D.C. Dead show part III (The Long Strange Trip)

The parking lot of a Grateful Dead show is like a carnival, and as such, it has the elements of any carnival. It's a place that either overtly or covertly caters to all manners of lusts and vices. Sometimes this dynamic is innocent: the Rube has his fun, the purveyor adds a coin to his pile. The Rube isn't the only face in the crowd however, and the Carnie isn't the only person looking to take advantage. There are carnivores at a carnival, and sometimes there is more at stake than coin. 

“I have come for the Carnival,

The freedom and the peace.

Who could be among us?

Do you know their ways?

I made the acquaintance

of a sister fair and fine.

She said 'My friend, don't eat their bread

or drink from opened wine”.

-TSB (from “An Outing at the Fair”)

I walked the traffic jam coming into the lot, looking for a ticket and digging on the humanity. A school bus with a VW bus welded on the top approached. It was festooned with a dozen young topless women. I heard the phrase “Temple Whores”, murmured from the crowd around me. I'm unfamiliar with that term as it was used. I once had a hooker proposition me while dancing on the lawn at a show in Indy. After a couple of hours with no luck on the search, I headed to the stadium, hoping to find my miracle there.

I saw a crowd gathering at one corner of the lot and went to see what the draw was. There was a guy selling balloons: Hippie Crack, Nitrous Oxide. The line was long and the girl in front put down a hundred dollar bill and ordered twenty which she passed down the line. I had just inhaled mine when a cop pushed his way through the crowd.

He ordered the vender to open the valve and empty his tank. While the tank was wooshing all that nitrous into the air, the cop was writing out a ticket. A hippie stole up and bent to the tank, inhaling the gas as it discharged. The cop turned and, seeing this, clouted the hippie guy on the ear. Just then one of those big Huey choppers rose over the lot at an altitude of about fifty feet. As it flew over, I saw a man with a bog old VHS camera and another with an automatic rifle standing in the big, open, doorway. The choppers ran up and down the lot all night like it was Apocalypse Now. I scattered.

A woman approached me and asked if I had seen anybody vending prepackaged food. She was afraid of the grilled cheese and burritos, and lectured me on the dangers of getting slipped something. When she asked if I had a relationship with Jesus, I slipped away from her and through the tunnel under the highway.

Usually, on the lot, there are people selling doses and buds. Not at this show. Three different people in the tunnel approached me selling crack. What kind of dead show was this? Vietnam war choppers, crack dealers, congressmen, I was out of my element.

I found myself on the lawn outside the stadium and continued my quest. I had no luck and eventually gave up and headed back to the tunnel, hoping maybe somebody back at the van had found an extra ticket. At the entrance to the tunnel, I met the Man in Black. He was a black man with a black ball cap, black jeans, and black tee shirt. There was no logo on any of his clothing, including the cap. He asked if I was looking for a ticket and I lit up. Turns out he didn't have one either, but promised if I met him at that light pole over there at 4pm, he could get me in for twenty dollars. Keeping this in mind, I returned to the van.

Dave said he had scored a ticket for me, but traded it for some mushrooms. Bill had a similar story. The hitch hikers had switched the cast again and were working the crowd about twenty yards from the van. I told Dave how I hadn't seen anybody selling anything but Cocaine, and what a weird scene it was. Nobody was smiling. Nobody was looking anybody in the eye. I wondered aloud if I just wasn't looking in the right place. I set out again, looking for family, who were more and more conspicuous in their absence. It was almost four so I walked under the highway to meet the Man in Black.

I found 4 people, but no Man in Black at the assigned location. There were three clean cut looking guys and a girl. Wary, I stood a little ways off, but the young lady spotted me and asked if I was waiting to meet the guy who was going to let us in. I joined their group and a little while later our dark friend strolled up.

He looked furtively around and then requested our money. We each gave him twenty dollars and he stuffed all of the bills into his pocket but one. He then instructed us on how to fold a second twenty, and how to hold it. He informed us he was going to lead us to a gate where a friend of his was taking tickets. We were to approach him and pass the twenties in the manner we were shown. I didn't like it, but I was already in for twenty bucks. Nobody else liked it either and I was voted to enter first. We got to the correct line and the Man in Black disappeared into the crowd.

I considered some lyrics from “Friend of the Devil”. “Took my twenty dollar bill and vanished in the air”.

I approached the turnstile with the quartet behind me and made the appropriate supplications, half expecting to have been ripped off. The large man received my second twenty without looking at me and allowed me through the turnstile. I was in.

I made a beeline for the restroom with the male part of our contingent. We decided to hang there for a while and let the stadium fill up a little before blending with the crowd. Of course, there was a cop in the john, so I did my best to pee and split. Curiously, the others stayed behind.

I left the hallway for the arena and bounded down the steps two at a time, headed for the stage. My floor length dashiki was billowing behind me; my long hair blowing in the breeze. I hadn't gotten far when a security guard behind me requested my ticket. I pretended I didn't hear him. “Hey Hardhead!” he shouted, “Stop right there”. I began sidling down a row of seats in an attempt to elude him. A second guard came down the next aisle and they nabbed me. Guard #1 asked for my ticket again and I told him I must have dropped it in all my excitement. He didn't buy it. The hauled me back up the steps with their fingertips dug hard into my armpits. My feet barely touched the ground. They took me to a cinder block room and locked me in.

