At eleven o'clock Russell Phelps discovered that he could fly and begged Peter to take him up to the roof. "I wouldn't jump off, honest!" he swore. "But if I did, I wouldn't get hurt. I would just like float, you know?" Peter did not take him up to the roof.
At 11:30 Artie Winston unbuttoned Deirdre Duell's shirt and, placing his hands on the undersides of her large breasts, began to move them slowly from left to right. Audible light streamed from each nipple with every motion and bathed the entire room with waves of liquidy pink. She was not seeing what he was seeing. She was watching her breasts grow larger and larger, heavier and heavier, dragging her down toward the floor. She fell forward from her seated position and strove to keep herself from plummeting downward through the floorboards. With great effort she pushed herself back up and did not fall through the earth to China.
At 11:45 Dorcas Ostlich rose unsteadily to her feet and announced that she had to take a leak.
"Hold on, Dorcas," Peter said as he stood up. "I go with you."
She looked at the scales that were growing all over his skin and frowned as he began to molt. "I'm okay, Pete. I don't need company."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm just going over behind the palm tree out front."
He smiled. "The palm tree, Dorcas? How's the acid doing? The hallucinations letting up yet?"
"I guess so," she replied, ignoring the melting rubber mountains that were clearly visible through the window. "I'll be right back."
"Dorcas, you really shouldn't go outside alone. I mean, it's not just you. Nobody should be alone when they trip."
"I'll go with her," Lydia said.
"You're in no better shape than she is!"
"I feel like I'm coming down a little," Lydia insisted as she stood up. "I'm hardly hallucinating at all right now."
Peter shook his head. "I'll go with her."
"Hey, man, what's wrong with you? You get some kind of kick out of watching girls pee or something?"
The question stunned him into an offended silence and he made no further effort to accompany them. Dorcas and Lydia put on their jackets and then went out into the darkness. The murkiness made Lydia uncomfortable, so she left the front door open to give them a little light. Dorcas went behind the nearest tree and attended to her need, steadying herself with one hand on a low-lying stump as Lydia sat and waited on the steps.
"Dor Dor." She looked up to see Grogo the Goblin running toward her from the woods. "Dor Dor. You come, you come. Rinda sick."
"Oh, Lord." she sighed. "I'm doing it again." She stood up and readjusted her clothing as the geek reached her, and she shook her head, saying, "You aren't real. You aren't here. This is all in my imagination." She looked around her at the vibrating, shifting forest. "All my imagination," she whispered.
"Rinda sick, Rinda sick," the little man insisted, tugging urgently on her sleeve. "You come!"
Lydia stood up on the steps and blinked her eyes at what she was seeing a few yards away. "Holy shit!" she muttered.
"I'm not really seeing you," Dorcas told him, pulling her sleeve away from his long, delicate fingers. "It's the drug, that's all. You don't exist. I don't exist. Go away, Vernon." She started walking back to the house.
"Dor Dor," he whined. "Dor Dor!" He watched her mount the steps and then he spun around and ran back into the woods.
Dorcas walked past Lydia without saying a word, oblivious to her sister's openmouted astonishment. She went into the house and sat down in front of the fire, thinking, So now I know the truth. I'm going crazy.
Lydia closed the door behind her and sat down next to Sean and Rebecca. "Hey, uh, you know what?"
"What?" they asked in unison.
"I just like saw Dorcas talking to Grogo the Goblin."
"No shit?" Sean shook his head. "That's one hell of a hallucination. This is incredible acid."
Lydia sighed and nodded. "Like really!" She looked over at her sister. "I wonder if she saw him, too?"
"Maybe," Sean replied. "Same batch of acid." His reasoning was void of any logic whatsoever, but at that moment his comment made perfect sense to Lydia and Rebecca.
Dorcas allowed her eyes to drift from face to face, forcing herself to remember that the shapeshifting she was seeing was all a result of the drug. She looked at Lydia and shuddered as her sister's hair began to squirm and writhe like the serpents that grew from the head of Medusa. The serpents twisted around each other, forming first eight long braids, then merging to four, then coming to rest as two. That's neat, Dorcas thought. I wish I could make my hair do that. It'd save a lot of time. . . .
