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When I was a teenager, I dropped a lot of acid. A lot of acid. A lot of acid. I suppose, even 45 years after the fact, that remains the defining circumstance of my life.
I dropped acid and most mornings, I went to Lowell High School. I didn’t know what else to do. This was San Francisco, a completely alien place where I was completely invisible. I hadn’t been invisible in New York City where I’d gone to Hunter High School, then an all girls school, and been in the top one percent of my class. I’d been quite happy in New York City.
But then my mother had a psychotic episode.
After her death, I searched frantically through my mother’s papers. She was an excellent writer, and I kept hoping I'd find some explanation, any explanation, for her cryptic life that would help me understand her better. I did find something, but it wasn't an explanation. It was a rambling, ten page narrative of her relocation in 1967 from New York City to San Francisco.
The high point of this narrative was a description of sitting in a casino in Las Vegas, Nevada, with me waiting for the bus to refuel. We watched the sun rise together, filled with so much hope and promise that you'd have thought we were channeling the still 40-some-odd years distant presidential campaign of Barack Obama.
Only problem with this description was that I was no where near Las Vegas, Nevada at the time that sun rose. I was in Camp Waziyatah near Harrison, Maine, whence I'd been dispatched because I was causing Annie and Rik, upon whom she'd summarily dumped me when she disappeared herself, too much trouble on the mean streets of NYC.
Of course, this was just more proof of a theory I’d arrived at long before: You can tell much more about people from the lies they feed you than the truths they pretend to profess. Because, in some very essential sense, truth has nothing to do with life continuity.
###
So, yes. The blinking engine light was the coil pack. When B took it out, there was a longitudinal crack running up the middle. The cheap and EZ fix is epoxy, but it was pretty obvious to me that wasn’t gonna hold. I’m not good with maintenance and upkeep. I’d forget all about the epoxy on the coil pack. The next time the flash engine light came on, it would be three in the morning and I’d be some place like downtown Detroit where they are shortly going to disable all the streetlights ‘cause white folk don’t live there anymore. Bad scenario. Better to fix the coil pack now.
B is awfully smart. Intellectually smart, but just also ingenious and clever. I ordered the part from an EBay supplier – You wouldn’t believe the price differential between Internet auto parts and retail store auto parts, it’s like 200 %. After an hour or so of touch and go when he connected some wires wrong, voila! He had it up and running.
“You know, you really should have sold this car a year ago when you still could have gotten a couple of thousand dollars for it,” B said.
“But I like this car,” I said
“Patrizia. It’s a car. It’s a tool that gets you from one place to another. It’s really an example of anthropomorphism at its worse to become sentimentally attached to a car.”
“But I like this car,” I repeated dumbly.
There is – ahem! – a Christian auto repair fellowship in Watson Glen. You supply the parts, they supply the labor. Only thing is that you have to sit there while they repair the car and listen to them proselytize.
I’m thinkin’ this is something I should pursue in June. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find Jesus.
###
B repairs my car because we have metamorphosed into being best friends. Kind of a low rent Patti Smith/Robert Mapplethorpe situation. We had a big fight the day he first took the cracked coil pack out of the car. He was driving me into Ithaca in the Girlfriendmobile, and I did my usual thing of screaming at the top of my lungs: “Let me out of the car, now –“
“Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t you know you’re my best friend in the world?”
Well, okay then.
We were fighting about RTT. I’d just gotten a phone call from a harried woman named Margarita at his school. RTT hadn’t shown up for classes that day.
“I could fucking kill that kid,” B said from between clenched teeth. “Just keep calling him.”
“I’ve already called him twice –“
“What I do when he pulls a stunt like this is I just keep calling him and texting him nonstop till he finally replies. Fuck! I have no more minutes on my phone and $30 to last till my next paycheck –“
Reason why B was so low on the ready – he’d gone ahead and bought a graduation gift for me to give to RTT. I’d mentioned I wanted to get RTT an android pad – cheaper and actually more functional than iPads – so he went out and bought one. “You can pay me back,” he said expansively.
“That’s not the point,” I said.
“So what is the point?” he asked in an aggrieved voice. “I did you a favor!”
I took a deep breath. “Ben. You kind of robbed me of the pleasure of researching and purchasing a gift for my son.”
“Fine. Give it back. I’ll return it.”
“No. I’m not going to give it back. I will reimburse you for the purchase. It’s more – do you remember once you told me that you never had the sense of being the star of your own life? That you always had the feeling you were the sidekick, the wingman, the expendable character who gets knocked off just before the thrilling climax? Well, for years and years, I was the star of your life. Then after you dumped me, I would have assumed your girlfriend would have become the star of your life. But I guess she’s too boring –
“Oh, stop. What is this?”
