thank God for cops.

I dosed up some acid one night last summer. I was in Brooklyn. Funny story that goes along with it: I’d completely forgotten that I even had the stuff. The cops found it for me.

I had just wandered — absolutely innocently — through the city housing projects in Brooklyn’s Red Hook neighborhood. The projects just happened to be in between where I was and where I was going. But when I turned the corner I encountered two plain clothes NYPD detectives who assumed a white boy like me must have been in the Projects for drug related purposes.

“Whatcha got?!” They demanded.

“Nothing.” I said.

My smart ass was sorely tempted to follow my response up with a question, along the lines of:

“Why — do they got some Good Shit in there??”

But I held my tongue. A wise move? Perhaps. Though it went against my Policy; to fuck with the police in any way possible as long as I got nothing on me. Still, I felt vulnerable — being a country boy homeless in New York City — and smartly fearful of the NYPD. So I asked for directions to Van Brunt street and left it at that.

They gave me directions but shook me down first. An almost empty bottle of Sweet Breath “mouth drops” was uncovered while they ripped through my bag. The cops thought nothing of it but — wearing my best poker face — I was all thinking, like:

“Woo HOO!!

For once! There’s actually a cop around when you need one.

A couple hours later — near sundown — I was kicked back on the grass in this bad ass little waterfront park in the same neighborhood. Digging this view:


Awesome dudes.

The red ball of sunfire sank low over & then directly behind Lady Liberty’s torch.

Way awesome. I popped the top off my Sweet Breath vial. Poured in some water. Swished it around to dislodge whatever dose molecules were clung stubbornly to its’ side. Deposited the contents into my mouth & swigged them down the hatch.

It was a powerful brain whack. I tell you that.

Too powerful — for most people. That’s why the stuff is parceled out in hits maybe a tenth of the size of the one I estimably took.

A powerful brain whack; especially for a good old boy from Vermont — way out of his element wandering the night away on the streets of Brooklyn. Homeless. Utterly penniless. Unable to afford those distractions — ie BEER!! — so critically essential to the Drug Cosmonaut who needs, in cases of Brain Emergency, to reliably return to Earth.

The escape hatch as it were.

I had none of these things. Not even a cigarette. And anyone who smokes them knows how crucial they are when you’re tripping.

I am a daredevil. What can I say?

One thing I did have was a Friend. That helps incalculably. A friendless man may be forever lost. But Absynth Eve was with me. We were living in her car. Actually it wasn’t her car. It was an inadvertantly stolen Toyota Prius hybrid — but that’s another story.

Absynth Eve is about my best friend on all planet Earth. But it happened that on that night — she declined to trip with me — Absynth Eve was so entirely sick of the very sight of her best friend that I, for most of the night, was shall we say excused from her stolen hybrid car.

You’ll unavoidably have that when you live with your best friend in her car.

I wandered the streets alone. Far, far gone out of my skull on no less than 10 solidly potent hits of LSD.

It was the kind of trip that distinguishes the casually suicidal — we who may occasionally consider taking our own lives for pragmatic reasons — from someone who truly wants to scale a 5-story building then jump off head-first and die.

I obviously fall into the former category. But I guess maybe I wasn’t sure — and it’s good to know. For that reason the Trip ranks among my more productive drug experiences.

For most of the night I amused myself by looking for hundred dollar bills on the ground. No $20’s, please. Um-k? I’m too broke to find a twenty dollar bill! Hundreds only.

And I was amused. What the hell? Here’s what life is to me: I make stories. I listen to stories. And I tell stories. Now obviously I hoped to tell you guys the one about the time when I found that loose Hundie floating down the street in Brooklyn. But I tend not to have that kind of luck.

But again: what the hell?

Hunter S. Thompson about once wrote something smart about his Hero:

Muhammad Ali was not a lucky man. He was Fast. Very fast.

I slurped in a gigantically pulsated breath of New York City air. Scanned the pavement. Shrugged my shoulders & sighed.

And wished I had a frikkin cigarette!!

I tried to bum one from strangers all night — to utterly no avail. Until morning, when I passed a man who’d just stirred from his slumber. He was still halfway under his blanket. Outside a church, where he’d slept on a cardboard box.

He was rolling a cigarette out of a pouch of Top Menthol tobacco. Cosmically fine luck; Top Menthol happens to be my 2nd  (after the more costly American Spirit menthol) favorite brand. In fact I am smoking one right now, out of the pouch that Absynth Eve just sported me $1.26 to buy from Wal Mart.

Trouble was he did not want to give one to me. Why should he? $1.26 is literally a lot of money to a homeless man. I asked. He shook his head no. But took a closer look at me, and by my grungy appearance he concluded that I was homeless.

Then he let me roll two.


7 Responses to “thank God for cops.”

  1. 1 jayherron October 12, 2007 at 7:19 pm

    great story-thanks…tripping-what a blast!

  2. 3 galloway October 17, 2007 at 5:56 am

    As ever a cool, funny, uplifting story.

    Thanks,by the way for your comment on Metrodrift. I’ve only just seen it.

    There’s now a draft of Chapter Four at

    Keep on.

  3. 4 AuntJackie October 18, 2007 at 2:01 pm

    Yes definitely! I totally enjoyed this, and life is ironic like that sometimes, as well sometimes people shock you being something totally opposite to what you thought… At least they were beneficial.

    Everything, like I said, for a reason.

    Also Wherever you look there’s something to see!!

    Two of my favorite thoughts.

  4. 5 galloway October 26, 2007 at 4:58 am

    Hey, E, if you enjoyed Murray Roman’s ‘you can’t beat people up…’, try ‘Blind man’s Movie’, which you can download at

  5. 6 Sporz October 29, 2007 at 6:51 pm

    Damn man, listen… I washed the bottle out myself one night, years back in a town called Bolinas CA, out in the western nooks of Marin county.. Ahh yes, I thought “Heh, since there is nothing left to squirt out of this bad boy, I should just runce out the little piddleings that may be clinging to the walls to at least get somthing..” I don’t think I could have made a sorer underestimation in that particular situation.. Yes, yes,, I was tripping very hard my friend.. Very hard.. A couple of swishes leasurely around the breath assure with a meager ammount of H2O had unleashed 10 to 15 times of the usual allotment.. I eventually, teleproted back to an older time in the town.. A time when brothel girls, and liquer and tobacco runners romed the vally.. Yes.. the dark wood of the bar, after following the jet stream of a couple rancheros into the doorway, spoke of destinys refracting off of the 1800’s.. The fiddle player was singing a song that was so sweet, the, I had to leave.. I then was sucked up to an area that resembled a hotel room… I fell on my back as a deep purple plasma exploded out of my abdomen in the black void, and upon it’s decent back to the ground( simply and endless black plane of a floor stretching into blackness) cooled into fragmants of purple glass matter and tinked outward on the opaque and silent expanse…..

  6. 7 rhea November 7, 2007 at 3:58 pm

    Great story…wish I had been there to see it. I don’t have any “thank God for cops” stories of my own.

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