“Oh yeah,” he nodded, a huge smile playing across his face.
“Do you know where you can get amazing shrooms?” Clara asked. He looked at her, heavy lidded and grinning. “In San Francisco.”
“Oh yeah.” He kept right on nodding. Then he started kissing her and while it felt nice, she had to admit a question crossed her mind. Why was it that when she kissed Brad she thought of… toast? A plain slice from a store-bought loaf, maybe starting to cool from being left in the toaster too long. It served for breakfast, but it wasn’t the type of meal you craved.
But a kiss from Alek? Fresh baked cinnamon buns with the icing gooey and dripping. Chocolate croissants flaky buttery warm. The images seemed so vivid she could almost taste them.
And see them, dancing around with tiny legs, kicking in time to the music as they joined a miniature chorus line of breakfast foods.
The room swirled into a psychedelic pastel.
CHAPTER 14
TREE FIRE
Dim, hazy sunlight filtered through a crack in the window shade. Actually, a rip. Clara opened her eyes wider and examined it. The roll-up rice paper blind looked like it may once have featured a cherry blossom. Faded, dusty and torn it now looked somewhat post-apocalyptic, what window blinds looked like after aliens landed and people had abandoned their homes for underground bunkers.
With a start, Clara sat up straight. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was… a guy named Sketch? Taking psychedelic mushrooms?
Warily, she surveyed the room around her. It had seen better days. Or perhaps not, perhaps it had always featured two broken-down futons and a stained, tattered rug the color of mud. It reeked of… what was that tangy, spicy, pungent something-or-other? Over on a chipped folding TV table she saw a jumble of white take-out cartons. Down by her feet she found another container, half-eaten, fork poking out of it: Indian chicken curry.
She closed her eyes and focused on the positives.
1) Even if she had somehow jettisoned herself into a post-apocalyptic future it was still possible to get take-out food.
2) Clearly, she wasn’t stuck back in an episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. Whatever was going on around her, it was unlikely to involve a toothy realtor dancing in a leopard print banana hammock.
Deep breath in. Clara opened her eyes again. Then forced herself to breath out. What was that large lump over on the other futon? Wrapped in that green cotton thing with the tasseled edge?
Clara rose but before she could take a step forward she looked down. And gasped.
On her feet she wore mismatching socks, one dingy beige-used-to-be-white, one black wool, though both with identical holes in the big toe. Rainbow swirl leggings peeked out from underneath… what was it exactly? A poncho? A caftan? An African Dashiki Mumu? Overlayed across haphazardly alternating streaks of yellow, black and red, gold beaded circles blazed across her bosom. Fringe worked its way around the edges, along the bottom and around the large arm holes. So much fringe.
She really filled it out, too. No perky B cups that could either be maximized in a WonderBra or minimized in a sports bra, as per circumstance. Apparently all versions of alternate realities for Clara involved larger breasts, though these ones were definitely feeling the pull of gravity. These babies roamed the earth, unfettered by undergarments, free to do as they pleased.
And hello Earth Goddess hips! Clara ran her hands over her sides and found much more cushion for the pushin’ than ever before. Forget the extra ten-to-fifteen pounds couch-bound Clara had put on since college, this Clara could sit on that Clara and might not feel a lump.
A large, shaggy dog padded its way into the room. It made its way over and began to hump her leg.
Was this her dog? She reached down and found no collar, no ID tags. A glance over at the couch yielded no answers; the lump wrapped in green made no movement. As Clara was about to resort to a strong, sturdy shake to dislodge the beast from her leg, he hopped off of his own accord and, unhurried, padded out of the room.
The lump on the couch moved. An arm pushed its way out of the blanket, but a pillow still covered what looked to be a man’s face. Clara took a hesitant step toward him, jangling as she moved due to her many anklets. Plus bangley bracelets up and down her arms, not to mention the multitude of rings most of which featured snakes. Clara shuddered as she looked at the silver reptiles twisting and curling their way across her fingers and toes. A silver snake arm bracelet wound its way around her ample upper arm.
OK, more than ample. She was fat, really fat and wearing serpents and an eyesore of a tent. But maybe it wasn’t so bad? She tried to calm herself. Maybe she’d become the happy wilderness hiker type who showered in rainwater and eschewed bath products because they stole one’s natural oils? Hand on her protruding belly, Clara eliminated the hiker-type option. No way this lady got out on trails much. But maybe she was a jolly kind-of plump, like a laid-back, super-excellent baker? Maybe she was an awesome cook! Opening her eyes, Clara saw the take-out cartons. Hmmm. Maybe not.
The man on the couch shifted again. Brad? She couldn’t tell with the couch pillow over his face. The green blanket had a pattern on it that looked somewhat Native American: interlocking turtles with lightning bolts on their shells, blue and red on either side. Where had she seen that before?
“Trippin’ on the terrapin?” A voice asked from behind her. A familiar voice. Clara turned and faced Brad. Or the hippie that ate Brad.