She gasped. Instead of her twin sister Lydia, she found that she was gazing at herself. That isn't just a hallucination, that's really me over there, it's really me, it's me!
The apparition looked at her, and she saw the image of herself gasp with shock, just as she herself had done a moment before. Their locked eyes seemed to become magnets that dragged them toward each other, and as they came together they blended and merged, becoming one. She found herself floating near the ceiling, looking down at everyone; but Dorcas was not there, and Lydia was not there. They're gone, she thought, both gone. I'm the only one left, just me, just Karen.
She shut her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, she was again sitting before the fire and Lydia was again sitting next to Sean a few yards away.
I'm losing it, she thought desperately. I can't control my thoughts, I can't control anything, out of control, out of control, out of control. . . .
Dorcas turned to stare into the flames that danced in the fireplace. Some of the flames were red, some were yellow, some had stripes, and some intermittently took the form of little tiny Vernon Sweets. Why has all this happened to me? she asked herself. Why is it that everybody else is happy, everybody else is normal, everybody else is sane, and I'm the only one who's never in control of myself or of anything else? Why did my own father have to do those terrible, terrible things to me. Didn't he realize what . . . ?
But no, no, that wasn't me, it was Lydia, it was Lydia. . . .
She felt a pinch of pain and realized that she had been biting her lip so hard that she had pierced the skin with her teeth. She wiped off a drop of blood as she felt her body beginning to shake uncontrollably. Waves of anger and terror began to wash over her, and she hugged her knees tightly to her chest. Why can't I just be normal, like everybody else? Why did I take that goddamn drug? Why did I take that goddamn drug?
"Why did I take that goddamn DRUG!" she shrieked.
Everyone else in the room stared at her in silence, until at last Danny turned to Peter and sighed. "Party's over......
Chapter Fifteen
January 12, 1969
One o'clock in the morning. The few local farmers had already left the bar, and the vacationing couple who stopped in for some coffee at twelve were about to resume their long drive to Montreal. As soon as they leave, Alex thought, I can shut down for the night. Been a slow night anyway, for a Saturday. It'll be good to end it early.
He finished wiping a glass and he placed it onto the shelf. Time was I'd stay open to three or four on a Saturday night, but not lately, not for years. Nobody but the farmers and those goddamn hippies come here anymore. Haven't seen old Schilder and Walt Rihaczeck for over a week, nobody has. I'm worried about them, sure, but it's not just that they were old friends of mine, they were regular customers, too. I can't afford to lose regular customers. Probably went to, I don't know, Albany or New York City for a, long holiday, something like that. Sure miss their business. I'm hurting, I'm hurting. But maybe when they build the factory . . . when they build the factory . . .
"'Night, now," the vacationer said as his wife waved and they left the room. Alex smiled back at them, and his smile vanished the instant they were out the door. Now that Doc Ostlich has the land problem solved, we'll have the factory. Jobs for my neighbors, maybe jobs that will bring people here to live. Maybe then my business . . .
He sighed. I'm old and a
lone, factory or no factory, successful or bankrupt; and even though there's only five years left on the mortgage, I don't think I can make it. The bank will throw me out, and then what will I have, what will I be? "Why did you leave me, Paula?" he whispered.
He jumped back, startled, as the door swung briskly open and crashed against the wall. "Whoops," Clayton said. "Sorry 'bout that, Al."
Alex frowned as Clayton walked in, and his frown grew deeper as two dozen others followed. Drunk again, all of them, he thought as he observed the unsteady gaits and the peculiar facial expressions. "I was just about to close up." he said pointedly as the group began to disperse to several of the tables.
"Oh, damn it." Clayton grinned, pulling a wad of twenty-dollar bills from his back pocket. "Guess I gotta go spend my money somewhere else."
