Do You Hear the Sirens?
I fell head over heels in love with Kurt the moment I laid eyes on him. He stepped out of that car at the gas station and I thought, Oh my GOD, where have you been all my life?
Then I thought, Do you have any cocaine? We’d been waiting for hours for him to appear, so we were thrilled when he pulled out a little baggie and sold it to us.
Then he disappeared into the wind.
Gregg told me that Kurt was the mayor’s son and a junkie. This made me love Kurt even more.
When the Grateful Dead was in town in June, Gregg and I went downtown to the Civic Arena – with Kurt. We didn’t have any tickets to the show; we went into town to party with the Deadheads.
The Civic Arena parking lot was mayhem. It was swarming with tie-dyed wannabe-hippies, some who had just pulled up in their VW minibus and poured out onto the asphalt. A hundred boomboxes all blasted bootleg Dead concerts. Drugs were visible everywhere, as though Grateful Dead tailgate parties were immune to the law.
Everyone was dancing.
Kurt and I walked together, admiring the crowd. Gregg followed us like a lost puppy as we explored.
Kurt didn’t talk much. When he did, his voice was soft but intense. “Do you hear the sirens?” Kurt asked.
I stopped walking and listened. Sure enough, far in the distance, I heard sirens. “Yes,” I said, astounded by Kurt’s brilliance at locating the distant wails in the midst of such chaos.
“Stay far away from those,” he said, still walking.
I caught up quickly. “Why?”
“Cops,” Kurt said.
“Oh, right.” I made a mental note to always listen to Kurt.
A guy with a brown floppy hat and a full beard jumped in front of us; he pulled out a huge roll of LSD and waved it in Kurt’s face. The guy was a bit frantic.
Kurt stopped walking and stared at the guy until he settled down. Finally Kurt said, “No thanks.”
We had only walked a few more yards before a young, blond girl in a similar floppy hat held up a strip of acid tabs as we walked by. Kurt reached out and snagged 2 tabs off the bottom almost without stopping. He smiled at the girl and put a tab on his tongue.
“Thanks,” Kurt said. He ripped the second tab in half and put one half on my tongue. He handed the other half to Gregg.
Within minutes, we were dancing in the parking lot, too.
After nightfall, Kurt bought a huge joint and we shared it outside under the stars. Life was glorious.
Until it wasn’t.
Suddenly a dragon swooped down from the night sky, nearly tearing off my head.
“WHAT WAS THAT?” I shouted.
Kurt mumbled something to Gregg. The music was suddenly too loud, the sky too black.
I ducked from another screaming, flying hallucination. “WHAT’S GOING ON!”
“That joint must have been laced with PCP,” Kurt said.
“WHAT?!” My terror was palpable.
I’d seen the videos in health class. People died on PCP, always.
Kurt put one hand on my head. “Just relax. It’s like acid.”
“Really?” My heart slowed a little; I breathed. “It’s like acid? I love acid.”
But it felt like very glitchy, unpleasant acid.
For me, the party was over. We sat on a curb and waited for the PCP insanity to fade.
Eventually, we all went home. I did not do PCP again.
And I didn’t see Kurt again for a long while.