One Final Trip

An out-of-work writer describes an epiphany he had while tripping. He then attempts to realize his new goal.

The early afternoon sun splays across a disheveled queen-sized bed. A man is sprawled face down on the bed in a crimson robe. Joseph Olson, Joe for short, is just waking up. He stirs away from the light, turning onto his side. His eyes widen slightly from their squint for a brief moment. A sigh escapes his lips as he continues to focus on the wall opposite the window. A nail slants downward out of the top third of the wall. Below it, leaning against the wall unharmed lies a framed poster. In bold, blobby letters it reads, 'Catch the final season of Phony the Imperfect Pony! Airing March 2^nd, 2014.' A complete list of the children's show's cast and crew fills the bottom third of the poster. One name, Joey Olson, is circled. A series of episode numbers, 1-18, fills a set of brackets next to his name. 1:10 pm, the instrumentals of Still D.R.E blare out of Joe’s phone. Forced to get up, Joe quickly stands and grabs his phone out of the pocket of yesterday's jeans.

Ten minutes later and Joe emerges from his bedroom into the rest of his small L.A. apartment. He glides past his measly living room furniture: a stained off-blue couch, a cluttered coffee table, and the rasta colored bean-bag chair pushed into the corner. On his way to the bathroom, Joe nearly bumps into the dining table that distinguishes the kitchen border. Had he, he could have knocked another couple of the letters strewn across the table to the floor. After cleaning himself up slightly, Joe enters his kitchen.

A post-it on the fridge reads in hastily scrawled letters, 'David. Today. Noonish.'

“Oh, sh...” Joe slowly trails off and grabs for the phone now in the pocket of his robe. No new messages. A knock sounds at the door.

Joe, startled by the knock, stands straight. He slicks his shoulder-length hair back and looks to his bedroom before tightening his robe. Another knock and he is off to answer it. Before he reaches the door a few letters slide underneath and the sound of footsteps diminish down the hallway. A quick peak through his peephole and he opens the door. Joe's head pops into the hallway and swipes left to right quickly before noticing the note left on his door. 'I guess I missed you. I'll come back later for what we discussed last night.' With a shake of his head, Joe plucks the note off his door, steps inside, and closes the door softly behind himself.

Joe's nephew, David, had called him the night before. A student at Seattle University, David was visiting LA for a week and looking to score some pot. Joe, as so happens, sells pot; among other things. Joe knows he has to move his inventory, so he settles down and waits out the day for David to return.

Another knock sounds at Joe's door around 6:00pm. He lets David in and offers him a seat on the couch. After exchanging the customary pleasantries, Joe jumps right into business.

“So, here's the deal. I've had a bit of an epiphany recently and I'm looking to stop selling. I've got the weed you're looking for, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in some psychedelics. I'm trying to expedite things, you know?”

“What are you working with?” David sits forward in his seat, removing his Seattle U backpack and pulling a wad of cash out of one of its many pockets.

“Well, I've got maybe 5 doses of shrooms, 20 tabs of acid, and a s**t ton of DMT; like 6 dime-bags filled.”

“I've always wanted to try DMT, what's the trip like?”

“That's not so easy a question to answer...” Joe takes a seat on the other end of the couch. He makes a point to make eye contact as he continues, “Everyone's trip is different. You know what, if you've got some time I could tell you the story of my great epiphany. Its still forming to a degree, but the last time I did DMT laid a pretty strong base”

“Go for it; I've got time to kill.”At that, Joe reveals a pipe hidden by some magazines on his coffee table. David perks up yet again and nods his interest at Joe's questioning look. Joe makes a show of looking thoughtful while he packs a bowl.

“Where to begin...” Joe offers David the first hit, “I'll just say it; psychedelics saved my life.”

________________________

I'll just preface this with one more thing: DMT wasn't the only factor. This epiphany had been building over months of heavy weed use and the occasional acid or shroom trips. Finally, last weekend, I took a couple tabs of acid. I had never taken more than one before but I felt like my tolerance was getting too high. I'm not going to lie, I sorta had a bad trip.

It started pretty usually. I stuck the tabs between my gums and cheek, smoked a bowl, packed another, and turned on Netflix. I spent the next forty minutes or so surfing the instant queue before the first wave came. It hit hard. Suddenly I was watching the intro to the 13^th episode of the X-Files' second season. I looked to the clock and, once I realized what I was looking at, saw that only about 45 minutes had gone by since selecting the previous episode. My eyes wandered away from the clock, finally settling on my hands.