Alone, I pondered whether or not to eat the dope. I had three hits of acid and about as many grams of skunk. I didn't know if there were cameras, so I remained calm and left the drugs in my pockets. I figured they were just going to make me sweat a while, maybe the duration of the show, then turn me loose with a citation. They only left me there for a few minutes before they returned and grilled me as to who let me in without a ticket. After several threats, they gave up, photographed me, wrote down whatever silly alias I had given, and escorted me out of Robert F. Kennedy Stadium. I was banned for one year.

The tunnel to the lot now held a crap game, as well as the surge of the crowd coming for the show, two crack dealers, and a cop at each end (facing out). I felt like a salmon swimming upstream. I was disappointed to miss the show, but even more disappointed in myself for #1: my breach of ethics while sneaking in, and #2: getting caught leaping down the steps like an idiot.

At least I still had the drugs.

There were a few hours to kill, so I decided to find somebody to smoke this grass with. I wasn't sure if I was going to even eat the acid. It was pretty good stuff though, and I really wanted to. I had fasted in preparation and waited thirty days in order to have the best trip I could. I walked all the way back to the bus and couldn't find anybody who would look me in the eye, or even return a smile. Oh, how different than the Midwest shows!

I passed a girl along the way who was promising to “Bare anything for a crystal”, or maybe she was saying “Bear anything for a crystal”. In this group there was no telling. Was she hoping to trade a crystal for a grilled cheese, or maybe continue to swap up and score her drug of choice? Was she an exhibitionist? Was she a masochist? Maybe a little of both? To this day I often ponder her syntax. Back at the van, I sat on the ground and watched the carnival walk past on the way to the show. I had never spent an entire show in the lot. Perhaps the Universe was guiding me toward a valuable experience. As I sat there considering the events of the day and debating whether or not to eat the acid, the “Bare Anything” girl sat against a truck across from me. Her legs were splayed and I could see right up her panty-less skirt.

I wondered if I owed her a crystal.

In the end, I decided I would leave it to fate and walk along the Potomac to the other end of the lot, If I couldn't see a friendly face or find the people with the love in their eyes, I wouldn't eat the LSD. If I did find my people, I would dose up and smoke them out.

The Potomac was fetid, the populace: unfriendly. I reached the far (and I do mean far) end of the lot and stood there forlornly looking at the rusty fence. I was discouraged. I had some of the best paper I had seen, blue with gold stars, plus a chunk of mop up. Fate had spoken. I turned, preparing to trudge back to the bus and hotbox the skunk in my pocket.

I heard my name and looked to find that friendly face I was looking for. It was Jody, and I didn't even know she was in D.C. We smiled and hugged and she told me she had to hurry off to the show. After she left I put three squares of paper on my tongue and began my journey.

A while later, Little Red Riding Hood came skipping toward me. “Cold Rain and Snow” was coming from the Stadium. Her eyes never left mine as she skipped right up to me. She was wearing a frilly dress, red cape with hood, and had a picnic basket draped over one arm. She was blond and healthy and wholesome looking. She said she had to look in my eyes, and then she asked if I would like a “Very kind veggie burrito”. I said yes, I sure would, and inquired of the price. “No charge for the Mad Hatter” she said with a giggle, handed me her wares, and skipped along. I thought maybe my day was getting better.

The burrito, delicious and fresh as it was, made me thirsty. Way the hell out this end of the lot, there weren’t a lot of vendors. I went looking for a cold drink, and found a guy selling lemonade out of the back of an old truck. His sign read “Lemonade $6”. He was dispensing it in ten ounce cups. I was livid. I had guilt from not telling Dave what I thought of his WAY overpriced Sunny D, and wasn't going to let this guy go without an earful.

I told him just what I thought of people coming to the show and taking advantage of the poor, thirsty hippies by charging exorbitant prices. I told him he should be ashamed of himself and that he was behaving just like the capitalist “Babylonians” we eschewed. He told me if I thought his portions were unfair, to give him six bucks and drink all I want.

God help me, I did. I had about six glasses. It was days before I realized what I had done.

It wasn't long after that when I met the Grilled Cheese Guy. I thought the Grilled Cheese Guy was where it all went wrong. I wasn't thinking about the two hits of gold stars on blue paper, or the mop up, or the burrito, or the six glasses of lemonade. Nope, it was Grilled Cheese Guy. He reached into my head with his greasy grilled cheese finger and did something to me. It sounds funny now, but it wasn't at the time.

I started hearing his pitch from about twenty cars back. “Grilled cheese! Getcher Grilled Cheese! KIND Grilled cheese!” The later had a leering quality to the word “Kind” as if it were somehow satirical and I tried not to look when I passed him. The next time he hollered “Grilled” I had drawn up even and was looking right ahead of me at a drummer some distance off. With the word “CHEESE!” he leaned in front of me and tapped me solidly between the eyes with his finger. I didn't notice which one; finger that is.

Freaked me right out. That grilled cheese guy reached right into my psyche and was poking around in there for god knows what reason. I felt mystically violated. I wasn't going to hang around and try to toss fireballs with some evil wizard. I headed toward the masses around the drummer.

He was shirtless with dreadlocks, and I was halfway from the grilled cheese attack when I noticed I was dancing to the rhythm and the drummer was staring intently at me, drawing into him. I wondered if he was in collusion with the Grilled Cheese Guy. Lucky for me I was carrying a three inch ovate brass bell that was hand made by Buddhist Monks (at least that's what Jody's friend told me when he traded it to me for some gold stars back in Muncie).

