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\lline{\hl Nickel and Diming it Through Junkie Summer, part 4}
\lline{by Lawrence Livermore}
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I pulled into town late in the afternoon and went straight to�
Tony's dorm room. I dumped the bags of acid out on the floor as�
if I were some conquering prince returning from the Crusades to�
haughtily display the treasures I had looted from the infidels.

We sat staring at the pulsating little pills, which, in addition�
to their psychic impact, represented more wealth than either of�
us had ever seen in our lives. Tony, being more pragmatic, was in�
favor of setting immediately to work at putting it into little�
bags of 100 and finding some buyers. I was more inclined to�
luxuriate in the glow of accomplishment, and started musing about�
what I would do now that I was almost rich.

``I think I'll do a couple more trips like this and then I'll buy�
a silver Porsche for us to drive around in,'' I said idly.

``You buy anything as stupid as a silver Porsche and you won't�
have me to drive around with,'' he shot back.

A little stunned, I argued feebly to the effect of what was so�
bad about silver Porsches, though if I were honest I'd have to�
admit that a few days earlier I'd have been as quick to condemn�
fancy sports cars as would any brown rice and tofu chomping�
hippie. It was just that everything was so different now.

Anyway, I was still too much in love to seriously pursue my�
normal tendency toward endless and pointless arguments; if Tony�
didn't want a Porsche, I'd buy us matching bicycles. Used, if�
that's what he wanted. I started counting the tabs of acid and�
was terribly bored before I'd got to 200. I suggested that eating�
a few of them would make the counting process more interesting,�
so we gobbled a few, I don't remember how many.

The rest of the evening blurred into an electric yellow haze. I�
remember quite a few people coming and going, which didn't make�
me too paranoid because it was one of those hippie dorms, sort of�
the university equivalent of a free school. Besides, I was�
operating under the theory that everything I did was cosmically�
protected because the karma was just so right. After all, hadn't�
the I Ching told me so? 

The only thing that nibbled at my sense of security even slightly�
was when the door opened (locks? what locks?) and this black guy�
who was pretty obviously not a student or a hippie peered in. �
I'll have to admit to a little residual racism here, at least�
when it came to the combination of LSD and black people, because�
a few years earlier I'd been mugged and nearly killed by three�
black guys while I was heavily tripping on acid.

But this guy was cool enough. He was from inner city Detroit, but�
had gotten into the habit of coming out to Ann Arbor to party�
with the college students, and the last time he'd been in town�
one of our friends had given him a joint that, as he told us,�
``was the strongest motherfucking shit I ever smoked.'' 

So all he was looking for was another hit of the same, but we had�
absolutely zero pot, only 12,000 tabs of bright yellow acid. �
Being generous souls, we naturally offered him some as an�
alternative, though I had misgivings when I could see by his�
hesitant reaction that he had not only never tried LSD before,�
but didn't even have the slightest idea what it was about. He�
took a tab and then disappeared, to return around midnight�
incapable of speaking or, as it turned out, moving, and spent the�
rest of the night propped against a wall quietly mumbling to�
himself.

The next day I set about the next stage of my grand design, that�
of marketing. My strategy was characteristically hippie-ish; I�
dumped about 400 hits of the stuff into my little velvet belt�
pouch and wandered around town giving samples to anyone who�
wanted them. I'd already resolved, with the idea of keeping this�
enterprise morally and politically correct, to give away 10\% of�
all the proceeds, so 400 tabs was only a down payment on that�
pledge. But 400 tabs of acid consumed in one day can have a�
pretty considerable impact on a town, even one with as large a�
hippie population as Ann Arbor, and by nightfall word about the�
massive new supply of LSD had spread all over the area.

The guy who'd been the main acid dealer for years was not pleased�
-- he was the same guy who'd been instrumental in having me�
ostracized from the hippie community because I had ``turned fag''�
-- and made a point of telling everyone that my acid was cut with�
speed. That hurt sales a little bit, but not too much, since I�
was able to sell mine at about half the price of his. Full of�
trust, I fronted it out to almost everyone who asked, and though�
a number of them never paid me back, enough did so that it was�
obvious I was going to make a profit on the deal.

The only serious problem came when two of the people I'd fronted�
a large batch to called up from another state to announce that�
they were in jail, and could I please do something to get them�
out, seeing as how they were facing ten or twenty years in the�
joint?

