4th of July

The written word can be a powerful tool. 
It can inspire, or frighten, cause smiles, or sadness, or none of these, or some of these things, sometimes maybe all of them, all at once. 
It can justify, or condemn actions. It can be honesty or lies. Break hearts, begin (or end) love affairs...
Powerful.
Sometimes I don't know which stories I should put to print, and which should stay safely tucked away in my brain until such time that nature erases my grey matter hard drive and they disappear forever, little pops of transferring energy, gone into the ethers, a sad loss, or perhaps, a good riddance. 
Here is the thing. A tale told can be redacted, embellished, or denied, re-told and changed, made to suit the narrative of the time.
But once it is created in a tangible form, committed to print, it becomes "solid"
It is there, to be shared and scrutinized... 
Sometimes I wonder if I should be naming names in my tales. If I should ask permission, or forgiveness for making a memory into a solid thing, Especially now in this “everything goes on forever” digital age. 
I used to write in notebooks, actual ink on paper. Some of this writing I still have stored in boxes in my basement, some I have given away.
Some I have transcribed saved forever in the digital realm. 
Some I destroyed, hoping to wipe away all traces of the story, to dissolve the experience, only to find that it doesn’t always work out that way.
The stories I destroyed were not necessarily bad, just uncomfortable, or in some cases were just words that, at the time that match met paper, were in desperate need of being forgotten.

As if their written presence could destroy me.

But as I said, it doesn’t always work that way.
This was one of those times.

This was the 4th of July.

 The evening started out quiet. 
Too quiet, in fact. 
I had been calling around to see who was doing what, to see if anyone wanted to come over, or go out, but so far it seemed everyone who would go out, was already out. 
As luck, good or bad, would have it, I got a call from my friend Liz, who said she was hanging out at McCray, and invited me to join her. 
“The McCray” was the Hotel McCray, a dilapidated and mostly abandoned hotel perched up on beach hill at the intersection of third and Front Street in my hometown of Santa Cruz. It was rumored to be haunted. It was rumored to have been the inspiration for the Bates house in “Psycho”. It was rumored to have been built on ancient Indian burial ground. 
It was rumored to be evil.
It had many stories. 
This is one of them.

I hoped in my Datsun B210 and drove over.  It wasn't far, probably 8 or so blocks...
I parked out on the street in the front and walked around back to the entrance we used at the time. I met up with my friend Liz, and we hung out a bit, just shooting the breeze, wandering the halls of this abandoned place. At some point we were all in on room. This is where details might get a little fuzzy. There were some other people there, two or three, and one of them, I don’t remember who, said they had some tabs of acid. 
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
They said it was really strong, and I said, then just give me a half.
What could happen?
They handed me a tiny piece of paper, and I stuck it under my tongue...
It went that way around the room until it came to my friend Liz, who decided, to my surprise, to decline. She said she had been called into work, and couldn't afford to be out all night. 
It was too late for me at that point. I remember thinking, "fuck"
But it was only a half, right?
That was also the point that they told me they gave me a whole hit, because they said the squares were so small, they didn't really know how to divide it...
Fuck.
The thing is, Liz was the only one I knew there, at that point.

 Here is the other thing, back then Liz and I were supposed to be "Constants".
That meant that no matter how weird it got, no matter what the situations, no matter the time or distance, or problem, we were there for each other.  Midnight phone calls, arrangements to come get one of us who had gone too deep, went too far... its what we did. Sometimes I would get a call that simply said, "help" and I would know what to do. I would track her down and fix it. She did the same for me.
We knew each other, we found each other, and we saved each other.
Usually.
But now, she was leaving, and the acid was just starting to kick in. I remember saying I understood, and walking her out to the road, I gave her a hug, I asked her to stay, but she didn't. The truth was, I really didn't understand. I was in an altered state, and just reacted.  I remember going back inside. Then things started to get weird, really weird. I remember getting lost at one point. The McCray had gone through many adaptations. Hotels, residential homes, old folks homes. It was a maze of rooms and corridors, now all glowing and swirling with a light that I cannot fully describe. I remember standing in front of a lager window on the third floor, just leaning out and feeling the breeze, 

At least until I realized the widow was not open. 