I dug out that bell and found a whole different beat and broke free of the hold that drummer had on me and his grilled cheese friend too. I turned right at the next corner and danced away. I thought I heard whispers of “Mad Hatter, look!”. Two girls: plain, with straight brown hair, sat in the middle of the path. They were moving as if dancing, but weren't in step with “Franklin's Tower”, which was pouring out of the Stadium and further freaking me out. “In Franklin's Tower there hangs a bell. Might have one good ring baby, who can tell?”

One turned to the other when I drew closer, and whispered to her “Don't get in his shadow!” I did my best to remain calm and continue to the relative safety of the bus. “Franklin's Tower” turned to “Estimated Prophet” and I chilled a little. Then I saw those same girls again, coming toward me, and didn't know how they could be there. When I walked past, the one looked at the other and whispered “Don't look in his eyes!”

I was almost in a complete panic. I stopped and cast about looking for Grilled Cheesemen and evil wizards or at the very least, Dave's bus. The Vietnam choppers continued to threaten the skies. A friendly voice called out, “Hey bro! Come over here for a while, the helicopters can't see you under here.” I looked. There were two split window buses parked next to each other with a tarp stretched between. They had built a bunker, front and back, with bedrolls and gear and duffle and such. It was incredibly comfortable. Over at the stadium, we could hear “Dark Star.” A bowl went around.

By time it came to me, it was empty. I reached for my stash to refill it and the girl who had invited me in said not to worry. I handed it to her and she told me to watch carefully. She stuck the tip of the little finger from her right hand into her mouth and sucked on it a minute. Then she inserted it into the pipe and twisted it. With each twist her finger rose a bit more in the bowl. When she was done and handed it back to me, it was nearly full.

It went around again and a new girl joined us, sitting to my right. The bowl was empty by time it got to her. I told her not to worry and reached for the wooden pipe. I told her to watch carefully as I sucked on my right pinkie and then twisted it in the bowl. I imagined our hostess's eyes sparkled a little. I felt a small kernel rising in the pipe, I twisted. The pipe refilled itself again and before I, or the new girl could express our amazement, our hostess stood and commanded us all to hush. A neighboring jam box was playing a different version of Dark Star and they were synching up here and there. She told me I was safe to go back out now. I noticed Dave's bus a few rows over and excused myself. I was refreshed. I thought the worst of the evening had passed, but those brown haired girls would have none of that.

There they were, standing across from the bus. They were right where I had last seen the Bare/Bear Anything girl. The one looked at the other and whispered into her ear “They're taking his soul!” There's only so much a fellow can take. I dove right into the surprisingly unlocked van and hid under some blankets. The band was covering “It's All Over Now Baby Blue” Maybe the Grilled Cheese Guy did get me? I tried to meditate, but the only mantra I could hold was one of repeated panic. After an eternity, I heard a voice.

The voice said hey man, its okay. You know what to do. “Do I think about all the love in my life?” I asked. The voice chuckled. “You'll be alright.”

I smoked a joint. I was alright. No Grilled Cheese Guy was going to take my soul. I shouldn't listen to strange brown haired girls. After a while I got out of the bus. The show was over, the fireworks had started. I walked away from the lights a bit, but kept the van in sight. The first firework turned to smoke. The smoke turned into Tom Sawyer. I walked farther from the lights. The second firework turned into the woodcut of the skeleton with roses. Then it turned into just a skeleton. Then it brutally sodomized Tom Sawyer. I ran for the van.

It was locked. I stood at the van and tried not to look at the smoke. I also tried not to look at the truck across the way, lest there be two very mean brown haired girls or at the very least, one brown haired vagina looking back at me. I focused on a spot halfway from the bus to the path and up stepped The Man in Black. He was looking the other way, watching concert goers as the came out and walked along the path to their cars. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't him. It was.

The Man in Black reached into his left pants pocket and bowed deeply toward the truck across the way. Suddenly, he pivoted on his heels, and came up facing me with a huge stack of hundred dollar bills fanned out like a hand of euchre. There must have been thousands of dollars there. He looked up and smiled and pivoted back toward the path with his hands in his pockets. I was stricken. Then he glanced at a spot on his left and looked over his shoulder at me. Then to his left/ Then back at the path. He was inviting me. I dove back in the bus, which was unlocked.

No matter how hard I listened, I couldn't find that reassuring voice again. I lay on the floor and smoked another joint. After a bit I crept up and looked out the window. The Man in Black was gone. I crawled back out of the van.

Dave and Bill showed up, and eventually the hitch hikers. Neither wore the cast, they were carrying it. We all got in the back and smoked another one. Dave and Bill informed me that they were too high on mushrooms to drive. I told them about my night. They said if I didn't drive then we were staying right there. That sounded okay to me until the third time the cop came by and told us if we didn't leave we'd be towed and/or arrested. God help me, I drove out of that lot, and down the road to Dave's aunt's place in Virginia.

Every exit ramp had five or six cop cars waiting, with lights flashing, to bust the Deadheads. The helicopters were swooping and the buildings were glaring at me malevolently. I'll never go back to that damned town. The hitch hikers dropped a hundred and a half on Dave for gas and got out at the exit for Dave's aunt. I think Autumn was wearing the cast this time. Somehow we made it back to Dave's Aunt's. I don't know if Dave's aunt even really exists. I didn't see her. Bill and I had to sleep in the back yard and weren't allowed to use the toilet.