This presented somewhat of a dilemma; since I was supposed to be�
cosmically protected, I hadn't seen any need to set aside money�
for lawyers or bail. Besides, even if I were able to bail them�
out, wouldn't it be pretty obvious to the police where I fit into�
the picture, especially if I came strolling into the cop shop�
with a bagful of fresh new \$100 bills?

With the blind faith of the innocent, I decided to try another�
tack. My connection in California had spun an elaborate tale of�
his family ties to the Mafia, CIA, and the international LSD�
underworld, and I'd believed every word of it. I called him up,�
explained the situation, and asked if he could exert some of his�
powerful influence. He said he'd see what he could do, and two�
days later, all the charges were dropped and my friends were�
safely home again. I was amazed, though not nearly so amazed as I�
would be in later years when I would learn that the guy in�
California was a habitual liar and there was hardly a shred of�
truth to anything he'd ever told me.

But for the time being I was feeling awfully omnipotent, and an�
increasing number of people were starting to see me in the same�
light, a golden one at that. It seemed that I could do no wrong;�
even disasters rebounded in my favor, and since I was generous in�
sharing my good fortune, I had soon gathered a healthy entourage�
of friends and followers.

That was all well and good -- never before in my life had I been�
seriously popular the way I was now -- but the true joy of my�
life was Tony, and as spring ripened into summer, I spent just�
about every hour of every day with him. He was still nominally a�
student, but I don't remember him attending class more than once�
or twice a week, something that caused him a little guilt,�
because his mother, who had raised him on welfare, was working�
some 60 hours a week as a department store sales clerk in order�
to send him to college. But most of the great lessons of that�
time were being learned in places other than the classroom, and�
school, like much of our previous lives, quietly slipped into the�
past.

I made another trip to California, and this one turned out to be�
far more lucrative than the first, now that I'd learned some�
lessons about who and who not to trust. But while the money�
continued to pile up, a disturbing element entered the picture,�
in the form of a penny ante dope dealer from Ohio who'd been�
introduced to us by one of our friends. This guy was no hippie;�
in fact ``thug'' would probably be the most accurate description. �
I wasn't too surprised when a number of years later he turned up�
as a high-ranking official in the federal government's Drug�
Enforcement Agency.

He barely concealed his contempt for us; he obviously took it as�
an affront to his manhood to have to buy drugs from fags. But he�
was able to swallow enough of his pride to become major customer. �
Although I wasn't comfortable around him, I rationalized dealing�
with him by figuring our enlightened countercultural vibes would�
have an uplifting effect on him.

The influence, as it turned out, was to flow more heavily in the�
opposite direction, as he induced us to try some of his main�
product, cocaine. Cocaine was just then starting to appear in a�
big way on the hippie scene, making its way up the already�
established Colombia to Miami to Ann Arbor marijuana pipeline. �
I'd tried it a few times, but mostly adhered to the standard�
hippie gospel that it was a honky drug. 

My views had begun to change, though, after getting seriously�
blasted on the stuff at a party for the Jefferson Airplane. �
Grace Slick, at the time one of my major idols, had used the�
handle of a kitchen spoon to extract heaping mounds of it from a�
one ounce vial she kept stashed between her breasts, and passed�
them around our circle of goggle-eyed midwesterners, all the�
while speed-rapping about how she and the band used to do acid�
all the time, but now they'd decided that coke was a way more�
productive drug.

I started accepting small amounts of cocaine in trade for LSD,�
but things didn't really get out of hand until a second baleful�
influence entered our lives. His name was Edward, though Tony and�
I almost always referred to him as Deadwood, or Deadnerd, owing�
to the fact that he bore such a strong resemblance to a walking�
corpse. His skin was the color of gravestone marble, and though�
it was an unpleasant thought to contemplate, I imagined that was�
probably what it felt like as well.

Edward was possibly the most unpopular person we knew, a fact�
that should have put a crimp in his ambition to sleep with every�
eligible boy in town. But as he had discovered -- and never�
hesitated to announce -- money and cocaine were excellent social�
lubricants, and he had plenty of both. 

He started liberally plying us with coke, and though Tony, being�
younger and cuter, was his principal object, I was on his want�
list too, if only by virtue of being male. I found this out one�
unfortunate day when I had just come back from having a tooth�
pulled. Being particularly disinclined to pain, I had dosed�
myself on every available drug, and was lying there in a stupor,�
vaguely aware of the salty taste of blood that still filled my�
mouth.