"No, no, that's okay," Alex said quickly, and then gazed at Clayton's face intently. The younger man's eyes had an oddness to them that Alex had never seen before, but that he was certain was not a result of drinking. "You on something, Saunders?" he demanded.
"Well, I'm on Earth." Clayton nodded.
"Don't you get funny with me, boy, or I'll punch your face in!" Alex said darkly. "You on something?"
"Drugs! You mean drugs?" Clayton was deeply insulted by the question. "That's a hell of a thing to ask! Of course I'm not!"
"You better not be, or I call the cops."
"Calm down, Al." He smiled, slapping him on the shoulder. "We just came in for a few drinks and a little good cheer."
Alex remained suspicious, but he nodded and said, "Okay. You want beer?"
"Yeah, ten pitchers and a couple of bottles of bourbon," Clayton said, taking off his coat and tossing it into the corner. He tossed five twenties down onto the bar top. "Let me know when that runs out."
Alex stared at his back with undisguised animosity as Clayton ambled over to the table where Lydia and Peter were sitting on either side of Dorcas, each holding one of her hands. Rebecca, Sean, and Russell were seated opposite them, and Clayton pulled a chair up to the end of the table and sat down. "So how's the bummer going, Dork?"
"That isn't very funny," Lydia snapped.
He laughed. "Take it easy. Everybody has bad trips once in a while. It's no big deal."
"I think we should take her to the hospital," Peter said. "This idea of getting out of a bummer by drinking yourself into a stupor—"
"Is the only way to do it," Sean interrupted. "Look, if we take her to a hospital, all they'll do is shoot her up with barbiturates, like just space her out until she comes down from the acid. So what's the difference between that and getting drunk? I mean like numb is numb, you know?"
"You aren't a doctor," Peter insisted. "She may need . . . well, more than bourbon and beer."
Why are they all talking about me like I'm not even here? I can hear them, I can see them, so why aren't they talking to me? Why are they all just talking about me?
"Don't be stupid," Clayton said. "We take her to a hospital while she's bumming out and not only will she end up staying there like last time, we'll have to talk to cops and doctors and all that shit. Let it be, man. Booze'll do the trick."
"I hope you're right," Peter muttered.
Alex carried over a tray with a pitcher of beer and seven glasses and then returned to the bar to get the bourbon. He kept glancing at Dorcas, wondering what was wrong with her. The girl's face was ashen and her unblinking eyes did not move from the point in space at which they stared. When he brought the bottle over to them he asked, "Dorcas, what is the matter with you?"
Lydia squeezed her sister's hand and thought, Answer him, damn it. He's just enough of a pain in the ass to call the cops or something. Answer him, Dork.
"N-nothing," Dorcas muttered and then jumped slightly, startled by the sound of her own voice.
"Hey, Al," Clayton said quickly, "we're discussing something kind of personal here, so get lost, will you?"
"This is my place," Alex snapped. "You don't tell me what to do in my place."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Hey, that hundred bucks used up yet?"
Alex glowered at him, but at last he went back to the bar and began filling more beer pitchers. Clayton shook his head. "What an asshole."
"He's awful nasty to you," Peter observed. "I thought everybody around here was being nice to you since you bought the Sweet place."
Clayton shrugged instead of replying.
Russell reached across the table and touched Dorcas on the shoulder. "You feeling better, Dork?"
"How can she be?" Clayton asked. "She hasn't started drinking yet." He poured her a beer and a shot of bourbon. "Down the hatch, Dork." He laughed, adding, "Better this hatch than the happy hatch."
"Clayton, cut it out, damn it!" Lydia spat.
Dorcas sipped the bourbon and then coughed mightily. "This tastes like iodine." Are they making me drink iodine? Are they trying to poison me?
"All whiskey tastes like iodine," Peter said. "Take a swallow of beer. It'll kill the taste." She looked at him and willed herself to believe him, though she still felt threatened and endangered.
"Let's play a game," Clayton suggested. "Let's see how many different ways we can think of to say insane asylum."