It turns out I had been incessantly rubbing my hands back and forth over my knees for God knows how long. I'm not sure what triggered it; I was probably just locked in really hard on the last episode. I stopped myself and flipped my hands over. Chafed skin glowed a bright red back at me. Have you ever felt pain across your entire body? That dull, raw-skin pain crept out from my palms eventually enveloping me like I had been dipped into a weak acid. It stuck the rest of the night too. It ebbed back and forth with the certainty of the tides every time a wave reared before me. When I was under, I'd barely notice the pain. But every time I was nearly lucid... Suffice it to say, the rest of my night wasn't very good.

I came down from my last real wave around 1:00 in the morning. I knew I wasn't going to be sleeping that night - even if I had a good trip I wouldn't have gotten a wink. So, with plenty of time to think, I laid down on my bed and did just that. I came to a few conclusions. One, no more non-psychedelic drugs. Two, I had to stop selling drugs. And three, I had to find a passion in life. I sincerely felt trapped by my environment and mental state. The only way I knew to get out was drastic change.

Fast-forward about a week to last night. I did DMT last night. Around 7:00pm so I could watch the sunset after. I like to lie on my bed and listen to music when I do DMT. Last night I queued up Aqueous Transmission and spread out in my robe. I packed the DMT in the middle of a bowl and went for it.

It took me way back. I was 15 again. Your grandmother had pissed me off for, what I once again called, the last time. She had finally caught me smoking pot again and planned to make good on her threat to send me off to a reform school. Did your mother ever tell you I ran away for a week? She was the only one I really missed. Technically I didn't run away though; I sailed. I got on the bike I had since 5^th grade and spent the day surging towards the Mississippi. From there I simply had to steal a rowboat. Easier said than done as it turns out, but the important part is I got one. I'm not really sure what ultimately drove me to run away though. I knew a reform school would have actually helped me. I guess I craved adventure like in the books I read at the time. I loved Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as a child. Still do I guess. So I figured my own adventure down the Mississippi might solve my own problems. Long story short, it didn't. Hence my return after a week of walking my way back up the river.

By the time Brandon Boyd first began to sing, I was transported to a night on that river. I saw myself laying in the unseated front of the rowboat. A true out-of-body experience. It was like being there all over again; the cool night air slowly drifting by, the smell of a freshly budded riverbank. I never noticed how beautifully the stars weaved across the ripples on the river's surface when I was actually there; I spent too much time looking up then. So I took the time to watch those pin-points of light bounce and bob about on the water before closing my eyes. When I opened them again I was the me in that boat. I was looking at the stars again, but this time they were static. The blackness of the sky around them drew me in further. I could hear my young thoughts.

I couldn't tell you if the thoughts I had tripping were the same as those I had back in Iowa. I couldn't even really tell you what those thoughts were. They're lost to the timelessness that is a DMT trip. But what I can tell you is that I finally felt like myself again. I was reminded of what drove me as a child; what it's like to have dreams and aspirations. And the most important thing I realized is simple: I can't let failure stop me. I knew I had failed everyone working on Phony; I never should have brought those shrooms into work in the first place. But that's in the past. I need to move on with my life.

After the second time through the song I was coming back to lucidity. I opened my eyes to find I'm facing the poster on the wall. You know, that final season advertisement - it's my cover photo. Anyway, it all came together in that instant. I know now what my passion is. Actually, I'd always known; it just reminded me. I want to write for real; novels, stories of substance, not some children's television drivel. I might have been good at it, but that doesn't mean I enjoyed it. I think I'm going to travel. New York first. If I can't find what I'm looking for there, I'll move on. Whatever and wherever I need to have my breakthrough.

I'm set on this. I'm feeling better now than I ever have. I actually have the ability to follow through on my dreams now. I've got the knowledge and will soon have the funds to pump out a book in a few months. I just need some inspiration.

________________________

A lonely farm house stands old and proud at the bottom of a gentle dale. The full moon shines strongly through holes in the cloudy night sky. Each pillar of slanted light forms odd and haphazardly gliding splotches of illumination. The farm house never fully shows itself to the night sky, opting to only reveal a corner every once in a while. It understands what the sky sees in it: the duality of their own beings. Much like the sky, this house is also a constant but ever-changing entity. The same walls have seen many coats of paint. The floors have bowed to generations of growing Olson children. Yet it also understands why it must hide from the sky's gaze. Its lifetime is close to an end, as is that of the farm it inhabits.