“Get real, Ben. This is me, you’re talking to. Whatever the reason you’re with her, it’s not because she interests you particularly. The star of your life right now is Robin, and you’re completely obsessed with him –“
Then the phone rang. Margarita from his high school.
###
When we finally got hold of Robin, it turned out that he had taken psychedelic mushrooms and was spending the day with the-incredibly-lovely-and-intelligent-but-alas!-too-tall-and-self-possessed-for-girlfriend-material ___ who’d also taken mushrooms. The story he told was that he was dosed. One of the Groton loser kids on the bus – Groton! Of course! – had a pan of Rice Krispie treats in her backpack and the Groton loser kid had added secret sauce.
Later it turned out that RTT and ___ assumed the secret sauce was marijuana. The mushrooms started coming on in Physics class so they both bolted.
This I found out the next morning. That was when I woke him up early to Talk About It. I wasn't going to talk about it while he was high because -- well. I know what it feels like to be high.
“This demonstrates seriously bad judgment,” I told him. “Thing is, Robin, you are coming up on a three-day weekend. There’s nothing in the world that’s going to prevent you from doing whatever you want to do on a three day weekend. And doing marijuana brownies before school –“
He made a face. “I do it all the time, Mom. I’m still the smartest kid in the school. I’m the fucking valedictorian, for God’s sake.”
“Robin,” I said, “you are riding for a fall. You can fake it at your high school. Maybe you could have faked it at New Paltz. It’s essentially a liberal arts school. You can fake it at a liberal arts school. You are going to a science school at Syracuse University. It’s gonna be much, much harder than anything you’ve done before. And you’ve told me repeatedly that you have career plans, that it’s your intention to maintain a 4.0 so you can actualize your career plans –“
“You dropped acid every day in high school,” he snapped.
“And look at me, Robin! Look at me! For Christ’s sake, is this really where you want to be at 60? I hope not. I’m a complete failure –“
“I don’t think you’re a failure.”
“Well, true. That was a bit melodramatic. The jury’s still out on that one, I suppose. But, Robin, don’t you understand that the reason I talk to you like this is because I so desperately want you to learn from my mistakes, from your father’s mistakes. Do you understand that?”
He looked at me with blank, uncomprehending eyes. Because, of course, he didn’t, he couldn’t. Same as it always is.
I dropped acid and most mornings, I went to Lowell High School. I didn’t know what else to do. This was San Francisco, a completely alien place where I was completely invisible. I hadn’t been invisible in New York City where I’d gone to Hunter High School, then an all girls school, and been in the top one percent of my class. I’d been quite happy in New York City.
But then my mother had a psychotic episode.
After her death, I searched frantically through my mother’s papers. She was an excellent writer, and I kept hoping I'd find some explanation, any explanation, for her cryptic life that would help me understand her better. I did find something, but it wasn't an explanation. It was a rambling, ten page narrative of her relocation in 1967 from New York City to San Francisco.
The high point of this narrative was a description of sitting in a casino in Las Vegas, Nevada, with me waiting for the bus to refuel. We watched the sun rise together, filled with so much hope and promise that you'd have thought we were channeling the still 40-some-odd years distant presidential campaign of Barack Obama.
Only problem with this description was that I was no where near Las Vegas, Nevada at the time that sun rose. I was in Camp Waziyatah near Harrison, Maine, whence I'd been dispatched because I was causing Annie and Rik, upon whom she'd summarily dumped me when she disappeared herself, too much trouble on the mean streets of NYC.
Of course, this was just more proof of a theory I’d arrived at long before: You can tell much more about people from the lies they feed you than the truths they pretend to profess. Because, in some very essential sense, truth has nothing to do with life continuity.
So, yes. The blinking engine light was the coil pack. When B took it out, there was a longitudinal crack running up the middle. The cheap and EZ fix is epoxy, but it was pretty obvious to me that wasn’t gonna hold. I’m not good with maintenance and upkeep. I’d forget all about the epoxy on the coil pack. The next time the flash engine light came on, it would be three in the morning and I’d be some place like downtown Detroit where they are shortly going to disable all the streetlights ‘cause white folk don’t live there anymore. Bad scenario. Better to fix the coil pack now.
B is awfully smart. Intellectually smart, but just also ingenious and clever. I ordered the part from an EBay supplier – You wouldn’t believe the price differential between Internet auto parts and retail store auto parts, it’s like 200 %. After an hour or so of touch and go when he connected some wires wrong, voila! He had it up and running.
