It was Simmons.
"What's goin' on, man?"
"I've got some Donald Duck, dude. Wanna go see Star Wars for a buck at Leohman's ?"
"Go see...wait...Donald Duck?" I said.
"It's blotter, dude. I got some..."
"Yeah, yeah, I know what it is," I said. I had never done acid before, but I knew the lexicon. Just needed some context. "Umm...Star Wars? I thought they were showing 2001: A Space Oddysey."
"No, dude, Star fuckin' Wars! Huh huh huh. C'mon, let's go! My mom'll drive." Star Wars had come out three years prior.
"Nah, dude," I demurred, "I gotta wash the fuckin' van today. I can't get out of it."
"All right, loser. Have fun," he said. Later."
I walked the yellow receiver back to the kitchen, untangling fifteen feet of boinging spiral cord from the basement stairs, and clacked it onto the wall, averting my eyes from Mom's scrutiny.
If the second-run theater had been showing 2001 that day, it could very well have been my first LSD experience. Simmons was one of my buddies from shop class. He was the guy who had felt compelled to involve me in his acid trip while I was spot-welding a sheetmetal tool box. "Hinds," he lisped, sticking out his tongue to display the dissolving tab, "check this out." Fuckin' burnout, I thought. Of course, he passed the class. I was the guy who got kicked out halfway through for turning custom-made hardwood bowls on the lathe and selling them for five bucks a pop. [Mr. Stansbury: I know what the hell that is, Hinds...I seen them seniors makin' 'em...that's a pot pipe (pronounced pawt pahp).]
Eighth grade can be rough.
By the time Simmons invited me to tune in and turn on, Star Wars was old news. I had seen it. Everybody had seen it. T-shirts had faded. Lunchboxes were dinged and rusted on the corners. Kids still wore their #2's down to the wood drawing Darth Vader in their notebooks, but it was more out of habit than passion. read the rest on DadCentric