Enter Deadnerd, with a premixed cocktail of PCP and cocaine,�
guaranteed to allay my discomfort. Sure, why not, I'll try�
anything. The next thing I knew, his hands were slithering�
snakelike across my nearly helpless body. I say nearly helpless,�
because even though I was at that moment as blindly, obliviously�
stoned as I've ever been in my life, some primal force brought me�
leaping from my bed with the sort of horror a sleepwalking man�
might experience should he awake with one foot already over the�
edge of a cliff.

Edward seemed surprised at my reaction. ``I was just trying to�
make you feel better,'' he said.

But while he never got into our pants, Edward did succeed in�
enlisting Tony and myself as cocaine salesmen. He'd bring us�
ounces, and we'd break it up into grams. The profit potential was�
enormous; even though we began snorting large quantities, our�
money was multiplying even faster than it did with acid. Money�
was becoming so easy, in fact, that we often didn't even bother�
to count it any more; we'd leave stacks of it lying around and�
just grab a handful of bills as we needed them.

We didn't need much anyway. At the end of the school year we'd�
moved out of the dorm and into a basement apartment a few blocks�
away. The rent was cheap, and our main interests in life, sex and�
drugs, were both free and plentiful.

I should amend that; we had all the coke and acid we wanted, but�
pot was in somewhat shorter supply. I wasn't as big a pothead as�
Tony, so I didn't mind, but when some unusually strong Michoacan�
gold showed up in town, he nagged me into buying a couple pounds�
of it. Being that I'd never before bought more than an ounce of�
pot for personal use, it seemed unbelievably self-indulgent, but�
I was willing to do just about anything to keep Tony happy. As it�
turned out, that pot was to save our asses during what followed.

A life of near-perpetual intoxication had begun to addle my�
judgment, and when my thuggish friend from Ohio showed up again�
and told me that he had a buyer for our entire supply of coke and�
acid, I barely batted an eye as I handed it over to him, on�
credit. He was supposed to bring back the cash the next day, at�
which time I was due to head off to California on another acid�
run.

I was pretty laid back; I didn't think too much about it until�
about the third day, and it must have been a week or two before I�
tried tracking him down. When I finally got hold of him on the�
phone, he laughed loudly when I asked him where the money was. �
``Try this on for size,'' he chortled, ``I'm not going to give�
you a penny, and there's not a goddam thing you can do about�
it.''

Unfortunately he was quite correct. I might have been a semi�
bigtime dope dealer, at least within the context of our�
relatively minor scene, but I'd done it all on the peace-and�
love-trust-everybody hippie plan. I didn't have any hitmen or�
enforcers the way TV dope dealers did, and when it came down to�
it, I was basically a sissy.

Well, that was it. Easy come, easy go. The one good thing that�
came out of it was that we stopped doing cocaine, partly because�
we couldn't afford it anymore, but mostly because we became�
convinced that the deadly ``cocaine karma'' hippies were always�
yapping about was what had done us in. We settled into a quiet�
midwestern summer at a considerably reduced living standard,�
sustaining ourselves by selling off ounces of the pot Tony had�
insisted on buying.

And that's where it might have ended. For all I know, we could�
still be there on some quiet tree-shaded Ann Arbor street dealing�
nickel bags of marijuana to college students and young�
professionals, but in August, a truly amazing event occurred. 

First came a call from California, in which my LSD supplier told�
me that the long-awaited shipment of Orange Sunshine had finally�
come in and that I should get out there as fast as I could with�
as much money as I could raise.

I explained to him what had happened, that I was now essentially�
broke, but he hardly seemed fazed at all. ``You can get the�
money,'' he assured me, ``Just put out the right vibes and it�
will come to you.''

I wasn't so sure of that, but I told him I'd start vibing away. �
The next day, perhaps with the idea of intensifying the vibes,�
Tony and I took major doses of whatever acid was going around�
then. I went to the store on a bicycle, and came home in a�
howling thunderstorm that in a matter of minutes transformed our�
house into a ship out on the ocean. I stood on the porch for a�
few minutes, feeling every bolt of lightning as intensely as if I�
were conjuring it from within my own soul. Then I went inside to�
dry off in the kitchen, and everything was so sunny and bright�
and filled with laughter. I don't think I've ever been happier in�
my life. I didn't care about money, or dope deals, or anything. I�
had everything I really needed, and most of all, I was madly,�
passionately in love.

 The storm ended as quickly as it had begun, and a cool breeze�
carrying the first vague hint of autumn dried the streets and�
sidewalks almost instantly. We walked into the back yard and�
watched the late afternoon sky deepen in color. I felt a sudden�
presence, and wheeled around to discover that we had been joined�
by our gangster friend from Ohio, the one who'd taken all our�
money and laughed in our faces about it.