Joe arrived in Iowa the day before. About a month after he last saw David, Joe finally got out of LA. It was a tough month; Joe slang like never before. It's difficult going from small-time plug to street dealer, especially when you used to only sell to friends. But he made the money he needed. More, even, than he expected to. A lot can happen in a month. Plans change; people change. Human cruelty seems to only increase through the night, and Joe spent plenty of late nights out.

He knew why he was going to New York; he understood what needed to be done. But the draw to just go buy more stock and do it all over again had been catching up with him. No matter how much DMT he did during that month, he couldn't recreate the experience he had that night. He needed another reminder like that trip. He craved one.

The early morning sun takes a little longer to peak its face over the rim of the pruned dell around the farm. When it eventually brings the morning light, Abe Olson is already tending to the near-fully sprouted stalks of corn rising up the northern slope of the dale. Little can be done for them though; years of constant replanting have finally dried up the fertile land. The sickly crop will barely pull enough to 'pay' for Abe's labor. Feeling the uselessness of further toil, Abe walks slowly over to the small chicken coop adjacent the house.

Joe awakens in his old room. Now a guest room, its walls have long since had their space-themed wallpaper removed. None of the furniture remains either; instead, all of his old possessions have been repurposed around the house. Joe dresses and heads downstairs to find some breakfast. Abe audibly enter the house as Joe reaches the main stair's landing. He heads down and follows the sound of his older brother into the kitchen. Joe finds Abe at their stove, pan in hand and a half dozen freshly collected eggs on the counter next to him.

“Nice of you to join us. You know, the sun may take a while to rise here but that doesn't mean you have to as well.”

“Good morning to you too,” Joe takes one of the 12 seats at the Olson family's table, “You wouldn't happen to have enough there for me too, would you?”

“2 apiece, unless you think you can scare another couple out of 'em out there.”

“I'll stick to consuming, thank you very much.” The sound of eggs frying fills the room.

“How late were you up last night? I could still smell that pot you smoked when I went to field this morning.”

“Late enough that an 11:00am wake up necessitates a day of caffeine use.”

After a moment of silence, Abe's mouth thins as he says,“Not even going to deny it, Joey?” Abe looks up from the pan before him to shoot a stare at Joe. The absolute passivity of Joe's returned stare causes him to look back to the quickly solidifying eggs, “There's coffee in the pot. It'll be cold by now though.”

Joe stands up, grabs a mug, and fills it to the brim.

“You've changed. The old Joey never would have wanted his brother to know he spent half of his visit home out trying to score pot.”

Joe quickly glances at Abe and sips from his mug, “It's not you I'm worried about.”

“You know you have to talk to her at some point; she won't be around for much longer. Hell, neither will this farm. It's like she was all that was giving this land life.”

“I appreciate what you've done here, by the way. We all do.”

Eyes fixed on the eggs, Abe flatly responds, “I know.”

Joe approaches his brother and stands next to him at the stove, “No really, if you hadn't taken control and started caring for mom and the farm, I'm not sure what we would have done.”

“Joey, I know. Stop trying to change the subject.”

“Stop calling me Joey; you know how much I hate it.”

Abe stiffly grabs a few plates out of the cabinet next to him. Using his spatula, he tosses a third of the scrambled eggs onto a plate and shoves it into Joe's open hand.

“Take this up to mom. She cant make it down the stairs much these days.”

“But...”

“You can have your own after.” With one more stern look into Joe's eyes, Abe calmly plates himself a third and sits at the table to eat. 

Dismissed, Joe turns back and heads to the third floor. It isn't quite fair to call it a floor of it's own, considering its a single room, but it isn't quite an attic either. A single window facing east reveals the grassland stretching up over the rim of the dale. A queen sized bed is set below that window. Joe's mother, Nancy, lays in the middle of that bed.

“You didn't come to see me yesterday.”

Joe isn't even fully up into the room before his shoulders droop, “Sorry mother.”

“You think I can't see out this window at night? I'm not paralyzed. I saw you out there at 3 in the morning. How can you do this to me? First you refuse to meet your potential. Then you go and get fired from the first promising job you ever actually enjoyed. But you were too good to come live with me on the farm after that. Abe can't actually do it.” By now Joe has laid out the plate on his mother's lap. He gently places a fork in her emaciated hand and props the pillows up further behind her as she continues, “He keeps trying to blame me for his handiwork. This farm was perfectly fine before he took over. Now look at it. 'It's withering with you mom.' Bull; I know exactly who's withering it...” Joe practically chokes his mother as he helps her with the first bite.

