Space Between the Stars (8 page)

Sly set his tape deck on the coffee table and pulled up his pant leg.

Oh no
, I thought.
Not the weed already.
I had been so preoccupied with thoughts about making love with Sly that I had forgotten about how he liked to get high. He reached into his sock and extracted a square piece of foil. Carefully unwrapping it, he took out two flat orange pills that looked like children's aspirin.

“Honey,” he said, walking me to the couch, “you look like a scared rabbit.” He held my hand open and put one of the pills on my palm. “This will relax you. I've taken it before. It's ‘orange sunshine’—very mild.”

“You mean acid?” I asked, my back stiffening.
What have I gotten myself into?
Sly's eyes were slits as he watched my reaction.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “We'll take it together. It'll be fun. I won't let anything happen to you.” I wanted to do what he asked, but I had heard nightmarish stories of people having bad trips on LSD, even dying.

Sly threw one pill in his mouth, swallowing it without water; then he ran to the bathroom and returned with a glass of
water for me. I didn't have time to weigh the pros and cons of ingesting a drug I had never considered taking before this moment.
Will he really take care of me?
I believed he cared for me and wouldn't give me anything that would hurt me. I had resisted all offers of drugs, which began in high school.
I guess I can loosen up now.
Sly lifted my palm to my mouth. I set the pill on my tongue and swallowed the orange sunshine with a gulp of water, wondering what I was going to feel like and how long it would last.

“You said you write poetry. Did you bring any with you?”

I laughed, trying to cover my nervousness.

“What's so funny?”

“You know just what to say,” I said.

“Your eyes are like sunsets,” Sly said, moving toward me.

When our lips met, I was already inside his mind, his cologne, his arms. We lay together on the couch, kissing as we always had, but Sly's body pinned me. I tried to relax into the sheer pleasure of being alone with this man I had fallen in love with; I felt as though until now I had never before cared for anyone.

I knew the LSD was taking effect when the heavy, flowered drapes began waving back and forth against the pale yellow walls. The round-backed, Victorian chairs sat up straight. The ceiling vibrated as though there was an earthquake upstairs. Everywhere I looked, something moved. Sly's face had a green tint. I closed my eyes, fear gripping my stomach; but Sly caught me as I fell, his arms a net that encircled me.

The acid came on stronger, and my senses became more confused. Time was suspended above my head. Sly started to laugh; the sound seemed to come from my chest, then out of
my mouth. We melted onto the couch, unable to stop giggling—tears running down our cheeks.

“Hey! Watch this,” he said excitedly, and waved his hand in front of our faces, creating bright colors and golden light in a trail of mirrored hands that followed his. We sat for a long time just moving our hands back and forth.

“Let's go to bed,” he drawled. Sly unbuttoned my dress as my head swirled round and round. I climbed under the covers, the smooth, soft sheets billowing and dancing on top of me as I settled on the pillow. Sly floated off toward the bathroom.

My senses were awake on the surface of my skin. The sheets became a landscape I was flying over. I felt as though I were hearing through my eyes and seeing with my touch; only my sense of smell seemed to be in the right place.

A tall, rectangular light shaft bled into the room when Sly opened the bathroom door. He spotted me gripping the covers up to my neck and smiled.

“What are you doing? Hiding?” His grin grew large, exaggerated, like an unfriendly cartoon character. The short laugh that burst from his gut held a sinister tone.
Is he laughing at me?
As he climbed into bed, the entire room began to undulate and vibrate over me. Holding me in his arms, Sly began to love me, rubbing my skin, rolling on top of me. The bed and room became a vista of tall mountaintops, my body riding the peaks, up and down, up and down. It was an exquisitely beautiful country: verdant, lush, tall grasses; sunny skies; snowcapped peaks. I thought I was in Austria, a place I had never been.

I could feel his body on mine, his legs around me, his pressure inside, but I was still flying. “Whew!” Sly cried out, holding
me—landing. My legs shook. I kept my eyes shut, skimming down the mountaintops like a bird.

Sly rolled over and jumped up from the bed, pulled on his Jockeys, and walked to the phone. “We had better get something to eat.”

Eat?
I thought. I had just made love for the first time. It had felt heavenly, and my body was in a fluid form, open and alive. I looked around the room—the clock read 1:00 A.M. Five hours since we had taken the acid. I didn't think I could eat.