Dave and Bill ate mushrooms and so they slept like babies. I had done god knows how much acid (I still hadn't put two and two together about the burrito and the lemonade). I was up for the duration in a backyard where I wasn't particularly welcome in Virginia, damn close to the most evil city on the east coast and the grilled cheese sorcerer bastards it harbors. I decided to go for a coke. My soul seemed safe for the moment.

“Winding his way among goblins.

The dancing man ringing his bell.

Did it indeed occur as he's seen?

As he sees? Or somewhere in between?

In and out of the temple

betrayed by his leaps toward the floor.

Pipes were all dry, no love in their eyes

Heard a voice, swallowed stars, still denied.

Hunger drove him to that smiling maid.

Then he argued with a merchant on the price of lemonade.

The man shouted “Fine my friend! Take you two times three!”

How sore I erred.

In truth I fared

The price of gluttony.

Foolish and dumb,

The fruit had come

From a magic lemon tree.”

-TSB (from “An Outing at the Fair”)

The D.C. Dead Show (part I, before it all got strange)

Springtime in Indiana can, in some years, be more cruel than the bitterest of winters. The snow doesn't simply melt, with the heating of the hemisphere, but is washed straightaway by the rains. Looking out the window, you can watch the white recede and the grass grow green again. Soon, there is the light green of new growth. Still the rains fall, leaving the new verdant lawns soggy and inaccessible. Being stuck indoors during a blizzard or overly long freeze is tenable, even expected. Being shut up indoors for weeks while the world is once more springing to life is intolerable. I am remembering one such spring and the lengths my protracted exile from nature had driven me.

One day, as I was debating the construction of an ark, a wee bit of blue appeared to the south and west of Muncie. The rain had gone to a drizzle. It occurred to me that I hadn't been in the woods for quite a while. Trees and plants and moving water have always been energizing to me, relieving the encumbrances of daily life.

I grabbed a sack of smoke and pointed the Buick at that patch of blue.

East Central Indiana is unlike the wooded hills where I grew up. Both are corn country; acres of fields dotted with wooded areas. Muncie has less wooded areas than southern Ohio, and I had no luck finding one that looked accessible. They were all small, one acre plots, well back from the road and across muddy fields in view of the farms that possessed them. It was while I was searching that the downpour returned.

Lighting up another joint, I meandered the farm roads and sodden highways back to town. A short ways from the little city, I found a row of greenhouses, set among an orchard. I don't remember the name of the nursery, but decided to avail myself of the greening vibe and pulled into their parking lot.

I entered the first of four long glass buildings and, finding it occupied by a cashier and several middle aged women, moved along a connecting arch to the next. I did so until I found myself in the farthest, and likely least populated. I sparked another doob and wandered the aisles, absorbing the surrounding life with each of my senses. At the rear of the building stood a group of young trees, and I sat down among them, inhaling their fragrance with that of the sativa burning at my fingertips.

The sudden voice that broke my reverie startled me. “That looks like a great idea, I do that as often as I can”. It turns out, that was no sprinkler system I heard behind the trees, but a hippie with a hose. He introduced himself as David while he availed himself of the proffered joint. I told him of my quest for a woods and how it led me to the nursery. He invited me to follow him home on his break to sample some indica and I complied, following him to Tenth street.

We chatted at length, and he showed me his “paintings”. Less art than craft, they were the product of oil colors floating on water that he dipped paper into. They were pleasing to look at, yet still, there was no artistry involved. In the end, he sold me an ounce of the sticky stuff we'd been smoking. His wife was livid that he would bring a stranger to his home and conduct business. I had short hair at the time, and was sporting wire rimmed glasses, a collared shirt, and a watch; not exactly the uniform of my people.

I was about to leave, when he invited me to join him and some friends and travel to a Grateful Dead show in D.C. In a couple of months. At first I declined, but when I searched my mind for an excuse, I found I had none. I had no girlfriend or job so, “Hell yeah” I said. “Sign me up”.

On the appointed day, Dave picked me up in his bright orange high top VW bus with the giant daisy on the front. It was only then that I found that his “friends” were one single individual named Bill. I knew Bill. I used to sell LSD to Bill. Bill was an odd cat.

Bill was a big fella who dressed exclusively in pastel bedsheets. He wore lipstick, eyeliner, and nail polish, all in black. He had some kind of vampire thing going on. Had they used the word back then he would have been Goth, all but for the weird ass pale blue bedsheet.

I used to meet him at his mother's house. She would announce that his drug dealer was there, and he would appear and take me to his basement and we would do business. His mother holds a position in city government and, to this day, calls any former associates of her son “drug dealers” and holds them responsible for his heroin addiction years later.

He only went in for two or three hundred dollars at a time. He constantly demanded a better price. I told him if he spent more, or paid up front when I placed my orders, he could halve his expenses, but he wouldn't go for it. Eventually I noticed the bills he would pay with all had a red magic marker dot in the lower right hand corner of the reverse side. I discussed this with the people I dealt with on the supply side, paranoid that I was receiving marked money and giving fair warning to those it trickled up to. I was advised to discuss it with him, rather than cutting him off. I followed instructions, failing to grasp the greed that motivated the individual on the supply side.

