Actually it all started with my first old man in San Francisco, George The Beast. He was the first person to tell me about the Magicians in New York. He told me wild tales of the speed addicted tricksters and their powers of teleportation. That’s when I first met Christopher (not my ex-husband Christopher). He was a friend of George’s – he said he was driving to New York and invited me along. I accepted and George was pissed. The plan was we would drive to Austin first and pick up the Texas Couple, a man and his wife who were friends of his. We were traveling with a young Indian guy who was also on speed – he was driving the car through the Utah desert. I was lying on the back seat coming down with hepatitis. I fell asleep and awoke when the car tumbled into a ravine, I looked out, groggy and puzzled, at the blazing desert seemingly at a strange angle to the car. The three of us crawled out of the car unharmed and took shelter from the burning sun under the shade of a large overhanging rock, like lizards. There was no one anywhere, no cars, no traffic. After what seemed like a long time an old farmer with a battered truck happened by and towed the car out of the ravine and we continued on our way. We arrived at the Texas Couple’s apartment in Austin, and the Indian guy split. The Couple said they knew an old Indian woman who sold peyote we drove to the countryside and she sold us a cloth sackful for ten dollars. At this point I still had yellow eyes and a fever from the hep.
The Couple wanted to process peyote into mescaline and had trays of chemicals sitting in the kitchen – mainly ether. We cut the peyote into cubes and swallowed it with coca-cola. It was so bitter it burned the mouth and stomach and caused nausea. We took turns sitting in each other’s stomachs to prevent throwing it up.
The next day we drove to a remote swimming hole in the hills – a beautiful natural deep pond with large overhanging boulders high enough to dive fifteen feet into the water. We took more peyote and splashed and dove in the beautiful wilderness waterhole for hours. As we left the waterhole I felt excellent and the next day the hep was absolutely and entirely gone – cured.
Back in Austin the first batch of mescaline was ready and Christopher and I went out on a rollicking walk on quiet Austin streets at night, high on ether and mescaline, gawking at the Moonlight Towers – those strange metal towers hundreds of feet high with a ring of huge blue-white floodlights at the top, meant to illuminate Austin with moonlike light, keeping the streets safe and free of drug addicts.
As we started back to the apartment we heard sirens coming toward us. There was a big red fire truck parked in front of the apartment, and a couple of squad cars. The couple was milling around with the curious bystanders trying to look innocent. They explained to us that something had sparked off the trays of ether and blew up the kitchen.
The lady downstairs was hollering that water from the fIfe hoses had leaked down through the ceiling and soaked her kitchen. The fIfe chief was storming around hollering, “Does anybody know what happened here?” Christopher, the couple and I piled into the old car which was parked in the street and went to New York.