by Cleo Odzer
Swearing I'd be back in four days, five at the most, I boarded a plane to Toronto. I, too, carried the cargo inside my body, but lucky for me, females have a neater, more-accessible pocket, so I didn't have to shove it up my ass like Mental. Because I'd left Canada only two weeks before, I worried that Immigration might find it suspicious. I fashioned a sad face and told the man at the counter I'd flown home for my mother's funeral. He smiled sympathetically and stamped me in.
As soon as I checked into a hotel, I called Jewish Connection. Sorry, he informed me, he couldn't handle more dope, because he still hadn't sold all of Mitchell's load. Uh-oh. Now what? I tried Dealer, but he was no help either. He dealt grams, and I was selling quantity—Mental had turned the original amount into a pound with the confectioners sugar. Dealer introduced me to someone who wanted to buy an ounce, though, and I agreed to deliver it that night.
The last thing I wanted was to parcel the stash into ounces, but it was the only start I had to begin a bigger connection. I delivered the ounce myself to the buyer and his girlfriend. There was another guy there, and they decided that, after trying the dope, they'd take me to the World's Fair, which was in Canada that year.
Buyer picked a rock and put it in his spoon. Though Mental and I had done a good job smashing it up, there was still a difference between the size of the dope and the size of the sugar—the rock was dope. Buyer did his shot, said it was fab, and we piled into a taxi to set out for the Fair.
We weren't more than a block away when he slumped over onto his girlfriend’s lap.
Oh, shit.
She called his name and slapped his face, but he didn't respond.
Oh shit shit shit! He was going to die of an overdose, and I had all that dope in my room! What should I do now?
The commotion in the back seat alerted the driver that something was amiss.
"Take us back," the girlfriend told him.
It took all of us plus the taxi driver to carry Buyer back into the apartment. I decided I couldn't leave in the middle of a crisis, though my instinct was to run to the hotel and move my cache. I'd wait and see what happened. If he then or was placed in an ambulance, then I'd go. For the moment, I tried to act like the helping friend, not the killer dope dealer.
We spent the next hour walking Buyer around the apartment, propping him under the shower, and keeping his eyes open. When he finally enabled and sat up by himself, I figured he would survive and that I could leave the apartment without seeming rude or uncaring. Boy, was I glad to go. By that time they no longer viewed me as Santa Claus.
I made another connection—Vinny and Vanessa, two city-style Junkies. They lived in a basement apartment on a quiet street. It was obvious when I arrived that I'd awoken them from a nod. Their works were spread out on the kitchen table, and they couldn't wait to shoot a sample of my product. Then, while we discussed business arrangements, quarter-gram customers came and went, most of them taking a shot at the kitchen table before leaving. To clean a syringe, water must be squirted through it. Vinny and Vanessa's sleazy customers cleaned their syringes at the table, squirting their bloody water in the air. Traces of the descending pink liquid could be seen in numerous trails covering the refrigerator door. Yeck!
I didn’t trust Vinny and Vanessa one bit. I decided to sell them a few ounces at a time, collecting the money first and leading them to believe I had more than I really did. I figured they wouldn't rob me as Long as I was an ongoing source. The dope was good-quality, and they were getting a good deal, so I felt reasonably sure that I could do business with these shady characters and not lose everything in the process. Vanessa took me to buy an expensive scale that I promised she could have when I left. I also gave them, for free, four grams I'd ruined. On the flight in, I'd hidden a travelling stash in a container of scented deodorant powder, and the smack had acquired a disgusting Arid Extra Dry flavour. When I snorted it (thankfully I didn't have to fix it anymore), the smelly stuff grossed me out. Since Vinny and Vanessa fixed it, the deodorant filtered out with cotton.
I did have the occasional doubt, though, that I could survive the machinations of those two street-smart, manipulative, always-plotting, sleazy junkies. I calculated every move, every weak spot, and kept promising that there was more, oodles more, available.
I felt incredibly happy when I completed the last transaction and held the money I was supposed to have—well, I had a decent amount of it, anyway. The trip had taken longer than expected, and I'd frittered away a sizeable quantity of dope on personal use and on bribes to instill good will in Vinny and Vanessa.