I watched Sly talk to room service. His thin, brown body was firm and taut. I could make out sinewy ripples of ligament and muscle beneath his skin. He hung up, put on his leather trousers, and bounced around the room like a toy with brand-new batteries.

A knock startled me. Sly jumped to open the door. A waiter rolled a table into the center of the room. I made sure every inch of my body was concealed. The silver domed plate covers looked like a miniature city. Sly signed the bill. As the man left the room, he looked back over his shoulder, leering at me.

“Come on,” Sly beckoned. “You need to eat or that acid will tear up your stomach.”

Obediently, I climbed out of my soft hiding place, the soles of my feet tickled by the carpet. I walked toward the bathroom, feeling exposed to the world, as though my veins and blood vessels were saying “hi” by reaching through my skin to wave. I closed the door behind me. My legs were wet with drops of blood trickling down my inner thigh. I had heard this could happen the first time you made love, but I felt like crying. My innocence ran from me. I mourned and rejoiced. I ran hot
water on a washcloth and cleaned my body. A glance in the mirror showed a wild-eyed, bushy-haired animal looking back.

A robe lay folded on the counter. The terry cloth felt rough and nubby against my body as I wrapped it around me. I joined Sly at the table. Rainbow auras pulsated around him as I pulled out a chair. “You okay?” he asked.

I wanted to say, “I'm not sure. I'm not a virgin anymore.” I wanted to cry and to celebrate. But I couldn't speak all that I felt. I answered, “Yes.”

My senses continued to play in a dimension I had never experienced before. Every move of my hand still created flashes of colors. I picked up a fork, feeling its cold, steely hardness. The scrambled eggs Sly ate looked like lumpy puddles of plastic vomit. My stomach told me I couldn't possibly touch them. The bacon smelled delicious but seemed to be wiggling across the plate.

A wicker basket of toast, partially covered by a cloth napkin, looked like a baby in a blanket. Cautiously, I opened the white folds. Aaah. It looked just like bread, toasted. I gently took a piece, careful not to wave it too much. As I bit into it, the toast tasted like construction paper. I swallowed a gulp of orange juice and sat back in my chair.

Sly was happy tripping on his own. I thought of Mom and Dad, and tears sprang to my eyes. Sly, naked again except for his Jockey shorts, turned on his music, took out his guitar, and devoured the songs coming out of the small black speakers. I was alone to feel the waves of acid rise and fall on my mind. I wiped tears, but he didn't notice. My heart felt like an ocean in my chest, love and worry floating about.
Out of the corner of my eye, a Chinese vase began to levitate from the table. I looked at Sly and wondered whether he saw it, too. His eyes were shut, headphones covering his ears— he remained submerged in his sounds.

Shadows moved like clouds around the room, making large monster shapes that loomed above me. The bass guitar thumped from Sly's songs, echoing through his headphones, sounding like giant footsteps coming closer. I pushed the chair back and stumbled to the bed, sliding under the covers to hide from my LSD imagination. I shut my eyes hard. Rainbows and stars burst against my lids like bright fireworks. A thought passed through my mind to jump out a window to escape. I covered my head and recited the Lord's Prayer—over and over.

By five o'clock in the morning, Sly was asleep next to me. I kept my eyes closed, praying to follow him to dreamland.

The phone rang. I opened my eyes: Nothing was moving. The room was light. The clock said noon. Sly was by my side. I remembered the night before and smiled in the ecstatic knowledge that I had survived taking acid. I had also made love for the first time. The physical connection I felt with Sly was so different, as though my body were cabled to his with a silky desire. It felt glorious to not be afraid of making love.

Sly rolled toward the phone by the third ring. “Hello?” His voice was like tires over gravel. His eyes stayed closed. He put his arm around me and kissed my head.

I tensed.
Could it be Mom or Dad on the phone?
He said, “Okay,” and hung up. “The press conference is moved to tomorrow. We have a free day.”
We got up, dressed, and Sly said he wanted to take me to Greenwich Village. The doorman blew a silver whistle, summoning a taxi. My senses still were confused from the acid, and my vision was hazy, but Sly held me in his arms and I felt safe. The stores we passed reminded me of Haight Street, where Gloria and I traversed at home: records hanging in windows, psychedelic smoke shops, wild clothing. We were going to visit Jimi Hendrix at his Electric Lady studios on Eighth Street.