Bill denied marking the money, or noticing it had been marked. He assured me that the bills in question came from an assortment of people and the marks must be coincidental. I couldn't buy his excuses, but continued doing business while I tried to figure things out.

Actually, it wasn't me who noticed the marked bills, but a weed supplier on 8^th street who pointed it out. He turned out to be an undercover agent for the DTF, but that's another story.

Before I met Dave, the situation with Bill solved itself. The Dead were coming through town in May and Bill was going to follow the pipe dream of twenty five dollar sheets on the dead lot. He focused all his finances in this direction and ceased dealing with me. He later told me he found the fabled twenty five dollar sheets, but they turned out to be plain blotter paper. No LSD was on them.

In the van, on the way to the show, Bill told me he intended to find the people who sold the bogus doses and force them to take them back. He didn't. He ended up ripping people off and selling those sheets as individual hits to unsuspecting Deadheads. I remember him justifying this, but don't remember the details of how. I can't think of much that is more reprehensible in the LSD trade. I let my friends know, that they shouldn't deal with Bill.

That was how the D.C. Trip started out. Dave, had a case of Sunny D, his “art” and some other crap that he planned on selling at quite a markup on the lot to fund his third of the expenses. He later told me he had his wife's permission to attend based on the projected profit he would return with. I had saddled myself with just the kind of capitalist hippies I abhored.

I had cash in my pocket and two hits of that fantastic blue paper with gold stars, and a mop up. Mop ups are sheets of very heavy (almost cardboard) that they throw in the pan to soak up whatever is left of the LSD when they lay sheets. For every ten sheets I ordered, I got a sheet of mop up. Mop ups are awesome. Let's say maybe 800 micrograms or more instead of the already 350 mics my people regularly laid.

We stopped in Virginia to pick up hitch hikers. One had his leg in a cast. Dave said it was in hopes they would kick down some gas. After ten hours or so in the van with Bill and Dave, it was apparent that they were in it for the possible profit, not the show.

A.K.A. Bill the Sailor and One Eyed Peter

I sat with my back to the one way mirror in the interrogation room. Across from me were two of the biggest criminals I had ever been face to face with. On the left, was the one they all called Sarge. The one on my right had the nickname “Jump Street” because he looked younger than his age and often worked undercover.

These two would go on to rob hundreds of accused drug dealers. Sarge rose in rank, enjoying the support of crooked politicians and attorneys. Jump Street was wise enough to use his resume to get out of town before their playhouse collapsed under formal charges, disbandment, and restitution.I think Sarge mows lawns now, and answers phones for somebody.

But at this time they were young, barely older than my twenty five years, and allowed to do as they would. The town had once been known for the corruption of it's police. Many from that era were retired, or soon to do so, and there was a new generation of gangsters with badges aspiring to fill their shoes. The hysteria of The War On Drugs was at it's pinnacle and provided the perfect opportunity for bribes, “forfeitures”, and outright theft. H.W. Was President and Dave had just been elected mayor.

They had me sign a Miranda statement, and were collecting my personal information. Sarge did most of the talking. Jump Street left the room a few times and returned with evidence bags, file folders, and the occasional supervisory agent. One detective, I had known as an outlaw biker and had no idea he was Drug Task Force. It turns out, he had investigated almost every unsolved murder in the previous decade. Many of the victims (women) had ties with law enforcement or politicians through either their jobs or personal relationships. That's a different story though, and for somebody else to tell.

We got to the part where Sarge asked me if I had any aliases or nicknames. Seeing a chance to have some fun, I answered in the affirmative. “Some people call me Redbeard” I told him. “Any others?” he asked, “Sure”, I replied, and really got into it. I told him how in elementary school, I wrote a series of short stories wherein I had super powers and used the name Barno and it had stuck among the boys I grew up with. Then I started playing word games with my names as he listed them. I was born with the name Todd Stuart Christian, so I gave him that one next.

Then I said Stuart Christian, Chris Stuart, Chris Barnes, Stuart Barnes, etc. I went on like this for awhile; enough that he had to turn the sheet over and keep writing. I was able to keep up the charade halfway through a second page before I began running out of ideas. I decided to give up the game. “Lefty”, I said, and couldn't believe it when he wrote it down and didn't even look up.

“Well”, I thought to myself, “might as well see how far I could go with it”. “Bill the Sailor”. I glanced over at Jump Street, who was taking notes as well. Neither of them looked up, both had paused to wait for the next name. I imagined them running all those names through some database and wondered what they would find. I was amazed they were still buying it and had to suppress the giggles.

“One Eyed Peter.”

Sarge wrote it, but Jump Street put his pencil down and whispered to his partner. Sarge looked out the top of his eyes at me and said, perfectly deadpan, “You're yanking my chain aren't you”. Unable to contain it anymore, the laughter burst out of me while they sat there looking at me stone faced.

Sarge asked me if I was on LSD “right now”. “Oh god no”, I responded, “That would be awful”. “Then why are you laughing and joking” he wanted to know, “Most people aren't very happy where you are right now”. “I'm just trying to make the best of a bad situation”, I told him honestly, “You have your job to do and I have mine”.

I figure one day it will all bite me in the ass. Some cop somewhere will run my numbers and all those bogus aliases will show up along with a warrant for Bill the Sailor or ol' One Eyed Peter and I'd better have a good alibi.