The halls stretched on forever, every door seeming to have the same room number. Some locked, some open, In one room full of boxes, I found a "Boy Scouts" neck-kerchief. I tied it around my neck. It was a sign. it was purpose. I left that room, fully intent to do my best to do my duty, but there was no one to assist. There were distorted whispering voices that seemed to be everywhere, but belong to no one, I looked, but could not find the source

 I remember finding the grand stairway, and as I floated down, I saw that there was some sort of panic in the rest of the group. 

The mood changed suddenly. 

Someone told me to hide. I slipped into a closet of some sort, and closed the door. I assume it was a closet, I really do not know. 

I crouched down. The tiny room seemed to be breathing. 
I could hear something was happening, but could not see it. 
People were yelling.
I remember trying to be as small as I could. 
I was dust, 
I was a crack in the paint.
Maybe I was the paint?
My bones were wood, my skin, tobacco stained wallpaper...
I thought I might disappear entirely, maybe become the dark walls... but then the door opened.

There stood a man, 20 feet tall, wild eyed and clutching a large hunting knife. 
It was huge...maybe a machete, or a sword...
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he shouted, his voice had too much bass and reverb. 
"You're not supposed to be here! You need to get the fuck out of here!"
"Ok" I whispered" I was still trying to be paint.
"You have no idea what I am”, his eyes narrowed, "or what I could do,” he said, brandishing the giant blade.

I believed him.

His eyes widened

"I could kill you!" he said. It seemed too calm...
I said something like, "please don't"
But like I said, it was a little fuzzy at this point.
I remember running...
The next thing I really remember, I was out in my car.
Just sitting there.
I sat there for what seemed a long time. Maybe hours. Maybe seconds.
I was trying to make sense of the whole thing, what to do next, but the acid was hitting hard. 
I needed to go somewhere. 
I knew I needed to not be here, but where? 
At that point I really had no idea where I was, or what was supposed to happen.
I was just in my car.
I knew the car was the way I got there, but where was "there"? And how did that all work?
I didn't know where "here" was, or where I was supposed to go.

Just then a City Transit Bus went by.
That triggered something.  
I remembered thinking that the busses went by my house on their way back to the bus yard, so it made sense that if I followed the bus, it would eventually go by my house.
So that’s what I did.
I don't know if it was minutes, or hours, blocks, or miles, but I followed that bus.
The whole time I was listening to "Rockin' Rockin' Leprechauns" by Jonathan Richman and the modern lovers on my tape player. it would play, I would rewind it, and play it again. It seemed important, like it was somehow the key to getting to wherever I was supposed to go. I have no idea how long this went on, but eventually the bus did actually did go by my house.
I pulled in next to the curb. I remember being so happy, because I was home, and all my friends would be there, everything was alright, and the night would only get better.
I made my way inside, but there was no one there. 
Just a note on the couch that said,
"Hey, we came by, hung out for a but, but then left"
I looked at the clock, it was 11:50

My friends, all of them, were here, but now they were gone.

Why were my friends gone?
Were they coming back?
Did I still have friends?
What should I do?
Why did they leave?
Apparently these last things I was saying out loud, too loud, because my housemate came out of her room

"What’s going on? She asked
"I don't know, “ I said. I was frantic. “I might be having a bad trip... I took some acid, I don't know how much...how do you know if you are having a bad trip?"
"I don't know" she said, "It has never happened to me"
"Good luck" she added, and went back to her room.
I sat down on the couch. T

he room was too big, but claustrophobicly small at the same time

I decided to call my sister. I thought she might know what to do. 
She mostly just messed with me, telling me I was in terrible trouble, but finally offered some advice.
That advice was to drink heavily.
But I had no booze, and currently, no way of getting any.
I sat trying to figure out what to do next.
I kept having to move further and further down the couch because the hair on my arm was growing so fast and it was taking up all the space between me and the arm of the couch, which might have been my arm to begin with. How was I supposed to know which arm was which?
I thought maybe I should write it all down.
If I could just keep track of it, it might make sense. I went and found a pen and opened my notebook to a blank page.
But, as I set pen to paper, I realized that it was already half covered in my own scribbling. At the top, in bold letters, "WRITE IT ALL DOWN" then, under that, my complaint about my arm hair. 
So, I thought. This all happened before I thought of writing it down, which was actually after I had written it down.
How do I know what happened when?
 I looked at the clock. 11:52

