To Descend

The first two pages of the short story from the collection "One Hour", a way of life for the extreme party-goer and all you madmen who tend to be god.

 

 To Descend

"The mind, like the mythological Icarus, is in the same danger of falling if allowed to fly too high."

 

            Everyone in the car had taken two hits of acid that night. Between us, we had smoked at least a quarter bag of pot. We had drunk cheap wine and already gone through two packs of cigarettes. Our evening started four hours ago after I got off from work. Now it's three o'clock in the morning. We're on the highway, going nowhere in particular. The long, dark road stretches ahead of us, and we fly down its white stripped back. I'm driving, and I stare ahead of me, my gaze fixed. The headlights of the car and the cars around us beaming dully in the dark fascinate me. In my drug soaked mind, I see the road as a lost highway stretching eternally before me.

            "Where the f**k are we?"

            I look at the digital clock in the dashboard, surprised. We had been silent for the last ten minutes, though those minutes seem much longer. Time slowly passes at this hour. One's concentration becomes concentrated, as ours had upon the music drifting from the radio. Now that someone has spoken, however, the spell is broken. Our cruising is over, and we have to go somewhere lest we drive this highway to its infinitesimal end.

            "So what are we doing now? We gotta go somewhere. We gotta do something."

            I'm not tired, and I know the rest of them are not either. Acid keeps you up for hours, it won't let you sleep. As the night wears on when tripping, your body persists, empowered by the chemicals raging through it. But your mind assumes the dreamstate as if you're asleep. Reality seems nothing more than a dream.

            "Remember at the beginning of the night when we stopped for gas? While I was paying, I met this freaked out girl who told me about a rave going on till early morning. Y'all wanna hit that spot up?"

            I wait for their answer. None of them are ready to go home. Not yet. The moon is big and bright before us, and there are stars out twinkling this cold night. I want to keep moving, to dance some more. It isn't difficult to convince the rest of them with promises of more fun. So we set out for this rave which is the last resolve for the extreme party-goer in the late night. I turn up the radio, press down on the pedal, and accelerate down the highway.

            Time means nothing when you're as high as I am. I might have gotten to the rave with my friends in twenty minutes, maybe an hour. At times I even forget there are others in the car with me.

            I pull up to the huge building and find a parking spot in the lot overcrowded with cars. We're so excited to see that the rave is still this packed that no one checks the digital clock as we get out of the car. Since none of us wear watches, we're now as lost in time as we are in our heads.

            We take off our coats and long sleeved clothes in the brisk night and put it all in the trunk. I activate the alarm. We all get another cigarette out to smoke, and we walk along the side of the wide brick building to the entrance.

            "Yo, yo, man! Hey man, y'all going to the rave?"

            We turn in unison to the person addressing us. It's a tall guy in black pants, shirt and a long velvet coat which drapes down to his heavy black boots. His hair is dyed a flaming bright orange, and he has a silver pendant of a star on his shirt.

            "Yeah, we're going to the rave, man. Why, what's up?"

            I figure he's pushing drugs. I'm familiar with the type, hanging out in the shadows, watching, waiting for potential customers.

            "Yo, I work here, man. I got the ill dope hookup. There's a side entrance reserved for those on the guest list. I can get y'all in for free, no charge, man...