Possession with intent to distribute sounds so negative. In this case, my backpack held me liable to a
felony. 1.5 pounds of grass seems like a lot, but when you buy bulk for 5 different groups of friends, it's
economical. I sure didn't think twice about the transaction or transportaion of a 6 bill deal. My
mentality has changed over the years, but back then I just didn't care. So stopping off at a local
coffeshop with the gear didn't come across as a bad idea. While drinking my
coffee, a man in his late 40's asked me for a
cigarette. I bummed him a
Camel Light and asked him what he was reading. It happened to be
Cat's Cradle, I book I had read and loved. So we started conversation with the evils of
society which led to the use of
drugs as a release, or at least smoke screen, from the daily troubles of life. He brought up
Beavis and Butthead, not the show, but a short lived batch of
LSD that moved through
Austin in the spring of 95.
I left the coffeshop with nine hits in my wallet and one in my mouth. I had only ventured to the acid's reality once, the previous Halloween surrounded by 30,000 people in costumes on 6th street. My trip buddy freaked that night, and I talked him down for 6 hours while every sound tweaked along with the relentless breathing and swelling of the world. Bound for a private dormatory at UT, I faced about a 3 mile walk. So with the energy I would use, the paper would hit before I got there. I reached The Drag which is a strip on Austin where bums, students, and pedlers join to form a constant moving mass. One of the craziest things about LSD is the inability to remember sobriety while tripping or remember tripping while sober. But the intitial wave of consciousness sticks, and this time it was fucking tight. The clouds looked grey, and a 15 minute Texas thunderstorm soon would consume and rattle everything in it's path. The initial realization struck with a drop of rain running down me left arm. The drop of water rolled, tumbled, and conformed to every pore and hair on my arm. I knew the trip had started. With that, like there were 50,000 fire hoses pointed down at us, what seemed like the Atlantic Ocean dropped from the sky. I darted into a local arcade. The imense noise and flickering lights distorted reality to an unbearable sensation of being trapped. The disarray of the arcade, the downpour outside, and felony charge in my backpack brought paranoia like a tidal wave. There was no escape, no plan b, no control, and no room to be noticed. Was it time to snap, to give in? Getting pinched because you have gone too far compounds exponentially in the third eye mind of a user. My negative thoughts were a blasting faucet I could not turn off. But to my rescue, a word traveled through the arcade inside my ear and saved me, "Fatality."
The familiar sound of Mortal Kombat II let me know it would be alright. I found my way to the machine and immediatly challenged some poor sucker. A fury of Scorpion teleportations and uppercuts guided me through uneasy waters until the storm passed. Confidence proved mine again as I walked by two cops out on The Drag, I was unstoppable and on acid! I made my rounds, dropping off several ounces and being subjected to trippy things young college kids enjoy showing acid-eaters. I dropped off the Beavis and Butthead with these visits, I was proof of the potency. The cool Gulf Coast breeze rolled in that night as I sat at the LBJ Library with two friends that dropped. A true excursion to the other side.