Nothing on My Mind

by Erik Storlie

  “Well, what about Joy and Elton?” asks Celeste. “It’s not as if they’re straight. Look what happened to them.”

  “Aw, they just got way too much for the first time,” I say. “A freak-out. They said they puked and saw incandescent pinwheels flying out of their mouths. Does that sound like poison? They were just at a party with strangers and wandered out into the street and panicked.”

  “Listen, man,” says Lon, “I hear what you’re saying, but remember, this stuff is different. This is more than just getting high. Something big is happening here. This puts you through some changes, man—real changes, good changes. Add this to the stuff that’s beginning to happen up on campus. This country is not going to be the same after acid.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “It blows a lot of the bad shit out of your brain. When Celeste and I took it last spring, it was like cleaning out the basement, throwing out trash that’s clogged you up for years.” Gleefully, I add, “Remember what Charles Darwin said: ‘I love fools’ experiments. I am always making them.’”

  “It even makes cops seem human,” giggles Celeste.

  “Listen,” Striker says, subdued now, “you guys go easy on me. I don’t think I’m ready for complete ego death. But let’s get going, or I’ll want something comfortable like beers and some weed.”

  In the kitchen, the three of us wash down the big capsules with hot tea, then follow Lon into the empty front room. Lon has brought three round meditation cushions, which he lines up facing the east wall. Out the west window, we look down Fifty-fifth Street as it dips toward the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge floating above the water in the distance. The sun sinks in the west and golden light illuminates the bay, the rooftops, and the walls of the room.

  Lon shows us how to hold our hands in the traditional mudra, palms up, thumb tips lightly touching. We arrange our legs and feet in the half lotus position. He instructs us to drop our gaze down, keep our backs straight, breathe slowly, and relax. Next to his seat he sets a candle and Leary’s guidebook, The Psychedelic Experience. He lights the candle, bows toward the cushion, and sits down. We all rotate 180 degrees to face the wall.

  Then I hear Lon reading in a soft voice. It’s something from Leary’s book:

  O Striker, O Erik, O Lon,

  The time has come for you to seek new levels of reality.

  Your ego and the Striker, Erik, and Lon games are about to cease.

  You are about to be set face to face with the Clear Light.

  You are about to experience it in its reality.

  In the ego-free state, wherein all things are like the void and cloudless sky,

  And the naked spotless intellect is like a transparent vacuum;

  At this moment, know yourself and abide in that state.

  Lon’s voice stops. I listen to a huge emptiness in the room. Then he says, rather shyly, “Listen, you guys, if anyone gets stuck in a bad place, let me know, and I’ll read one of the passages here that’ll flip you out of it. Just hearing the wisdom words can direct you away from game playing toward the Clear Light.” Striker and I nod, continuing to gaze down toward the baseboard.

  I feel irritation. What does Striker think of all this? Does he think I’m on some kind of religious trip? I don’t really want to do this, but if I don’t, well, then, Lon’ll be pissed and none of us will have a good time. What the hell. Go with it.

  I begin to focus on my breathing. Breath after breath, I feel my stomach, a slight burning sensation beginning at the center, move slowly in and out, in and out. Then with an in-breath, cascades of shivers rise up my backbone and, with the out-breath, effervesce like champagne between the top of my brain and the bottom of my skull.

  Wow! It’s the kundalini energy. Lon has a book about it with Hindu pictures showing a serpent rising up the spine and transforming into the thousand-petaled lotus in the brain.

  The yellow light dims outside and the traffic din softens with evening. Lon and Striker’s breathing becomes louder and louder. Mine becomes louder and louder, too. Now my breath comes in uncomfortable gasps and pants.

  Then I hear a low, throaty chuckle. “What’s that?” I think. “Who’s here? Oh, yes, Lon and Striker. Who’s laughing?” Then again, a low, resonant, earthy chuckle. “Okay, Striker,” I think. “You’re the one who’s breaking this spell, not me.”

  I keep sitting quietly, listening to Striker get more and more tickled by whatever’s happening in his head. Finally, he says softly, “Oh, man, someone talk to me. This is too much. I’m in fifth grade at Warrington Grade School and I can see Mrs. Swanson—God, another one of those old lady Swede teachers—and is she pissed! She’s just watching like a hawk to see if anyone talks. And I always do!”

