The Bachman Books

Also, he was quite sure that people had begun to glance over at him. Mary must have spread the word. I'm worried. Bart's on mescaline. It would move from group to group. They would go on pretending to dance, pretending to drink and have their conversations, but they would really be observing him from behind their hands, whispering about him. He could tell. It was all crrrystal clear.

A man walked past him, carrying a very tall drink and weaving slightly. He twitched the man's sport jacket and whispered hoarsely: 'What are they saying about me?'

The man gave him a disconnected smile and blew a warm breath of scotch in his face. 'I'll write that down,' he said, and walked on.

He finally got into Walter Hamper's den (he could not have said how much later) and when he closed the door behind him, the sounds of the party became blessedly muted. He was getting scared. The stuff he had taken hadn't topped out yet; it just kept coming on stronger and stronger. He seemed to have crossed from one side of the living room to the other in the course of one blink; through the darkened bedroom where coats had been stored in another blink; down the hall in a third. The chain of normal, waking existence had come unclipped, spilling reality beads every which way. Continuity had broken down. His time sense was el destructo. Suppose he never came down? Suppose he was like this forever? It came to him to curl up and sleep it off, but he didn't know if he could. And if he did, God knew what dreams would come. The light, spur-of-the-moment way he had taken the pill now appalled him. This wasn't like being drunk; there was no small kernel of sobriety winking and blinking down deep in the center of him, that part that never got drunk. He was wacky all the way through.

But it was better in here. Maybe he could get control of it in here, by himself. And at least if he freaked out he wouldn't-

'Hi there.'

He jumped, startled, and looked into the corner. A man was sitting there in a high-backed chair by one of Walter's bookcases. There was an open book on the man's lap, as a matter of fact. Or was it a man? There was a single light on in the room, a lamp on a small round table to the speaker's left. Its light cast long shadows on his face, shadows so long that his eyes were dark caverns, his cheeks etched in sardonic, malefic lines. For a moment he thought he had stumbled on Satan sitting in Wally Hammer's den. Then the figure stood and he saw it was a man, only a man. A tall fellow, maybe sixty, with blue eyes and a nose that had been repeatedly punched in losing bouts with the bottle. But he wasn't holding a drink, nor was there one on the table.

'Another wanderer, I see,' the man said, and offered his hand. 'Phil Drake.'

'Barton Dawes,' he said, still dazed from his fright. They shook. Drake's hand was twisted and scarred by some old wound-a burn, perhaps. But he didn't mind shaking it. Drake. The name was familiar but he couldn't remember where he had heard it before.

'Are you quite all right?' Drake asked. 'You look a little-'

'I'm high,' he said. 'I took some mescaline and oh boy am I high. ' He glanced at the bookcases and saw them going in and out and didn't like it. It was too much like the beating of a giant heart. He didn't want to see things like that anymore.

'I see,' Drake said. 'Sit down. Tell me about it.'

He looked at Drake, slightly amazed, and then felt a tremendous surge of relief. He sat down. 'You know about mescaline?' he asked.

'Oh, a little. A little. I run a coffeehouse downtown. Kids wander in off the streets, tripping on something . . . is it a good trip?' he asked politely.

'Good and bad,' he said. 'It's . . . heavy. That's a good word, the way they use it. '

'Yes. It is.'

'I was getting a little scared.' He glanced out the window and saw a long, celestial highway stretching across the black dome of the sky. He looked away casually, but couldn't help licking his lips. 'Tell me . . . how long does this usually go on?'

'When did you drop?'

'Drop?' The word dropped out of his mouth in letters, fell to the carpet, and dissolved there.

'When did you take the stuff?'

'Oh . . . about eight-thirty.'

'And it's . . . ' He consulted his watch. 'It's a quarter of ten now-'

'Quarter of ten? Is that all?'

Drake smiled. 'The sense of time turns to rubber, doesn't it? I expect you'll be pretty well down by one- thirty.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes, I should think so. You're probably peaking now. Is it very visual mesc?'

'Yes. A little too visual.'

'More things to be seen than the eye of man was meant to behold,' Drake said, and offered a peculiar, twisted smile.

'Yes, that's it. That's just it.' His sense of relief at being with this man was intense. He felt saved. 'What do you do besides talk to middle-aged men who have fallen down the rabbit hole?'

Drake smiled. 'That's rather good. Usually people on mesc or acid turn inarticulate, sometimes incoherent. I spend most of my evenings at the Dial Help Center. On weekday afternoons I work at the coffee house I mentioned, a place called Drop Down Mamma. Most of the clientele are street freaks and stewbums. Mornings I just walk the streets and talk to my parishioners, if they're up. And in between, I run errands at the county jail.'

'You're a minister?'

'They call me a street priest. Very romantic. Malcolm Boyd, look out. At one time I was a real priest.'