By the time I had changed the tens and twenties into hundred-dollar bills and arrived back in Los Angeles, Mental was disgruntled. When I divided the money, fifty-fifty, he became angry.
"Twenty-one thousand eight hundred and forty-three dollars!" he whined. "Is that all I get? Impossible! It's got to be more than that!"
Over and over, we calculated how much our daily habits had eaten out of the original stock (quite a bit). We figured out how much Mental had taken for himself when I'd left, how much I'd consumed or given away in Canada, and how much we had now. The price I'd received in Canada, five thousand an ounce, was standard, and the numbers matched. But Mental was dissatisfied.
"This is fucked up!" he said loudly. "I should be getting more than twenty-one thousand eight hundred and forty-three dollars!"
"That's it. That's how much it comes to."
"Can't be right. It's fucked up!"
A bit unfair, I thought, given that he could have starved in the monsoon in Bombay if I hadn't sent him the original two thousand dollars, not to mention the probability of his being arrested if I'd left him to his own devices in Los Angeles.
To me, the scam had been a terrific success. I'd started the summer with nothing and ended it with a fair amount. Surviving Vinny and Vanessa, I felt, was a tremendous feat in itself. But to Mental it was not enough.
I couldn't wart to escape his unappreciative ranting. As I started to leave. Mental decided that somewhere along the line I'd ripped him off. He shouted at me. I ignored him and left the room. He followed me to the hallway. When I entered the elevator, he shouted at me still.
"RIP OFF!" he yelled as the doors closed, leaving him, thankfully, on the other side. How embarrassing—the elevator was full of people! I was also hurt. Then I worried he'd run down the stairs and catch me in the lobby and make a scene. When the door opened, I dashed out. I moved to a different hotel and bought a ticket to India. What a monsoon!
This time I went back via the Pacific route. I chose a Korean Airlines flight and transited two days in Seoul. Wow, Korea! Hadn't there just been a war there?
A hotel employee told me how it felt to have his country divided in half. Apparently the border was not far from Seoul, and the people on either side were the same people.
"My cousins," he said, resting his foot on a laundry cart. "They live on other side."
Landing in Bombay, I felt like the Great Adventurer. I'd made it through another monsoon and arrived with escapades to recount. Rich once more, I took a room at the Sheraton-Oberoi and went to Dipti's.
Everyone turned in their seats to say hello, and Bila gave me a welcoming smile with my scoop of mango ice cream.
"How was your monsoon?" asked Shawn.
"Terrific! Just got in from Seoul. Did you know that Seoul is only twenty-five miles from the North Korean border?"
Amsterdam Dean slid into my booth with a greeting and said, "I heard you were in jail."
"Me? No! Where'd you hear that?"
"It's all over the beach. Some problem with you and Giuliano."
"Oh, no. Not Giuliano again. I don't know anything about this problem with Giuliano. I did rip him off!"
"That's the story. That you were arrested somewhere, and so the police went to your house in Goa and tore down a wall to get in . . . "
"My house! The police were in my house?"
"That's what I heard. They tore down a wall and searched the
place and were asking questions about you. They picked up Alehandro and Bombay Brian for information . . ."
"What happened to my house? They tore down a wall? Which wall? It's open? My . . ."
"I don't know the details. Why don't you ask Brian. He should know."
I swallowed the last spoonful of ice cream in one gulp. My "See you later" sounded like "Zaiwuf urrfm" as I hurried out.
Bombay Brian worked in a carpet shop three doors down from Dipti's. I found him sitting cross-legged and drinking tea. "Hi, Cleo. How the hell was your monsoon?"
"What's this about the police at my house?"
"I heard they goddamn tore it down to get inside and that they found stacks of goddamn drugs and porno films. Hell, they've been looking everywhere for you."
"Drugs! There were no drugs there. Except for a few tolas of opium. And a horrible gram of morphine . . . two tabs of acid at the most. Oh, and an old kilo of useless border hash. That's it! They're looking for me? Here? In Bombay?"