how could that be? I had been home for what seemed like hours. something wasn't right.
I watched it carefully, recording each sweep of the second hand...
11:53
11:54
11:55
11:56
11:57
11:58
11:59...
Then to my utter horror, the hands went backwards to 11:52...
I could almost hear the record scratch sound...
Time no longer counted.
Time no longer was moving as it should...
I suddenly realized I could be stuck here forever...

What if time had stopped passing?

What if time wasn't even a real thing?
Outside I could hear laughter, it echoed over and over, slowly fading out...
Who was out there, and what did they want?
I peered out the window, suddenly there was a series of explosions. These also echoed over and over.
What the fuck? Why are they blowing things up?
Then I realized, at probably a bad time, that it was the 4th of July. 
Still, why are people trying to blow up my house at two in the morning..?
I looked at the clock.
11:50...
Wait...did I just now get home?
Just then there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find my friend Kurt.
"Hey, Hey, Hey! What’s going on?"
"Get inside" I shouted, ducking and weaving, "Everyone is blowing up out there..."
He came inside, "what are you talking about?" he asked.
"Where were you?" I shouted, "You were supposed to be here! You were all supposed to be here! Why did you leave?"

Suddenly my housemate appeared. "What’s going on? She asked,
"I don't know, " I said, "I might be having a bad trip... I took some acid, I don't know how much...how do you know if you are having a bad trip?"
"I don't know" she said, "It has never happened to me"
"Good luck" she said, and went back into her room.
I asked Kurt, "did this already happen?" 
"Did what already happen" he asked, his head seeming to bob unnaturally on his unusually long neck.
His eyes were too big.
"Maybe we should go to Dennys" I said. "I need a milkshake...."
"What? What? No, it’s to late" 
I looked at the clock, it was 3:35am. That didn’t make sense...
"Maybe" he went on, "if you hadn't spent the last couple hours talking about the McCray, and your arm hair exploding... I'm going to bed man, I'm tired"
"Ok" I said, “but you have to promise me something"
"Ok" he said
"Promise me you will kill me in the morning, if this hasn't worn off"
"No" he said" "no. I can't do that"
"You have to promise me... Promise me you will kill me in the morning, if this hasn't worn off"
This went on for a while... maybe... it could have been minutes, or hours...
Finally he agreed, and then added, "Can I go to bed now?"
"Yes" I said "and kill me in the morning..."
"No"
"You have too" I said, "you promised"
(And again, it might have gone on for a while, or not at all )
"Fine, " he said finally, "Fine...I'll kill you" 

He went out to the porch, which was the other "Bedroom"
"Thank you" I said. "Thank you... kill me...You will kill me?"
"Oh my god. Yes I will kill you, now, go the fuck to sleep!"

