I became a tiny replica of myself, swimming effortlessly within my own
eyeball, looking down the length of that other me lying on the bed.
My feet looked a mile away. I moved them and it seemed to take almost
a minute for the impulse to communicate itself from my mind along the
vast body.
Then I lost interest in my body as the flecks of sunlight on the
ceiling became tiny planets, whirling in perfect, intricate orbits
around a fiery blue-white sun.
The smoke in the room climbed up in a graceful dance and became a
dust-cloud in the sparkling solar system. The dark head of Jones
came into view among the tiny worlds, not obscuring them. The little
jewel-like planets were a shimmering crown hovering about him.
He spoke then, and his words echoed to me as if through the vastness of
infinity itself.
"Barry," the voice said, powerful but warm, far away but deliciously
close, awesome but comfortable. "Barry, my good friend."
I could see the great face, both with my real eyes and with the eyes
of that tiny other me swimming within. It was a mighty face, but
reassuring--the face of a kind father and loving wife and adoring son
all in one. The face was smiling, a dear familiar smile.
But the lips were not moving. The voice was that of a mind, reaching
out through vastness and into my own thoughts.
"You are not alone," the mind-voice said, and it was what I had been
waiting to hear. "You are one with all good things. The door you have
been seeking is open. You have only to walk through."
I had been swimming, but now I walked. It was like no other kind of
walking. It was like ice-skating in a way, a smooth, effortless glide.
The tiny me walked, glided, out of my body and up, up in a curl of
smoke, across a million miles of blackness toward the shimmering worlds.
"I found the door," I thought, and knew the words were being
communicated to him. "I thank you and I am walking through. It is a
beautiful world you have. It sparkles so. I love it."
I could say these things to him with my mind, meaning them, unashamed
of the innermost feelings that would have been throttled off unspoken
if I'd had to use the vulgarity of speech.
He understood that, too, and his smile became warmer. There was a bond
here I'd never experienced, a warm gushing of myself to him and to this
world he'd opened for me. The warmth was reciprocated instantly. His
face showed it, his mind told me and the glittering worlds seemed to
join in his message of esteem and one-ness.
There was more; but later I couldn't remember it all. The beauty of a
thing can't be recreated in its absence. Only the memory of it lingers.
But the memory of an exalted experience has a beauty of its own.
After a while I came back. Back to my gross self lying on the bed, the
jade-green cigaret holder in my fingers, a long ash on the end of the
cigaret. So I had been away only a minute or two in our time. It had
seemed hours in his.
Gradually the sparkling worlds reverted to patches of sunlight and the
dust-cloud to tobacco smoke.
Jones stood near the bed. Gently he took the holder from my fingers and
snuffed out the cigaret in the ashtray.
"You are pleased," he said, speaking with his voice now. "You have told
me that."
"Yes," I said. "Oh, yes." I wanted to say much more, but the inhibition
of speech was on me now.
"I understand. Do not talk. You are still too close to it. The change
is too great. But some of it remains with you, does it not?"
I nodded. It did. There was no great letdown. No harsh awakening to the
detested world of everyday. It must have been because I carried over
with me enough of the memory to cushion the shock of adjustment. I sat
up. I felt fine.
"You have had only a glimpse," he said. "You must go now. But perhaps
you will come back?"
"Please," I said.
"Of course. I will call you."
He helped me on with my coat. I went down the stairs and out into the
sunlight.
* * * * *
Jones didn't call for days. I hardly left my room, waiting for the
phone to ring. Once I walked over toward 45th Street, but I turned
back before I got there. Jones had said he'd call me and I didn't want
to get him angry with me.
Rollo came over to my place one night. He had some junk left over from
scoring and offered me a fix. I didn't want it.
"Still off the stuff?" he asked.
"Off that stuff," I said. "That stuff is nowhere."
"You sound like you're somewhere else. Did The Man make it for you on
the _yage_ kick?"
"_Yage's_ over the rainbow," I told him. "_Uru_ is here and now."
"_Uru._ Is that what Jones serves? Never heard of it. Mind if I shoot a
little old-fashioned horse here? I got trouble finding a vein lately.
Maybe you'll help me."
He rolled up his sleeve and took out his equipment. He tied a
handkerchief around his arm to make the veins stand out and I helped
him locate one. I cooked up the stuff and shot it home for him. He
cleaned out the needle under the faucet and we sat down and had
cigarets.
"So tell me about this _uru_," Rollo said.
"It's truly the most, man," I said.
But I couldn't go on. Rollo was a lush-worker, a cheap hood. I'd feel
self-conscious trying to describe how it was. Telling him would be like
dirtying it up. So I generalized.
"It's a real bang," I said. "A speedball with a jet assist. It's gone,
brother. It takes you there, but _there_."
"You sound like a teahead," he said. "Is that what it is, tea?"
So I told him that was about right and he went away feeling superior.
He used the white stuff and I was only a viper. So he thought. Let him
think what he wanted. I'd been with it; I knew, and that was enough. It
was like being one of the elite.
The phone rang and sweat came out in my palms as I picked it up.
It was Jones, asking if I wanted to travel with him again.
Travel. That was a new one. But it certainly described it. I told him
yes, trying not to let him know how eager I was. But I had the feeling
he understood, even over the phone. And it didn't matter. I didn't have
anything to hide from him. He was my friend.