"All over," said Bombay Brian. "Shit, they came to ask ME."
"The police came HERE? What did they say?"
"They wanted to know where the hell you were. You better get yourself a goddamn lawyer."
I couldn't believe the normally unconcerned Goa police had actually come looking for me. They never bothered with Goa Freaks. Not unless they had a complaint. What did they do to my house? My beautiful house. I was frantic. It was my world, my palace, my fantasy. My home.
"Why me?" I asked Brian.
"Something to do with Giuliano. They busted the goddamn jackass, and he gave your name."
"Giuliano's been busted? Where?"
"Bombay International. He's still in goddamn jail as far as I know."
Well, that was good news of sorts. At least the creep was out of the way. I had not ripped him off. He had no reason to cause me trouble.
Brian convinced me to hire a lawyer to find out why the police wanted me. In the meantime I had to move out of the hotel, where they could easily find me. He said I could stay in his apartment on Marine Drive. I rushed to check out, peering around for lurking cops.
Bombay Brian was an American with blue eyes and greying hair and had been living in India for nobody-knew-exactly-how-long, but a long time. The story was that he'd been a member of Hell's Angels and that because of a nobody-knew-exactly-what problem he was afraid to return to America and was now a permanent resident of India. Aside from his house in Anjuna Beach, Brian had a Bombay penthouse with a round living room. He was savvy to the workings of Bombay and directed me to a law office.
The lawyer I commissioned was young, fat, obviously well-stationed in India society, and too complacent for my liking.
"My house! My home! It means everything to me. Please help me with my house."
The lawyer shook his head from side to side and said, "First you want to inquire as to what the charges against you are. Then you can worry about your house."
"How long will it take?"
"Weeks only."
"Weeks! But I must hurry home right away. If it's been smashed open, anyone can walk in and take everything. Oh, my wonderful house!"
"These things take time. This is India, not America. I will go to Goa."
"You have to go there?"
He leaned back in his chair, which made a loud squeak, and did that Indian shake with his head again. "How else can I find out what is going on?"
I didn't mention the telephone, realizing the man was seizing this opportunity to have a vacation at my expense. Another Indian lawyer would do no differently. I sighed. This was the Indian way.
"Perhaps I will be able to leave here at the end of the month," he said.
"End of the month!! No sooner?"
He raised a hand in the air where his gold rings glinted in the forty watt light. "I am a busy man."
Back at the apartment, Brian and I discussed how it wasn't terribly cool for me to stay in Bombay with the police perhaps waiting for my next visit to Dipti's. I couldn't go to Goa, either.
"Why the hell don't you go to Poona?" Brian suggested. "I've been thinking of visiting a friend there: We could go together."
"Poona! Isn't that where the ashram is—Rajneesh? ‘Where orange people come from?"
Apparently orange was a spiritual colour, and the Rajneesh zealots wore nothing but orange clothes and a picture of their guru, Bhagwan Rajneesh. I remembered how Mushroom Jeffrey had dyed his clothes when he became Swami Anand Geet. I'd seen orange people pass through Goa. Did I want to surround myself with them? Spirituality was the last thing I desired at that moment.
"Poona! Well, at least I’ll be safe there. No policeman would think of looking for me near an ashram. Oh," I groaned, covering my face. "AH that orange."
Since Brian could only be away from Bombay for a weekend, it wasn't until Friday afternoon that we climbed into a taxi at Churchgate Station. Three other passengers (all Indian) climbed in too, which meant four of us squeezed into the back seat of the small car. It was a seven-hour drive, and after we left the city, an endless stream of dirt blew at me through all four, wide-open windows.
By the time we arrived in Poona, it was night. The driver took everyone else to their homes before he dropped us at the address Brian had given him.
Hungry, dirty, dying for a toilet, and exhausted, I was not in the mood for the cheerful liveliness of Brian's friends.
"Brian!"
"Hi, Lydia. How the hell are you?"
"No, no," said the happy, frisky voice. "My name is Vanya now. Bhagwan named me Prem Vanya. It means love, sturdy as a forest."