``I heard you were getting ready to do another acid run,'' he�
said by way of greeting. His face was that of a wolf; his tongue�
nervously licked his lips, and bits of saliva appeared to drip�
from his fangs.

``I don't know where you heard that,'' I answered. ``How could I,�
anyway? You took all our money.''

``I never took any money of yours,'' he snarled pleasantly. ``But�
I'm willing to front you some money to go get me some acid.'' �
With that, he handed me a paper sack. I looked inside; it was�
stuffed full of bills.

I couldn't believe this was happening. Part of me wanted to hand�
the money back, to say that I wanted nothing to do with any dope�
deals. Another part of me said take the money, you fool, it's�
yours anyway.

It was if he could read my mind, because he quickly added, ``And�
don't get any ideas about not bringing me back my acid, because�
I'll kill you.''

Then he was gone. Tony and I looked at one another, and realized�
that a good deal of our LSD-induced euphoria had suddenly worn�
off. We talked until late into the night about what we should do.�
We counted the money in the bag; it was the exact amount we'd�
lost in the ripoff last spring plus fifty dollars. 

Should we just keep it? Well, that wouldn't work, not if he was�
coming back to kill us, because there wasn't really enough money�
to disappear and start a new life somewhere else. Eventually the�
decision was reached that I, or we, actually, would make one last�
trip, and with the profits we'd get a new house where, hopefully,�
we wouldn't be found.

Things didn't go quite as smoothly as we expected. My connection�
had of course been lying about the Orange Sunshine, and it took�
us a couple weeks to track down some other LSD. By that time we�
had to bounce a check to get home on the train, and didn't even�
have enough money to eat for the last day and a half. 

When we walked in the front door, our roommates said that some�
unpleasant person had been calling three or four times a day�
demanding to know where we were, and that he had just called�
again to say that he was on his way to Ann Arbor to wait for us,�
that he'd be there first thing in the morning.

We packed up everything we could, throwing most of it into some�
bedsheets, and trundled it across town in a couple of shopping�
carts to a two room apartment where seven or eight of our friends�
were staying. One of them, I realized as we were settling in, was�
my ex-boyfriend Dennie, and he looked none too pleased. But by�
the time we'd finished our move it was nearly dawn and I was so�
tired that I didn't have time to worry about anyone's feelings,�
even my own.

We only visited our old apartment one more time, to see where�
someone had broken in through the window and left a note stuck�
with a knife to our bedroom wall. ``Larry and Tony,'' it read,�
``I'll get you if it's the last thing I do.''

We laid low for a few weeks, watching the leaves turn amazing�
shades of red and gold and dealing with a steady stream of�
customers. This deal had turned out to be our best by far, and�
money was not going to be a problem for a long time. The question�
was, what next? It was time for Tony to start back to school, but�
I was in favor of relocating our entire extended family to San�
Francisco. We argued about it for several days, and things�
finally resolved themselves one very unusual night.

A deep chill was in the air, and the sky was unbearably clear,�
but what was truly astounding was that for the first and only�
time in my life, the Northern Lights were clearly visible. Tony�
and I spent almost all night on a hillside watching the shifting�
curtains of iridescent green and blue and trying to make sense�
out of the stars.

I told him, and believed it too, that I could read them, and that�
they were guiding us westward. I showed him arrows in the sky�
pointing our direction. I constructed out of thin air the house�
where we would live, the people we would share it with, even the�
view we would see from its windows. History is dead, I swore, and�
the future is now; all the education you'll ever need is in your�
heart this very moment.

I used to be a better talker than a writer. Now most people think�
I write pretty well, but I can't talk a dog into walking across�
the street for a free bone. Anyway, Tony took my word, dropped�
out of school, and within a month we were in our San Francisco�
house pretty much the way I pictured it. 

It was a wonderful house, there were five of us and we all loved�
each other very much, or at least it seemed so. We were so�
surrounded with white light that we never thought of locking the�
front door, even though houses in that neighborhood were�
constantly being broken into. We kept our dope and money stash in�
a shoe bag that hung in the hall closet, and there was always�
enough to go around. We should have lived happily ever after, and�
of course we didn't, but that's a whole other story. For now what�
mattered was that junkie summer was only a distant memory, and�
for one brief island in time, we were at peace.

{\it The End}

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