Thinking About Those I Left Behind

So I had some doubt and fear, those first weeks at Potato Lake. I thought of just staying through my groceries and heading north to Flagstaff. I was halfway there. It might be a fitting end to Mike West to have him wander into the Forest and disappear while a new incarnation arose to the North. But I was pulled along.

The curiosity that built within me was unquenchable. I had to see where the trail would lead me. That's why I began this journey and escaped the bonds of imprisonment and oppression. I had absolutely no predictions. There were too many unquantified variables. In that way, the afternoon before I set up my first camp and the ensuing days were much like sitting in that bus in Chicago. I was propelling myself into a void, lurching forward with only my intent to find what Casteneda called “The Path with Heart”. I could no longer justify my freedom based on the life I led in the city; cowering in anonymity and silence.

Before my ruin, I was of help to some people. I spread messages of hope and faith. I lived my life as an example of the joy that can be found and the miracles we can experience if we just trust in the Universe and the way it all fits together. I lost that. I Knew I would. I walked away from all that and into a world of betrayal and fear.

I also knew it was my duty to find my way back to that self again, even if I had to risk my freedom on some questionable woodland journey. I couldn't give up without giving it a shot. I owed that to all the people I left behind. I had to believe in the world as I used to describe it. I had to thrust myself physically into an environment lacking in guile; a jolt of reality, if you will. Nature can be unforgiving, deceptive and alluring, but even in it's deceptions, there is great truth.

If I were to rebuild myself, it would have to be on such a foundation of truth and the beauty that surrounds us.

I wondered if those folks back home would even recognize the man I had become. I was pretty sure they remembered me, maybe even fondly. Did they tell their friends about the hippie that gave away tabs of LSD every Sunday when the bands played at The Flying Tomato? Did they remember the messages? Did they remember there are worlds, within and without “reality”? Did they remember the lessons we learned together? How would they receive me if they met me today? Did they miss me the way that I missed them?

I wished they could know I still took breath, my adventure continued. Even when I had those moments when I lost faith in myself, I didn't lose faith in those remarkable people I was stolen from by those who feared the freedom of the mind.

Many times, people warned me that I would be stopped. I was so vocal, so present, so obvious. My profile was as high as I was, but I wouldn't be silenced. If I could only have the freedom to do as I did for a short time, then I would have to accept that. I had faith back then that I was ultimately justified in word and deed and no matter what happened, everything would be alright. My continued freedom hinted an affirmation to memories of optimism. I hoped that optimism would grow in the magical places I now occupied.

I was going for broke, gambling on this pilgrimage. The worse thing that could happen would be if the Blue Meanies caught up with me, and dragged me to their dungeons. At best, I would someday go home and show that my faith was well placed, and the words and works of my youth were validated; that the Universe, chaotic as it is, ultimately provides. We can be free if we believe.

I used to converse at length on the topics of truth, love, faith, and freedom. I wasn't being punished by my exile. I was being given the chance to live my message as an illustration. Actions speak louder. Would anybody be there to hear?

Looking Back from December 2010

  Christmas isn't a whole lot of fun when nobody even knows your name. Tory was with me that first year, and again in '96. other than those years, Christmas was a thing to hide from. I usually told people I had plans and then went off into the desert. All that changed, those last few years, when I lived in the forest.
      The weather would drive me down from the mountains to the Verde River Valley in September, with the exception of '04 when I tried to hang at the desert lakes outside Phoenix. Even then, I managed to get to the Verde for the Holidays. Most years, I would wake alone in the Valley, but friends always rolled in throughout the day.
      I could always count on Grizz to show up with some fantastic grass, often with Lee. You just don't find good friends like them everyday. Other people would roll into camp, day trippers, all friends that I sometimes wouldn't see all year. Last year I went back and saw darn near the whole old Verde crew.
      Those years in the forest, those people I met-sometimes weekly, sometimes yearly-did something good to me. The holidays at the river, especially, helped make me feel more real than I had in years; softened me to humanity where I had grown hard.
      I rediscovered the joy that I had lost on the long journey to anonymity. I believe that regaining that joy was an important element in earning my freedom. I told Tory, when I first left Muncie, that I could see that I was going to lose a part of myself. You don't undertake a journey like mine without paying some price. I wanted her to know from the outset, that I was likely to lose many of the qualities that she appreciated about me. I knew it was going to be a difficult task to become whole again.
      I don't know what she thought about that, I don't think she really believed me. Back in those days she gave me too much credit sometimes. Turns out, I underestimated the degree to which I would lose myself in fear and despair. Funny now, looking back. I can see that when I  hit my lowest point and chucked it all to live in the forest, (committing myself to the whims of the universe if you will), the healing would finally begin. When I had nothing left to lose, I gained everything.

The Day I Fled Corn Country

Once I learned Mayor Dave was screwing me, that there was no State Police sting and there would be no wiretapping of my meeting with the DTF, I knew I had to blow town before it was too late.

I made arrangements with Lonnie to get me to Chicago.

I was so paranoid that I would put a couple things in a paper bag and maybe wear an extra shirt when I went to Lonnie’s house on Main Street. I packed, little by little, in this way so if anybody was watching, they wouldn’t know I was leaving. Like I said, after getting set up by The Snitch and screwed by The Mayor, I was paranoid. Over a couple weeks, I loaded up a couple duffels with clothes, food, and camping gear. Lonnie kept this all in his girlfriend’s trunk until it was time to go.