I decided to stay up a bit and write down some observations. It was daunting, because some of it was already there, already on the page, in my writing. Sometimes in better detail than I was about to write.
At that time I was a smoker. And at that particular moment I was smoking a lot. I realized that every time I blew out the smoke, my pants would take on a three-dimensional sort of heavy tapestry quality, like thick exotic embossed drapes. I referred to this as my smoke/drape/pants. It figured heavily in the writing. Also, if I closed my eyes, I saw strange M.C. Escher like neon dragons folding in on themselves. Imploding, Exploding. Folding, over and over...
But none of this was good.
I know it sounds like it could be entertaining, but it was not.
It scared me. 
Because as far as I knew, it might never end
I don't know that I really slept at all. 
I am fairly certain I didn't.
But I do remember that Kurt and I got up at some point and went to breakfast with our friend Jeff.
The place Jeff recommended was not far from the house, and we decided to walk. I remember thinking, is this real? Is this real life? Bright light, too much sun, too much noise, too many things, stuff, too much trucks, cars, people, sounds...
Every thing was too loud, but at the same time I couldn’t hear anything but gibberish... 
We got to the breakfast place, and after a short wait (I think) we were seated.
I ordered coffee, or at least tried to, but I seem to remember saying it extremely slow, like a question.
The waitress blinked a few times and left.
I knew I needed food, I tried to read the menu but it made no sense. 
"Moist beets"
"900 eggs"
"Your own toast"
"The one"
I looked at it over and over. I didn't know what to do exactly. 
The waitress reappeared.
I tried to get it together, to somehow seem normal. It was a challenge
Finally, after the waitress stared at me for what seemed like way too long, I ordered, it was mostly guessing, and mumbling " uh, only two eggs, Bacon meat, and the toast I didn't bring."
She blinked way to many times, but then left, and soon enough we were served.
But the food tasted like metal dust, the water and coffee like chemicals...
I remember thinking, We were all fooled, we thought life was one thing, delicious food, savory drinks... but in reality life was noise and metal, trucks, battery acid and chemicals...
We ate this "breakfast", then walked home. I don't remember anything about that. I do know that after we got back to our house on River Street, Kurt had to leave. 

So I settled in on the couch to just ride it out. 
He never brought up killing me, for better or worse.
Even so, none of this was good.
At least time seemed to have regained control, seemingly moving only forward.
Then I got a phone call
It was one of my x-girlfriends. Apparently I had promised to take her to San Francisco for her birthday.
Which was today...
Which was now...
So I climbed into my Datsun b210 and drove across town to pick her up.

We jumped on highway 1 North towards San Francisco. 
As we were driving, huge sinkholes would open up in the road, sucking everything down into the depths.
The first time, I slammed on the breaks, not wanting to fall into the abyss.
We skidded to a stop...
"What the fuck!!" my friend asked
"I thought... I thought I saw something...something in the road..." 
"Holy shit! Like what?
I thought about it for a few seconds, but I didn't think I could really explain...
"Nothing..."
After that, I didn't stop.
I didn't slow down.
I just drove towards the abyss, and waited to be swallowed up, 
But thankfully, it never happened.
We went to San Francisco and drove around. She was more interested in Haight Street, "Mod" things, being in the "Mod scene" as she was at the time.
I was more interested in things most people didn't experience. I had heard of another party, some friends of mine from a band called "Spot 1019" were having a get together, and I convinced her to go there.  I don't remember a lot of it, but I do remember drinking Jeagermeister. 
This was 1985? Back before it was banned.
When it still contained the later to be banned ingredients.
We may have also partaken in some other substances, 
but we sipped it, like fine liquor.
It was good...at least I thought so.
We drank, we discussed life...
We met new people...
That’s as far as this part of the memory goes...

I assume we got home. 
I don't remember anything to the contrary...
But the whole thing stayed with me in a bad way.
Many years later I asked if she remembered that night, but she didn't. 
Not much, at least. Bits and pieces...
She said, "I think we did some kind of drugs, I think. Drank weird stuff"
That summed up those last few days.
So there it is. 
I suppose I should probably add, the original six, seven, or so pages that I wrote that night, I later burned...
I thought I could purge the memory. 
It scared me. 
It taunted me.
Sometimes I thought it's mere existence in the written form, Ink on paper, kept me from moving on, from being sane...
I thought that its destruction would heal me.
But it didn't.
It was a study of madness. 
Awful, confusing, disjointed, beautiful, honest...
But also bad scary madness. 

Still, 
There are times that I wish I still had them, those pages. 

But it turns out, the written word is a powerful thing.

Sometimes it won’t stay gone.
Even when it no longer exists.

 Addendum.

 I have been writing this story for years. Literally a few sentences and paragraphs at a time. 
It scarred me. 
It was written, deleted, re-written. 
Yeah, it scared me, and for some reason it still scares me.
Probably because I made a friend promise to kill me. 
Could be.
I finished it last night at about one in the morning, and today I got Chinese food. 
What was in my fortune Cookie?

Check, and mate.