  Striker’s off again into snorts of suppressed laughter. “Oh, man, oh, man, I feel my ego dying right now. This is it. What would all those colored folk down there on Shattuck Avenue say about me now?”

  Now I’m in it too, snorting, chuckling, giggling. Finally the two of us lie on our backs on the hardwood floor, sides aching, laughing at nothing, laughing at everything, laughing at how hard we’re laughing.

  Rising to my elbow, weak, I reach over and poke Striker on the shoulder. “Striker, be serious. Think of the injustices of capitalism, think of the suffering poor and oppressed, think of existential despair.”

  Still on his back, each hand massaging the opposite biceps, kneading the rippling boxer’s muscle, Striker sighs, “Okay, man, I feel it if you say it.”

  Then we’re conscious of Lon. He still sits quietly upright in the darkening room, back straight, eyes half-lidded but open, gazing down toward the line where the floor meets the baseboard. Pointing at Lon’s back with my left forefinger, I put my right forefinger across my pursed lips and quietly intone, “Shhh,” shaking my head in mock solemnity. Striker cracks up and rolls over onto his stomach, helpless with laughter.

  The sun is down now, the room almost dark. I begin to make ghost sounds. “Whooo. Hooo. Ooo. Aarrrggghhh! Raaahhhrrr!”

  Racked with laughter, we drag a vacuum cleaner hose and tubes out of the closet and make more sounds, half forgetting Lon, who continues to sit in meditation, silent and motionless.

  At last, embarrassed, we wander into the living room, where Celeste is reading a magazine.

  “You guys are nuts, that’s all I can say,” she comments, looking up from our lone overstuffed armchair with a scowl. “Where’s Lon? You better pay some attention to what he’s trying to do. If you want my opinion, you guys are way out of your depth.”

  Striker and I retire to the kitchen to smoke a joint, then forget about it as we light all four stove burners and run water full blast into the kitchen sink. Engrossed, we stare as the sink fills with luminescent bubbles that gently spill over the side, then hoot with surprise when, as we reach to touch them, they’re not there. “Man, it’s a hallucination all right,” Striker says.

  I respond, “Wow, man, fire and water, fire and water. It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah,” Striker says with a reverent smile. We sit down at the kitchen table and pet the two little kittens. They’re electrified, longhaired fur flying up, standing out straight, tiny bodies quivering with excitement. They climb busily in and out of our laps, purring loudly.

  “Celeste,” I shout. “Come on in here.” She comes to the door. “I hereby name these kittens Rumpters and Roar. I’m hearing those sounds in my head over and over again—it’s like my mother’s voice—like I’m a baby lying on my back in a bassinet, and she’s talking to me.”

  Striker looks at me with a broad smile and comments, “Too much! Too much!”

  “Please, Celeste, please,” I say, “can that be their names?”

  “Okay with me,” she says shortly, and returns to her chair in the front room.

  I pick up a Tarot deck off the table, shuffle several times, and spread the cards between us. “Pick one,” I say to Striker, “but don’t look at it.” He picks, then slides the card in front of him. I pick and do
the same. “Okay, go first,” I say, and flip over the card to reveal the Tower, a tall white square tower set on a steep mountaintop. It’s engulfed in flames as a jagged lightning bolt blows off the roof, a crown. Two male figures, one crowned, are flying headfirst out of the tower and down into an abyss that seems to lie beneath the cliffs of the mountain.

  I moan in recognition. “Oh, man,” I say. “That’s really it. That’s me. Acid’s blown me clear out of the ivory tower, out of everything in my whole life. Unbelievable!” We stare at each other in wonder, shaking our heads.

  Striker hesitantly reaches for his card. “Turn it over, man,” I say, intensely curious. He flips it up and we behold the Devil, a massive figure with goat legs and bird claws. Great bat wings rise off his back. Ram’s horns curl from the top of his head. Standing, chained to his throne, are a naked man and woman—beautiful, but betrayed by horns and flaming tails.

  Striker’s face clouds and he groans with lips shut, “Umm, mmm,” and looks away. “My people are all church people,” he murmurs. “What would they say!”

