We were spending the weekend in Philadelphia at an apartment we rented with profits from drug sales. We had become the main suppliers for the Bethesda Naval Hospital and earned a good reputation because we never sold a bad product. Every batch of acid we sold was tested personally before it ever reached anyone else. Our clients were not just enlisted personnel; officers were customers as well. Randy insisted on maintaining that standard. He never wanted anyone to have a bad trip from something we sold.
When we arrived at the apartment, it was about four in the afternoon. Everyone was hungry, so Phil and I walked a few blocks to a Jewish delicatessen and bought submarine sandwiches. When we returned, we found Randy sitting at the table, staring blankly into space, his eyes moist. John and Mary were there as well, but no one was talking. It was immediately clear that something was wrong.
“What’s up, guys?” Phil asked.
“Randy’s mother just called,” Mary said quietly. “James died from a drug overdose in New Orleans.”
Randy and I were close friends, but I had never seen him show emotion before. It had been obvious when we met James at the airport that the two of them were close, but I hadn’t realized just how close until that moment. We sat in silence for several minutes, unsure what to say. Randy finally broke it.
“Isn’t anyone hungry?” he asked, reaching for the bags of sandwiches.
We all breathed a sigh of relief and joined him in eating. “Does anyone know who’s playing tonight?” Randy asked.
“You mean you want to go out?” I said.
“Sure. James wouldn’t want us sitting around mourning him. Let’s have some fun. We can drop acid and see a band. That’s what he’d want. I think I’ll even take a double hit.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”
“It’ll be fine. You worry too much,” he replied. “So who’s in town?”
Phil returned with a flyer from the Electric Factory, an old warehouse painted black inside, with carpeted floors and seating on the ground. You had to arrive early for good seats. It was small, which made for close interaction with the bands. Many new groups had started their American tours there. We had seen Alice Cooper there just weeks earlier and walked out when he appeared in a sequined dress.
“There’s a Canadian band playing tonight,” Phil said. “I’ve never heard of them. Kind of country, I think.”
“Sounds perfect,” Randy said. “I just need to get up.”
I wasn’t enthusiastic, but I kept it to myself. By the time we were ready to leave, it was late.
“We won’t get good seats,” I said. “The band will already be playing.”
“We’ll drop now,” Randy said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the bag of acid. “That way we’ll be up by the time we get there. Anyone doing a double hit with me?”
Everyone took two tablets. When the bag reached me, I hesitated, then followed suit. “Going up,” I joked, though uneasily. I knew what could happen if you dropped while carrying negative thoughts, and I didn’t want to ruin the night.
The parking lot was full when we arrived, and I was already flying as we entered the building. The only seats left were in the back center, directly in front of the control table. I could feel the cables beneath the carpet as we sat down. The band sounded good, and I began to relax during a slow country ballad.
Randy returned with large Cokes and sat beside me. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“Great,” I said, smiling. “You?”
“Pretty good,” he replied.
We sat quietly through the next song. My head floated, and I felt so relaxed I had to remind myself to breathe. As the song ended, the band moved seamlessly into the next:
“To everything,
Turn, turn, turn,
There is a season,
Turn, turn, turn,
And a time to every purpose under Heaven.”
I’m not sure what happened next. I reached for my Coke just as they sang “a time to be born.” It slipped from my hand, soaked my pants, and hit the floor near the cables beneath me. As the band sang “a time to die,” something in my mind snapped. I felt myself rising out of my body, watching the crowd from above while the words “die, die, die” echoed endlessly.
Randy leaned toward me, asking if I was okay, but his voice sounded distant. The band seemed to melt into the stage, the strobe lights intensified, and the audience blended into a sea of color. I could see only my body, alone and unmoving.
“Let’s get some fresh air,” Randy said, leading me outside.
We walked beneath an overhead railway just as a train roared past. The noise was unbearable.
“Get me out of here!” I shouted.
We ran blindly through the streets, our pounding hearts making us wonder if the acid was poisoned. “We need a hospital,” Randy said. A man raking leaves gave us directions, but by the next corner, we couldn’t remember them. We ran for what felt like forever.
Then we turned a corner, and there it was — a large clock mounted on a building, resembling Big Ben.
“Wow,” I laughed. “We ran all the way to London.”
We both laughed, and the fear dissolved. “You okay?” Randy asked, tying his shoe.
“Yeah,” I said. “But no more double hits for me.”
As we walked back, we talked about where our lives were heading. What had begun as an adventure was becoming a nightmare. One friend was stealing credit cards. Another had tried to make a big deal and got ripped off, then attempted suicide when armed men came looking for him. Now James was dead. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
When we returned to the car, the parking lot was empty. The rest of the group stood huddled nearby. No one asked questions, and none were offered as we drove back to the apartment in silence.