“You know, you really should have sold this car a year ago when you still could have gotten a couple of thousand dollars for it,” B said.
“But I like this car,” I said
“Patrizia. It’s a car. It’s a tool that gets you from one place to another. It’s really an example of anthropomorphism at its worse to become sentimentally attached to a car.”
“But I like this car,” I repeated dumbly.
There is – ahem! – a Christian auto repair fellowship in Watson Glen. You supply the parts, they supply the labor. Only thing is that you have to sit there while they repair the car and listen to them proselytize.
I’m thinkin’ this is something I should pursue in June. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find Jesus.
B repairs my car because we have metamorphosed into being best friends. Kind of a low rent Patti Smith/Robert Mapplethorpe situation. We had a big fight the day he first took the cracked coil pack out of the car. He was driving me into Ithaca in the Girlfriendmobile, and I did my usual thing of screaming at the top of my lungs: “Let me out of the car, now –“
“Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t you know you’re my best friend in the world?”
Well, okay then.
We were fighting about RTT. I’d just gotten a phone call from a harried woman named Margarita at his school. RTT hadn’t shown up for classes that day.
“I could fucking kill that kid,” B said from between clenched teeth. “Just keep calling him.”
“I’ve already called him twice –“
“What I do when he pulls a stunt like this is I just keep calling him and texting him nonstop till he finally replies. Fuck! I have no more minutes on my phone and $30 to last till my next paycheck –“
Reason why B was so low on the ready – he’d gone ahead and bought a graduation gift for me to give to RTT. I’d mentioned I wanted to get RTT an android pad – cheaper and actually more functional than iPads – so he went out and bought one. “You can pay me back,” he said expansively.
“That’s not the point,” I said.
“So what is the point?” he asked in an aggrieved voice. “I did you a favor!”
I took a deep breath. “Ben. You kind of robbed me of the pleasure of researching and purchasing a gift for my son.”
“Fine. Give it back. I’ll return it.”
“No. I’m not going to give it back. I will reimburse you for the purchase. It’s more – do you remember once you told me that you never had the sense of being the star of your own life? That you always had the feeling you were the sidekick, the wingman, the expendable character who gets knocked off just before the thrilling climax? Well, for years and years, I was the star of your life. Then after you dumped me, I would have assumed your girlfriend would have become the star of your life. But I guess she’s too boring –
“Oh, stop. What is this?”
“Get real, Ben. This is me, you’re talking to. Whatever the reason you’re with her, it’s not because she interests you particularly. The star of your life right now is Robin, and you’re completely obsessed with him –“
Then the phone rang. Margarita from his high school.
When we finally got hold of Robin, it turned out that he had taken psychedelic mushrooms and was spending the day with the-incredibly-lovely-and-intelligent-but-alas!-too-tall-and-self-possessed-for-girlfriend-material ___ who’d also taken mushrooms. The story he told was that he was dosed. One of the Groton loser kids on the bus – Groton! Of course! – had a pan of Rice Krispie treats in her backpack and the Groton loser kid had added secret sauce. Later it turned out that RTT and ___ assumed the secret sauce was marijuana. The mushrooms started coming on in Physics class so they both bolted.
This I found out the next morning. That was when I woke him up early to Talk About It. I wasn't going to talk about it while he was high because -- well. I know what it feels like to be high.
“This demonstrates seriously bad judgment,” I told him. “Thing is, Robin, you are coming up on a three-day weekend. There’s nothing in the world that’s going to prevent you from doing whatever you want to do on a three day weekend. And doing marijuana brownies before school –“
He made a face. “I do it all the time, Mom. I’m still the smartest kid in the school. I’m the fucking valedictorian, for God’s sake.”
“Robin,” I said, “you are riding for a fall. You can fake it at your high school. Maybe you could have faked it at New Paltz. It’s essentially a liberal arts school. You can fake it at a liberal arts school. You are going to a science school at Syracuse University. It’s gonna be much, much harder than anything you’ve done before. And you’ve told me repeatedly that you have career plans, that it’s your intention to maintain a 4.0 so you can actualize your career plans –“
“You dropped acid every day in high school,” he snapped.
“And look at me, Robin! Look at me! For Christ’s sake, is this really where you want to be at 60? I hope not. I’m a complete failure –“
“I don’t think you’re a failure.”
“Well, true. That was a bit melodramatic. The jury’s still out on that one, I suppose. But, Robin, don’t you understand that the reason I talk to you like this is because I so desperately want you to learn from my mistakes, from your father’s mistakes. Do you understand that?”
He looked at me with blank, uncomprehending eyes. Because, of course, he didn’t, he couldn’t. Same as it always is.