  It’s a week later. Celeste, Striker, and I drink morning coffee in the warm kitchen. The weather has turned cold. The house, still almost empty and heated only by several wall heaters, feels vacant and drafty. Striker has a plan. Hundreds of houses purchased for the freeway project sit vacant, boarded up, some still full of furniture. Down at Little Joe’s Big Ribs place on Shattuck, they say the Housing Authority bought furniture too, then resold it to Oakland salvage firms.

  “Look man, we’ll just cruise the neighborhood and pick things up. Fuck the salvage outfits! Who needs this stuff most? Now, that family across the street—they split yesterday with all their shit. They left a buffet and a kitchen table and chairs right there on the porch. Look at the woodwork in this place. It’s a real house. We can make it real nice. Ninety a month and we can furnish it free!”

  Striker and I walk across the street to check on the buffet, table, and chairs. The house is empty and locked. We carry everything across the street to 556, then hop in the Studebaker and cruise the neighborhood. A few blocks away we park in a street of large vacant houses and walk through yards, looking in windows for furniture. Two houses are left almost entirely furnished—and unlocked. Striker spots a set of matching, overstuffed living room furniture—a couch, loveseat, and two upholstered chairs with end tables. We load the couch and the tables quickly into the back of the wagon, drive home, and triumphantly carry the pieces into the living room.

  Celeste is impressed. “Now, you boys are doing just fine. You are providing for the woman of the house. How could you have let me live here on the drafty, old floor?”

  We head back for the rest of the furniture. In the other house, we find four straight-backed chairs, two more upholstered chairs, and a dresser—now Striker can have one, too. We haul all this back, and Celeste fixes peanut butter and salami sandwiches. We sit down on our new kitchen furniture and eat.

  In the warmth of the kitchen, my skin starts to crawl. I set down my salami sandwich and scratch my belly, then armpits, then head. Striker’s scratching too.

  “What’s with you two?” Celeste asks. “Born in a barn?” She looks at me closely across the table and shrieks, “Fleas! Erik, you’re covered with fleas. Striker, look at his hair, he’s hopping with ‘em. And you too! It’s the furniture.”

  In a scramble we carry everything out into the cold backyard. Then Striker and I head for the bathroom and jump, fully clothed, under the full force of the shower. We undress and soap and wash and soap and wash. Then I head up a few blocks to the neighborhood hardware store for insect sprays.

  Hurrying out of the store with four aerosol cans in a brown paper sack, I’m surprised to bump into the family from the downstairs apartment. They’re coming out of a door next to the hardware store that leads up to second-floor apartments above the commercial establishments on street level. So that’s where they moved.

  The man holds the door for his wife and daughter, who trudge through grimy scraps of newspaper and discarded paper cups swirled by the wind into the entry alcove. He’s in the green shirt and pants of a mechanic. It’s late afternoon now. He must be just back from whatever job he works. The wife looks pale and pinched. They look past me, pointedly concentrating on their exit from the door. The little girl, thinly dressed for the damp bay wind, begins to smile up at me, then looks away.

  “Oh,” I think, “so I’m the hero of equality that forced this child away from a house with sunny windows and a yard and grass and old rose bushes still holding a few late summer blossoms.” Clutching my bag, averting my gaze, I move past them quickly.

  Celeste, Striker, and I spray all the furniture and let it sit for a few hours before carrying it back in, and then we spend the rest of the afternoon arranging couches, chairs, our own rooms. We make the place cozy. It’s been three years since I’ve lived in anything like a regular house. By late afternoon we’re settled, smoking a joint and playing records. “No problem with volume now,” chortles Striker, lounging in the overstuffed chair and gazing happily through the large front picture window.

  Suddenly he jumps up. “Shit, man, here comes that son of a bitch from across the street. He’s gotta be after his furniture.”

  “What should we do?” I say. “He left the stuff.”

  “Yeah,” says Striker, hesitantly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” says Celeste. “It’s his stuff if he wants it.”

  There’s loud hammering on the door.

  Reluctantly I cross to the door and open it to a heavy, middle-aged black man in work clothes. “Hello,” I say. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do for me? Who the hell took my furniture?” He walks into the living room, eyes searching, and spots the buffet. “That’s mine. Where’s the kitchen set?” Striker and I look at each other.