Jimi wasn't there. We walked through his dark, low-ceilinged recording world. A six-foot-long black console covered with knobs and buttons looked like a launch station for spacecraft. I watched the engineer slide back and forth in front of the soundboard, adjusting the music that wailed from the speakers. Sly raised his hand to the man, and we left. In high school Calvin had worshipped the guitarist and had danced in front of me, playing air guitar while he'd blasted “Wild Thing” on his record player.

We walked down Sixth Avenue, and Sly stopped in front of a shoe boutique. “Do you see any you like?” he asked.

I looked with desire—like a girl in front of an ice-cream store. A pair of ankle-strap platforms was calling out to me.
Should I say yes?
No man other than my father had ever bought me something to wear. “Those,” I said, pointing.

We went inside, and I walked out wearing three-inch platforms the color of lime sherbet.

Our hotel room became a jam session. Jerry brought his sax, and Larry his bass; and Sly's creativity spilled from his hands onto his clavinet. The musicians jammed while I sat on the couch, listening. Jerry's reddish-brown hair, goatee, and
freckles all lit up when he laughed. Cynthia came by with her trumpet; she wore a shirt with sleeves that hung to her knees, and when she raised her horn, her sleeves slid down her arms like limp pennants. She was soft-spoken but blew the trumpet powerfully. They played for hours.

Some of the band members sat around the table, passing joint after joint. I still didn't like the smell, but I finally succumbed to taking the cigarette in my hand and inhaling. I coughed and coughed, choking on the smoke. The relaxed, loose feeling that tingled through my body made everything funny. Sly put the fire end of the joint in his mouth, inhaled the smoke, and then blew it into my mouth. He laid cocaine out on a mirror and snorted it through a short straw. I didn't want to try it. I had taken acid yesterday and smoked weed today. I had to hold on to some part of my previous conviction, didn't I? Sly wiped drips of white crystal from his nose, sniffing as though he had a cold. We stayed up until dawn.

My second day in New York, I called Mom and Dad to tell them I was fine. Mom's voice choked. Dad came to the phone. I swallowed hard and looked out the window at the lights coming on around Manhattan. “I'm really disappointed, Dobs. This isn't what I expected of you,” he said. Dad was a man of few words—but in his voice I heard his acceptance of being unable to protect me from the streets he knew so well, from loving a man he didn't approve of. I heard his dashed hope that his child would get through life unscathed.

“I'll be home soon, Papa. Don't worry.” I didn't want to think about hurting them. Sly lit a joint, and I smoked it with him to forget the call.
Early the next morning, I went to JFK by myself. Sly begged me to stay and drive with the band to Upstate New York, but I had to get home and back to work.

When I landed at San Francisco Airport, my hair fanned out behind me like a lion's mane as I stood outside baggage claim waiting for Kitsaun. My thick locks were usually tamed by setting them on two-inch plastic rollers, but I hadn't thought to take them with me when I packed.

I pulled my sweater tight over my white sleeveless dress. The blustery afternoon fog was cold. I already missed Sly. It seemed much longer than three days ago when I had flown to New York. I stood tall, my feet apart, cool air rippling my dress.

The Dodge Challenger wended toward me in the slow traffic. I waved and smiled. Kitsaun stopped the car in front of me and motioned for me to get in. “You look exhausted,” she said dryly, her eyes surveying me from my hair to my shoes. “I like those platforms.”

I hugged her with both arms, squeezing her neck. Kitsaun was the lining of me; we were like a reversible jacket that could be worn inside or out. We were closer than feathers on a bird, our words spliced together before we even spoke.

“How are Mom and Dad?”

“I think Mom's so happy you're back, she won't yell at you,” she said, maneuvering the car through the airport back to the freeway. “But Dad is still furious. He hasn't said two words to me.”

I bit my thumbnail, elation and self-assurance dissolving. My time with Sly in New York was worth whatever I had to go through at home. Mom and Dad wouldn't stay angry forever.
As Kitsaun drove, I rattled off each of my trip's events, my words running together breathlessly. We arrived at Harold Avenue much too quickly.

“Why didn't you stay for the concert?” she asked.