“Oh my God!” She couldn’t help but exclaim as she took it all in, the scraggly hair mass pulled back into a messy ponytail, the faded black and white striped Surfer Hoodie stretched to its max around his girth, the distinctive stank. “Is that you?”
“Killer night, huh?” He shook his head like a dog shaking off water. “I’m still feelin’ it.” Clara took a step back; her knees wobbly. “Don’t sit on Jared, dude,” Brad warned. “You know how he gets.”
Clara glanced behind her at the green lump on the futon. “Who’s Jared?” she asked in a weak voice.
“You know…” Brad shrugged. “He’s crashing at our pad. We met him that one time… at that thing.” He sank onto the futon where she’d been sleeping. Reaching down, he picked up the half-eaten carton of Indian food and began raising a forkful to his mouth.
“Wait, that’s chicken!” Clara gasped. She could vividly picture bacteria colonies exploding all over the meat.
“Cool.” Brad glanced down into the carton and shoveled in a heaping forkful. Clara gagged. Brad kept on munching and informed her, “The Dweeze is due in a few.”
“The Dweeze,” Clara nodded, looking around for the exit. Always good to know the location of the door in case of emergencies. Like when you traveled back in time to the Land of the Hippies. Just like the Land of the Lost only with a lot more pot.
Had she awakened into the middle of a “Just Say No” TV spot? Should she head into the kitchen, scramble an egg, point to the pan and say into the camera “this is your brain on drugs?” Or perhaps she was appearing in an updated version of the classic 1936 Reefer Madness, this time with insanity attributed to shrooms? You took one cap and look where it got ya.
The front door opened. A man poked his head around the frame. Holding his waist-length dreadlocks back from his face with one hand, he asked, “Dude, can I borrow a pineapple and a Phillips head screwdriver?”
“Yeah, man,” Brad agreed. The guy walked his barefoot way across the room into what Clara assumed was the kitchen. Or the toolshed. Or both.
Reaching around behind the futon, Brad used both hands to grasp a four-foot tall purple bong. Gargoyle heads ran along its length. Grabbing a baggie from the front pouch of his shirt—Clara wondered briefly if all his shirts had front pouches for that purpose, like a stoner kangaroo—he started packing in a pinch of dark green weed.
“Sooo,” Clara adopted the tense, nervous tone of someone trying to act casual. She didn’t know exactly how to phrase the questions, ‘Where the hell are we? What’s happening? How did it all get
this way?’ So she tried a more subtle tact. “We’ve been out in the Bay Area a while now, huh?”
Brad sucked in a burbly-loud lungful from his bong, then held it for longer than Clara would have believed possible of a non-Olympic swimmer. Finally blowing it out, he mused “Cali…”
Were they even in California? Clara tried to peek nervously out the window, but between the rice paper shades and the filth on the glass she saw nothing recognizable.
“Lesse,” he pondered. “We moved out right after Shroomfest ‘02. But then, remember after Shroom-a-palooza ’05 we headed up the coast and crashed there for, like…?” He trailed off, gazing into the middle distance. In a quiet voice, he murmured, “Eureka...”
“Eureka?” Clara repeated.
“Eureka. Yeah, up the coast.” He looked up with a hazy smile, then returned his attention to another marathon bong hit. “Then we were back for Burning Man, but the same year? Or was it after Shroom-a-roo ’07?”
“Mmmm.” Clara shook her head.
“You in, Tif?” He gestured to the bong. Clara glanced behind her, wondering if someone named Tiffany had entered the room. Seeing no one, she asked, “Are you talking to me, Brad?”
He spat out a loud cough. “Dude, why’re you pullin’ that out on me? Harshin’ my mellow. You know I’m Trey now.”
“Trey?” Clara asked as the dog ran in once more and began humping her leg.
Trey/Brad laughed. “Boner,” he said affectionately, shaking his head.
“Boner!” Clara commanded, shaking her leg. “Off.”
“Aw, let him do his thang. He’s just a dawg bein’ a dawg.” Brad scratched his chin, the slow gears in his brain back again to shifting. “Wait, I got this. We came back after Shroom-a-chella ‘06! Or was it ‘08?” His gaze drifted again.
Ah. Clara got it, music festivals. Coachella, Bonnoroo, Lollapalooza. Each apparently a site in which they’d done a boatload of shrooms.
“Wait,” he continued. “What year is it right now?” With a shake of his head, he opined, “Dude, time is an illusion.”
And she thought she was the confused one with the time travel and all.
“You never did take that investment banking job with your dad.” She figured it was a safe bet, just based on the sheer volume of his un-groomed hair.
He snickered. “Haven’t thought about that in a while.”
She didn’t know how to ask it, but she had to know how he’d evaded his Type-A, business-school-or-bust father. How had his dad not hired a SWAT team to swoop down in a search-and rescue mission? Saving Private Brad. Looking around, there was zero evidence of Brad’s trust fund. She settled on asking, “How’s your dad?”