  “Well, it’s here,” says the man. “You boys were seen. Now you can help me load the stuff in my truck.” We hesitate. “Right now, I mean.” I steal another glance at Striker, whose brow is dark and knitted. This is Striker’s turf. Striker looks worried, and I’m no Golden Gloves boxer.

  “Yeah, no problem,” I say. “We thought you’d just left it. Sure, we’ll help you load it up.”

  We pull on jackets. Faintly smiling, the man carefully supervises as we haul stuff out and lift it into his truck. “Watch that tailgate, goddamn it. You already put two scratches in the buffet.”

  After everything’s loaded, the man slowly shuts the tailgate, then turns and surveys us, hands on hips. “Listen, boys, you’re young, and it’s nice to see you all getting along with each other. But when you gonna learn there’s no free lunch? Now, for once, just try minding what you doing!”

  Back inside, Striker comments, “That son of a bitch was mad. I’m glad you didn’t hassle him.”

  It’s the next day, a Wednesday. Striker, Celeste, and I spend the day thoroughly cleaning the apartment and rearranging furniture. I even walk back up to the local hardware store for window cleaners, rags, and squeegees and, to Celeste and Striker’s amusement, wash every window, inside and out. After finally putting away the cleaning supplies, I sit down in the living room and luxuriate as rays of golden afternoon sun slant in through the sparkling glass.

  Celeste brings in some late-blooming pink roses from the backyard. She surveys the living room critically, then puts the roses in a tall water glass and sets them on a little end table in the living room.

  Striker comes in from his room and begins to look through our records for some appropriate music.

  “Hey, Storlie, how about some Otis Redding and a little toke?”

  “Sounds just fine,” I say. “But why stop there? Our house is beautiful, just like a home, and we’ve got nothing to do. Let’s drop some acid.”

  “You said you had to get in some more studying for your orals,” Celeste reminds me.

  “Ah, I’ve got a few weeks yet,” I say. “No big deal.”

  “Well, you boys go ahead,”
says Celeste. “I can handle any phone calls or door-to-door salesmen. After watching you guys the other day, I’m not so sure you’ll be fit to talk to the general public.”

  “That’s for sure,” sighs Striker.

  Just then we hear a knock on the door. It’s Joy and Elton. I urge them to join us. “No, I don’t think so, but thanks, man,” says Elton. “We’ll hang around, though, if that’s cool.”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” I say. And then I add with a smirk, “But don’t worry, we won’t poison you. C’mon, we’ve got incredible stuff from that guy down in Big Sur.”

  “Yeah,” says Striker. “Erik and Lon turned me on to it. It was cool.”

  “No, no,” repeats Elton, an edge in his voice, “we don’t happen to want to do it. Some other time.”

  “Man,” Striker says, “it was just like the first time a bunch of us got hold of some pot. We couldn’t stop laughing.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” says Joy. “We’re into something else right now.”

  About four o’clock Striker and I each drop two caps. One was no problem, so why not two? We bounce around the apartment—adjusting this and that piece of furniture, changing records, checking the wall heaters—delighted with our house. Celeste goes to the kitchen to make some tea, and the phone rings in the dining room. It’s a middle room that lies between the living room and the kitchen. We don’t have furniture to put in it, so it’s still largely empty.

  I walk in—slowly. I’m beginning to feel unsteady on my feet, and the visual space around me begins to swirl, the volume of the room subtly expanding and contracting. Then I’m standing next to a ringing wall phone. It’s John Logan from Saint Mary’s. He’s done with classes for the day and ready for a drink.

  “John, you come right over,” I urge. “We’ve got incredible acid. We’ll turn you on to the real stuff. Man, you can forget all about your brandy.” John’s voice at the other end of the line, suddenly distant, nervously declines and the phone goes dead. As I place the receiver carefully back on its hanger, I see walls covered with an extravagant floral wallpaper. I’m entranced. Roses, lilies, and various luscious blossoms intertwine with leafy vines. I see into the wall. It’s in three dimensions—actual, real flowers, brimming with color, their petals gently undulating in a pulsing, flowing, clear fluid.