not.)
In any case, the two of you, now pretty much in the full swing of things, head from the train station to the apartment that your buddy's pal is in. Turns out that this pal is at the apartment of an old fraternity brother, and so that's where the two of you head. Is it weird to show up at a stranger's house on hard drugs? Probably, but you couldn't care about that just then.
You find the place and head up the three-floor walkup. The walls, the stairs are all moving in splendid discord. your buddy raps on the appropriate door and is greeted by his pal. You pass through the threshold, another zone change, and make for the living room.
You've met this pal before so you exchange greetings and he introduces you both to his fraternity brother and the brother's girlfriend. She is staggeringly pretty, in a Westchester kind of way. The brother is wiry, and -there's really no good way to say it- appears gay. You're not hateful about it - you're kinda gay yourself - it just seems weird because this beauty has been introduced as his girlfriend.
You can't help but notice the way she flirts with your buddy's pal. Leg on his thigh, bedroom eyes, playing with her hair at him. She actually even puts her foot on his dick. She makes a joke about it, playing it off, but it's weird.
You all sit down and start talking amongst yourselves. Beers are distributed from the host.
As introductions go, these are all your stories; who you are, what you do, what are you trying to do. You're all in your early to mid twenties, so there are common threads. You find out that the couple are both teachers, one for third grade, one for first grade.
This is the first time you've been in a social situation with contemporary professional people, and it's weird. What's weirder is that the brother, a third grade teacher, starts rolling up a spliff. It's not just any spliff, either. This shit is perfectly cylindrical and a great balance of weed and tobacco.
So you get stoned with the people who shape the young minds of America, people you've only just met. While on acid.
You're there smoking and there comes a rapping at the door. Your heart jumps into your throat, for obvious reasons. You've always had the same policy about doors- only cops knock. The host, the brother, stands up and asks everybody to put in some cash. "Like 30 should cover it" he says.
So you pull out thirty dollars and pass it to him. So does everyone else.
You don't know why he needs it, but you figure it's his place, you just smoked his weed, just do it. Plus, you're a working man, thirty dollars won't break you. He answers the door, has a brief conversation, and returns to the living room.
He tosses a bag of coke onto the coffee table and quotes Kanye West:

"My life is dope and I do dope shit!"

Your brain might just explode from the absurd way the night is turning out.
So you blow lines with these beautiful teacher people, stoned and tripping balls. It is an interesting hodge podge of drug use, and you feel the very fucking vitality of your youth coursing through your veins.
You are alive, god damn it, and it is beautiful. Your friend gives his pal a dose of the L, so he might join your trip. You stay hanging out with the teachers for a spell until they say they have to go to a bar for a coworkers' retirement party.
Fuck, man, these are adults. Retirement party? Jeez.
Anyway, the brother tell's your friend's pal that it's okay to hang out for a while, but to be sure and power everything and lock up when you all leave. That's pretty cool of him, especially considering the drugs you've all just finished consuming.
You guys hang around for another 20 minutes or so, brains still floating in druggy miasma. You talk about the couple who's just left, and the weird vibes she was sending to the pal here. From an outside perspective, you'd've thought she was his girlfriend, not the brother's.
He agrees. The vibes were weird. He says he think's his brother gets the same sense from her behavior.
You all leave together, with the pal locking the place up behind you. You make way for astor place, and the talk has moved on to sex. Pal here is a fiend for the stuff, and tells the story of how he and one of his fraternity brothers in college were having sex with these two girls in the same room. They switched partners even. He said it was a weird experience, and they wound up kicking the girls out before reaching a climax.
You suggest it might've been the fact that they traded off partners. Maybe it hadn't occured to him that this might be the reason.

"I'm just gonna text him that. 'We shouldn't have switched!'"

He talks about his tinder exploits, and the fact that there's one girl who wants to meet up with him. He takes his leave of you and your friend to meet up with her at the 13th Step.
Still phenomenally high, you and your friend decide to head back to his apartment. Instead of doing the subway thing again you decide to catch a bus. It's luminescent, like the train, but with the added bonus of being able to see the city whip by in a blur.
Your friend whips out a drawing pad and starts making art. You whip out headphones and start listening to some. This is the reflective part of your trip. You take this time to look inward. If you can find the extraordinary in the mundane while on acid, you figure you can see the same in yourself, maybe.
You see in yourself the many selves that you are, the amalgamation of all parts of your whole being. You feel like but one of a vast global consciousness. If thoughts have mass, it is a shared mass, widely distributed. You look into your life and wonder what the future may be. A single night can take the turns that this one has, each one just as good as the last.
You know that the inverse can be true, too. That things could've just as easily turned badly, on the cosmic level.
But you forget that part, because of how good it has been. You think about how the entirety of your life to come can be outlined in front of you. You try to outline it, but you can't. And you smile about that. Because life is so wildly unpredictable. You can prepare, sure. But you can't predict.
Before you realize it, you're back in Spanish Harlem. You and your friend head back up into the apartment and collapse on the couch. It has been a splendid adventure, though tame in comparison to the old epics.

Tame, even, in comparison to the millions of adventures that must be happening all across the city.

Your friend asks you if you've ever seen Rick and Morty. You think maybe one episode, so not really. He puts it on his laptop and sets it down in front of the two of you. It's a perfect way to wind down in the latter part of a trip. You smoke some more weed to make it a gentle descent, and you watch the whole season.
Everything is good.
Also, Rick and Morty forever. 100 years Rick and Morty!
This is killer. The imagery is so solid throughout, helped along really well by the photos you chose. The notion of 'zones' really helps the story, too - it translates really well to paper. awesome piece, @VinMcCarthy.
Perfect. Crazy. Wild. amazing writing and syntax! sheesh. and might I add, Rick & Morty are rather enjoyable. I couldn't stop reading.
Woah. Yes. That's all.