“Hush, you need to eat.”

“I'll eat when I want.”

“No, you'll eat now. I don't need to hear any of this right now. I came back to say goodbye for good. I'm going to New York tomorrow morning. I don't care that you know about the weed. I don't care what you think I should or shouldn't do. My potential? What potential did I not live up to? NASA? I might have been a smart kid but NASA? That was always your dream for me. I'll have you know that my dream is to be a writer. I never stopped wanting it. I just took a couple years off to learn; to research.”

“You loved space.”

“I said I did; I never meant it. I know things I never would have had I stayed here. I've seen things, heard conversations, had non-toxic relationships with literally anyone. This farm will always be home, but a writer writes what they know. I needed to know more than whatever you had to say.”

“All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

“I don't know that I ever was.”

Nancy finishes her eggs by this point and Joe takes the plate and fork from her. Without another word he goes downstairs. Abe had already finished his own meal and was outside yet again. Joe spends the rest of the day going through boxes of his old possessions in the basement. Nothing seems to call to him. No toys, books, or pictures spark any sort of inspiration in him. 'A writer writes what they know,' he repeats to himself in the dust filled air like he expects the particles to spell his answer out for him.

Soon there's barely enough light shining into the basement for the dust to even be seen, let alone spell something. Time to leave. Without a word to either Abe or his mother, Joe sneaks out the cellar's staired exit. He gets on the bike he rented in town the day before and starts to ride. He rides through the night until he reaches the nearest town. He grabs a bus into the city and from there a taxi to the airport.

________________________

The New York City subway station is bustling with people of all walks of life. The bright fluorescent lights pale each person in the crowd. The floor tiles that happen to show through all shine with a polished, hospital-like sheen. It's rush hour and the station is full of those trying to make it home for the day. The crowd waxes and wanes as trains pass through the station. If any two trains happen to enter on opposite tracks at the same time, the passengers seem to form invisible lines stretching across the platforms as one enters one train and another exits the opposite train.

It's during one of these station platform bridgings that a man holding only a cardboard milk carton and a damaged notebook exits a train-car. He stumbles a little over the transition and the crowd gives him a little berth. The man catches himself, stopping still as a statue for a brief second before straightening in one swift motion. He shoots an intense stare at any around him unlucky enough to meet his eyes. Another man pushes past this oddly dressed individual blocking the train's exit. His intense stare turns on the newcomer as they walk briskly away. The intoxicated man's eyes soften and his beard rises as he smiles wide. Those who notice his look give him even more space as he starts walking nonchalantly down the platform.

The tunnels connecting nearby stations are often best traversed in a group. The intoxicated man is the only single man who's exited into the next station in over an hour. His gait shrinks and he swings his arms a little as he approaches a bench in the smaller station. He sets his milk carton down and pries open the folded lid. Inside sits roughly $1.39 in coins. He then opens his tattered notebook to the first page and begins to read.

By page 20, a train arrives and the platform begins to fill with people. The man sluggishly stands as straight as he can as he closes his notebook. The passengers pay him no heed until he begins to shake his milk carton. The jingle of coins brings looks from the crowd and the man smiles at those who look upon him. Eventually a women parts from the crowd to drop a coin into the carton. She tries to simply nod off his thanks and continue along but his eyes catch her's. She steps back, bumping into a member of the crowd behind her. Others stop to see what's transfixed her.

Joe knows he has their attention. Even if it's only a few, just knowing someone heard him is enough. He only ever really wanted to be remembered. It didn't matter what for or for how long; all that mattered was that he was known. He found his place in New York. He travels the city begging and drinking. Occasionally he'll save up enough money for some dirt weed off of some kid in the subway. Whenever he got stoned he'd go to his favorite bench. The place he slept for half a year when he first arrived in the city. He'd go there, and create some sort of commotion. A fire one time, attempted suicide the next. Third time's the charm though; if he couldn't die and couldn't take care of himself, he had to get help somehow. Pride is a funny thing though.

As if rehearsed, Joe bellows to the crowd, “I'm going to read you all a story. It's a working title, but here it is anyway: Psychedelics Saved My Life.” With that he flips open his notebook to the first page.  

Author's Note

This was written for a class with a strict length limit so each scene is both shorter and paced faster than I would have liked. I'm mostly interested in knowing if the family dynamics came through clear enough with the space I had. However, I'm open to any and all comments.