Tory and I were living in my bus at Charlie’s place in Yorktown. I thought it’d be good to get out of the direct view of the MPD. I arranged for Lonnie to take me up to the bus on a Wednesday morning, at exactly the same time I left for work each day. I had spent the evening writing letters in Spanish so they wouldn’t be read until I was gone. It was tricky, because I don't speak much Spanish. Lonnie showed and I got in his car with my lunch in a sack, like any other day, and we headed for Muncie. Halfway there I realized I left my charm bag on the bus. This would have been a most unlucky way to begin my new life, so we returned to Yorktown.

Needless to say, Tory was surprised to see us. I guess just after we left, a Delaware County Sheriff car parked across the street watching the place until just before we returned. Gosh, who would have thought an alleged LSD felon living in a big black school bus in a quiet middle class neighborhood would draw attention? I grabbed the charm bag and we headed to the museum where I worked, just to be safe. We cruised through the parking lot, to make it look good, then initiated red herring number two by driving out to a buddies farm in Gaston.

Have I mentioned how nervous I was? Flaky paranoid. I expected at any moment to be surrounded. By this time I didn’t trust anybody, I mean, I was up all night translating letters into a language I don’t speak, for crying out loud. Two people knew I was splitting; Lonnie, and Tory. I didn’t even trust them completely. The whole trip to the farm I kept imagining the roadblock and the look on Lonnie’s face as he’d say: “sorry dude…”. My fears were unfounded, of course. I’ve always felt guilty about the level of mistrust I was harboring during those times. Then again, there were the others. I really learned who my friends were.

The road to the farm is long and fairly straight with several small hills and valleys. A couple of the hills are high enough to afford a view for quite a distance. This enabled me to determine we weren’t being followed, so we drove on past the farm and took a circuitous route through the corn country.

About two-thirds of the way to Illinois, we picked up a tail. Two white motorcycles were following at a distance of about a quarter mile. I noticed them but was trying to maintain my composure and not let Lonnie know how freaked out I was. I couldn’t tell if they were State Cops or not. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore and asked Lonnie what he thought. He couldn’t tell either. My heart was in my throat, along with my breakfast. I asked Lonnie to pull over at a farmhouse because I couldn’t handle the uncertainty. When we did, they rode on by, not cops.

A lot of people in Muncie owed me money but were either too scared or too cheap to pay me, so I had just enough money for a bus ticket when we got to Chicago. I was supposed to meet a friend in Leadville, Colorado later in the summer, but already knew the bus didn’t go there. My plan was to get a ticket to somewhere nearby and then camp and wait for Trilo and Tory.

I asked the ticket agent where they had stations in Colorado and he replied by asking: “Why don’t you know where you’re going”? This unraveled my last nerve. I was sure his supernatural powers of detection had revealed my situation. He got out a map and I bought a ticket to Glenwood Springs. Lonnie and I parted ways outside the kiosk and, as he left, he handed me a sack of grass, a blue sealed envelope, and a hundred dollar bill. God Bless Lonnie. As he drove away, I realized that I was completely alone in the world. I had to force myself to breathe. I wondered how long I could last before they caught me.

Once on the bus, I thought everybody was looking at me. Those who weren’t were obviously and deliberately trying not to look like they were watching me. Just my luck, I had gotten on a bus that was crammed full of double secret undercover FBI and DEA agents. There were probably acronyms lurking I'd never even heard of, just waiting to pounce. Sure, it’s funny now, but I was about to shit in my pants. I figured they were just waiting for me to cross the State line so they could tack on Federal charges. FYI, you can’t look out the back of a Greyhound bus to see who’s following.

As we pulled out, I opened the blue envelope. The card had Ziggy on the front cover and bore the words: “When Things get you down, do what I do…Hold your head up high! Smile!”. When I opened it, the inside depicted eyes shining out of the shadows and a balloon that read, “Then go hide out in the basement till the whole thing blows over”. It was signed Love you, hang in there, Peace, Lonnie.

I still have the card. Thanks Lonnie, It worked!