"Clayton . . ." Lydia said threateningly.
He chuckled. "All right, all right."
"That's one thing I've never liked about you," she went on. "Sometimes you just act so fucking mean."
"I'm not mean. I just don't coddle people."
"You don't know the difference."
"No? You want to see the difference?" His customary callousness had been hardened beyond measure by the drugs and alcohol of the evening, and he was grinning cruelly as he turned to Peter and said, "Peter, old man, I got some news for you."
"Yeah? What?"
"The town council offered me a half million for the Sweet property."
Peter laughed softly. "What did you tell them?"
"I told them it sounded good to me."
The smile was frozen on Peter's face, but his eyes expressed confusion. "But . . . if you agreed . . . I mean, isn't that like a verbal contract or something?"
"Yup."
"I knew it," Russell said quietly.
"But then . . . but then how are you gonna get out of it? I mean . . ."
"I guess I can't get out of it." Clayton shrugged. "But . . . but they'll build that factory!"
"Guess so."
"They'll pollute the river!"
"Looks that way."
Peter stared at him, dumbfounded. "But . . . but why?"
"A quarter-of-a-million profit in two months," Clayton said. "A quarter of a million bucks buys a lot of beer."
Peter continued to gape at him. "But what about the river?"
Clayton laughed. "Fuck the river."
"What do you mean, fuck the river!" Peter shouted, startling everyone but Dorcas into uneasy attentiveness. Alex looked up from behind the bar when he heard the raised voices, and he turned down the radio so he could hear as Peter went on, "Do you realize what you've done?"
"Sure I do," Clayton said, lighting a cigarette. "I've just made a quarter of a million dollars."
"I don't understand," Peter moaned. "I just don't understand this! How the hell could you do something like this?"
"Something like what?" he asked innocently. "I'm just making an honest buck, Pete. That's as American as apple pie."
"Clayton, don't you understand that there's a . . . a change going on in this country, a change for the better? Our generation of people don't do things like this! We're a new wave, a new society."
"Oh, really!" Clayton laughed.
"Goddamn it, Clay, this isn't funny! Don't you read the papers? Don't you listen to the music? Don't you watch the news? Where the hell have you been for the past six years?"
"Peter, Peter," he said patiently, "you're so fucking naive. Of course I know what's going on in the country. You're the one who doesn't."
"I do so!"
"Yeah, sure yo
u do. You know what I see when I watch the news, Pete? I see hundreds of thousands of guys who don't want to get drafted marching in antiwar protests. I see college kids starting all these riots and shit just so they can take over their schools and party like crazy. It's all hypocrisy, Peter."
"Jesus Christ!" Peter shouted. "Are you listening to yourself ?"
"Sure I am, and I also listen to the Beatles and Dylan and the Stones, and I wish I had one tenth the money those guys have," he went on. "Businessmen, that's all they are, businessmen who've made it to the top of their industry. They know what kind of music gullible people like you want to hear, so that's what they grind out."
"Clayton, you're crazy!"
"Oh yeah?" Clayton grinned. "Let's see how much people our age give a shit about Vietnam if Nixon ends the draft. I mean, when I beat the draft, Vietnam stopped being all that important to me, you know? There isn't an antiwar movement, Peter, there's only an antidraft movement. And all this civil-rights stuff. Let's see how much whites care about blacks when it starts to cost money. Let's see how much blacks care about equality when they realize it means like sink or swim on your own, you know?"
"For Christ's sake, Clay, there were hundreds and thousands of people of all races marching with Martin Luther King! There are millions of people working against racism and injustice and the war! How can you—"
"Peter, wake up, man!" Clayton shouted. "Everybody's afraid of the draft but nobody really gives a shit about the war. And people go to demonstrations to get laid and buy dope. It's like a social event."
"Clayton, you are out of your fucking mind!"
"Am I? Am I really? What happened to the SDS chapter at New Paltz? Didn't it disband from lack of interest? You got any black friends, Pete? I know I don't."
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