I groaned inwardly as I slid my suitcase across the top step and faked a smile at my hostess.
"Come in, come in," she bubbled in her halo of orangeness. Three more orange shapes buzzed from behind her to whisk my suitcase from where I'd dumped it at my feet. I gave Brian a sidelong Look. I didn't think I was ready for this.
All topics of conversation that night centred on Bhagwan: this person's dilemma resolved by a "vision" from Bhagwan, that person's insight into his "past life" acquired during Bhagwan's lecture, and someone's else's "astral projection" through the ashram guided by Bhagwan. Brian and I periodically sought each other's eye for a comforting look of "How did we get ourselves into this?"
"My company in Vancouver exceeded my expectations last year," Prem Vanya told us, "but then Bhagwan called me to Poona—transcendentally, I mean, the way he brought you two here today."
"Uh . . . Oh . . ? Is that goddamn right?" Brian answered, refolding his arms around his knee and staring in seeming fascination at the orange rug on which he sat.
The long night ended only because everyone wanted to wake up early for "Dynamic," a meditation at sunrise.
"Why don't you two do Dynamic with us?" suggested Prem Vanya. "Then you'll be there for Bhagwan's lecture at eight."
I waited for Brian's (I hoped) negative reply. It came.
"Ah . . . well, actually I'm goddamn tired. I think I sleep late tomorrow, if you don't mind."
Saved!
"Fine. I'll pick you up at noon, and we'll lunch at the ashram cafeteria. How's that?"
Trapped.
Prem Vanya brought me a blanket (orange, of course) and ensured I was comfortably installed on the mattress that also acted as a couch. Brian slept on the floor at the far end of the room, and an orange person unrolled himself a sleeping bag in a spot near the window. As my eyes closed on the orange-painted walls, the orange-draped table, the orange flowers in a nearby bowl, I wondered if my fate at the hands of the Goa police would not have been better.
Fortunately the orange people were gone when I awoke. I found Brian in the kitchen, eating toast with orange marmalade (of course). "What have you gotten me into?" I asked.
Framed by an orange wall, he took a bite, and orange jelly caught in his moustache as he said, "It is too goddamn much, isn't it?"
"Must we really go to that ashram for lunch? I think I had enough of Bhagwan last night."
I looked at the tattoos covering the arm that reposed on the orange table and thought: If an ex-Hell's Angel can stand it, I can stand it.
At noon, Prem Vanya bubbled into the apartment and bubbled us out the door into a waiting rickshaw. As we drove through town, I noticed that half the people on the street were foreigners dressed in orange. The boutiques that lined the sidewalks displayed wares in one colour only—orange.
"There it is, that's the ashram!" yipped Vanya ecstatically.
I could have guessed. The street had become impassable, clogged with knots of orange people. Numerous units of two and three pressed together in what looked like a hug. We climbed out of the rickshaw some distance from the ashram entrance and shouldered through the motionless bodies.
"Vanya!"
Prem Vanya encountered someone she knew and was engulfed in one of those lengthy embraces. Brian and I stood there until the hugging came to an end. We hadn't gotten much closer to the ashram when Vanya met another acquaintance and entangled herself in another Bhagwan hug. When this happened several times more, Brian exhibited impatience.
"C'mon, c'mon. Let's get the hell inside already."
With the next people Vanya met, she limited the hug to a few seconds only, and we eventually made our way into the ashram.
The inside revealed lush greenery polka-dotted with gigantic flowers. Orange people were everywhere, strolling down paths, sitting on the lawn, entering and exiting various buildings. I moaned when I saw the cafeteria. It looked like it belonged in a high school in Iowa somewhere, and of course it served only vegetarian food. I should have known.
The weekend passed quickly, and Brian and I actually had a good time laughing over the orange-flavoured exuberance. We engaged in an especially good giggle as I recounted my first experience with a Bhagwan hug. Apparently the appropriate response was to hang on tightly and squeeze back; the occasional murmured "Mmmmmm" was optional. The hug was to continue as long as possible—the longer held, the greater proof of possessing Bhagwan.