Medium Maximum Part II

When I was originally arrested, nearly fifteen years before, there was no statute of limitations on drug offenses in Indiana and you didn’t get time off for good behavior either. There is still no statute of limitations, but you do get time off. Still and all, I’d be looking at a decade or better in lockup. Years later, during the time I was in the Matrix and LBJ, I had no clue that I would be free today. I thought I was in for the long haul.
That first night in Lower Buckeye Jail there was a ruckus just after lights out. Two guards came on the POD and entered a cell about three down from mine. I could hear a fight going on and then they hauled a man out by one arm and one leg. He wasn’t moving. I fell asleep wondering what he did to make them come in and beat him in his bed and drag him away. I thought about all that hooch in our cell.
Next morning, the Woodhead asked me to walk the floor with him. He reeked of Corn Nuts and Coco Butter. He explained he liked to get to know his men and asked what I was in for. I told him “Freeing minds”.
. “I read your booking sheet” he chuckled. “Fourteen years, Jesus, and you didn’t get into any trouble in all that time”?
“Not really, I had a few close calls”.
“Why’d you give up? Just get tired of running”?
“Pretty much, I haven’t seen my daughter in nearly ten years”.
“They should just let you go”.
“I agree, but I’m not counting on it. Muncie Indiana’s a whole different world”.
We talked about the politics of the POD, how the three Heads weren’t rival factions but institutions who worked together to keep things running smoothly. He explained to me what I could expect from him and informed me of my responsibilities; protocol, contingencies in the event of trouble, and the proper method of addressing grievances against the guards or inmates. The DOC was responsible for providing me with certain documents and processes vital to my case, The Woodhead facilitated these processes. Whatever I required of my captors, I was to request in writing and submit to him after morning chow.
Internally, any loan between inmates required his consent and was only approved within the races. I could give something to a Bro or Piso, but not extend credit. Only the heads could extend credit, they kept current copies of everybody’s commissary forms.I could make direct purchases from anybody, but only with approval. Gambling was done by writing a personal note for the money and showing proof that amount was covered in the commissary account. To play poker, chips were purchased that were squares torn from worn decks of cards. Woodhead had a lieutenant who was never out of arms reach. He carried the books and kept the chips, neatly stacked and held together with rubber bands.
The Heads were allowed such authority because they also acted as enforcer for the guards. There were rules we could break, within the established protocol and performance guidelines, and rules we couldn’t. We didn’t want the guards coming on the floor to bust people and they didn’t either. There is always the potential for things to get out of hand. Each Head had soldiers who acted at his request, and stopped any infraction that wasn’t allowed or wasn’t executed properly.
What appeared to me, at first, to be an example of extreme racism and segregation was actually a pretty effective form of jailhouse government. The guards gave the Heads authority because they maintained control. We gave the Heads authority because they were fair and beneficent mediators. They took care of us. They kept their position by appeasing people on both sides of the cage.
I asked about the guy they removed the night before and the Woodhead said “That was unfortunate”. The guy was wearing a cross he had made from threads pulled out of blankets and clothing. He went to sleep without tucking it in and the guards saw it. If the guy would have been caught with the necklace before lockdown, the Woodhead would have been told and he would have handled it. Roger had let his bling show, and it wasn’t the first time, so he had to do a couple days in solitary. When he returned, the whole POD rose and applauded. It’s a ritual of welcome and acceptance to give a man food, candy, and sodas when returning from the hole. It helps his attitude and builds community.
I saw several examples of this crocheted jailhouse jewelry. The multi colored designs were intricately knotted and beautifully made. The hippies could learn a thing or two from these felons.
I got so sick of the smell of Corn Nuts and Coco Butter. The whole joint reeked. To this day I can’t stand either. If I went to the beach, I’d probably throw up.

Medium Maximum Lockdown Part I (After I turned myself in)

On the evening of the third day, I walked into something they call a POD. The room was thirty feet high with three floors of cells along the right hand wall and across the back. Half the left side was a structure that looked like an air traffic control tower. Before they brought me to Lower Buckeye, they gave me a ID tag with an orange rectangle designating my placement as medium-level maximum security. I've attached the mug shot. It amused me that they thought I was a dangerous fugitive, in their defense...look at the picture... They let me keep my shoe strings, but took the buttons off my pants so I “couldn’t make a weapon”.
An offender who looked like a young Uncle Fester introduced himself to me as “the greeter”, and told me once I stowed my mattress I was to report to him for orientation. My cell was the first one on the first floor. It was a six by nine with two bunks on the wall and a plastic boat on the floor. The boat was six feet long and I’m six-one. I removed my mattress and flipped it over, placing the pad on the bottom. I had the choice of either my feet or head touching the toilet when I slept.
I met my cell mates, both of them armed bandits, and went to my appointment with Young Fester. He was sitting on a bench at the back of the POD. The surrealistic nature of my position overwhelmed me as I noticed a large “W” drawn on the bench. Father-rapers and mother-stabbers and a real life “group W” bench.
We shook hands and Fester laid down the rules. No hand washing in the drinking fountain, no masturbating on the payphones, no racial slurs, no epithets were to be used toward the gay population. Then he asked me if I had ever been in the woods before. I thought maybe we had met in the forest and I replied “Hell Yeah! I lived in the woods for almost five years”!
“Where at”?
“Mostly on the Mogollon Rim and the Verde Hot Springs, but I made it as far south as Apache lake”.
He looked at me like I was an idiot and explained that the POD was divided up racially. The white people were called the “Wood’s”, as in peckerwoods. If you weren’t White, Black (Bro’s), or Mexican (Piso’s), you got to chose which group to join. The races were allowed to talk amongst each other, but not eat, sit together in the common area, or enter each other’s cells. Fester explained that this was to prevent tension and show solidarity to the leaders of each respective group. He further explained that we had a leader, called the Woodhead, and introduced me to Robert DeNiro’s twin. DeNiro explained that if I wanted anything at all to let him know. I immediately tried to put in an order for cigarettes and marijuana, but was informed those were the two things they couldn’t risk because of the smell. There was a lot of cocaine, heroin, and homebrew. The Bro’s handled the drugs, the Piso’s ran the bootlegging, and the Wood’s took care of the gambling.
Both of my Cellmates were Piso’s. Reuben, the carjacker, was the brew master. Everybody traded him their oranges, peppermint candies, and plastic soda bottles. There was an exchange rate and list of names and contributions. My position as Celly gave me certain hooch rights and, coupled with my 15 years of escape, earned me the respect of the father-rapers. This amounts to gifts of food and a seat at the Woodhead’s table. At any given time, there were probably thirty bottles of home made orange hooch stashed under our mattresses and in the toilet. I was rationed a half bottle a night, after lights out, and two bottles on Saturday. The other inmates were only allowed to buy on Saturday. I stayed pretty buzzed for the whole time I was there.