He shrugged. “You’re so random. You know I haven’t talked with him in, like…” He trailed off again and Clara inwardly groaned at the prospect of more awkward and unproductive groping at dates and times. He finally settled on, “Not since that Christmas party at their house. Remember?” He snickered again. “We got naked and they all came in and found us licking the fireplace?”
“Awesome,” Clara murmured. So this was Brad Cut Off. She watched as he took another bong hit, already unimpressed over the marvel of his lung capacity. Gesturing at the doorway she said, “I’m gonna go…” Do something to calm the looming sense that I’ve completely lost my mind. “Make some tea.”
He grunted, nodded, and sucked again on the bong.
Clara made her swaying, jangling way out of the room. Her right leg felt stiff and achy and she limped a bit.
In the kitchen, she saw no sign of the man with dreadlocks, but the side door was ajar. She closed it. And paused a moment at a door next to it. It must lead to another room; was that where the smell came from? That hot smell of rotting food? She took a tentative step closer. Did she detect a hum coming from behind that door? And possibly some heat?
“I wouldn’t open that if I were you.” A young woman, her dark hair in two long braids, entered in from the side door.
“No?” Clara took a step back.
“No one’s gone in the compost room for, like, months. Guess it wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
Clara sprang away from the door as if she’d been burned. A compost room? Wasn’t composting always done outside, in a bin or at least a pile far away from the house? “There’s compost inside?”
“Yeah.” The girl confirmed as she rummaged through the cabinets, pulling out a chipped bowl and a bag of granola. “It started small and it was, like, easier, but then…” She shrugged, pushed aside some dirty dishes on the counter top and climbed up to sit cross-legged on it. Seeming to recall where she was and to whom she was speaking, she added, “Anyway, you know all that, Tif.”
Tired of playing coy, trying to act like she knew what was going on, Clara simply asked, “Who are you? And why are you guys calling me Tif?”
The girl nodded sagely. “Rough morning?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on around here.”
“I’m so there with you. It’s like, ‘this is not my beautiful wife.’” She looked around the room as if startled.
“So you don’t know where you are and what’s going on either?” Clara asked, feeing even more unsettled.
“No, this week I’m cool,” the girl reassured her. “But a couple weeks ago, I was like—whoah! Who am I? What life am I living in?” She put her hands up and looked around again, pantomiming disorientation. “Anyway, Growley was around and he talked me down.” Her eyes lit up with a new sense of mission. “Do you need me to talk you down? ‘Cuz I’m really good at that.”
“Maybe you could answer some questions,” Clara agreed without much confidence.
“For reals, I am so here for you.” The girl meant it so much she put down her bowl of granola. She’d finished it, but still.
“Where am I?”
“OK, I got this,” she responded as if a contestant on a show. “You’re in your kitchen.”
“But, what city?”
“Berkeley, dude!” She broke into a wide grin. “Where else?”
That did make sense, Clara had to agree. “Why do you call me Tif?”
“You earned it.” She nodded significantly.
“I earned Tif?”
“Yeah, from Our Leader?”
Clara sat down on a kitchen chair with a loud thud; her leg was killing her. And she apparently had a leader. “So when you say leader, I’m guessing you don’t mean, like, the president?”
The girl laughed. “You are so funny. I love it.” Clara waited expectantly until she continued. “You know, you got the name after that bad acid trip? When we were all up on the commune living off the land? You dropped acid and saw all the trees on fire? So Our Leader chose your name as Tree Fire.”
“Tree Fire,” Clara repeated. She was named after a hallucination. Of a forest fire.
“Yeah, you’re T.F. for Tree Fire. Tif. And I’m Starlight, in case you’ve forgotten my name, too,” she added helpfully.
With her hands in front of her on the table, Clara had to ask. “What’s with all the snake jewelry I’m wearing? I hate snakes.”
“You still do?” Starlight asked, sympathetic. “That’s too bad. After you got bit that one time, Our Leader told you to surround yourself with your fears so you could conquer them.”
Shuddering, Clara looked at the serpents mid-slither all over her. Our Leader didn’t know squat.
A dark, dreadlocked head popped in via the side door. “Dude, can I borrow a towel and a fork?”
“Yeah, man,” Starlight agreed.
“Oh,” he added, snapping his fingers and pausing in the middle of the room. “And, like, a really big rubber band?”
“Whatever.” Starlight shrugged. The barefoot borrower grabbed a fork from the counter top and then padded his way out of the room.
“Do you live here?” Clara asked her.
“No, just you and Trey.”
“And I’m named after a bad acid trip?”
�
�Well, it wasn’t that bad. I mean, you totally freakin’ lost your mind. But it wasn’t as bad as when you fell out of the redwood tree.”
Clara rested her forehead in her hands and repeated the information. “I fell out of a redwood tree.”
“Yeah. You were trying to be like that lady, Julia something something?”
“Butterfly Hill.” Clara remembered hearing about her back in the day, the environmental activist who’d lived in a redwood tree for two years.
“Right. Like her. Only you fell out.”
Clara took a moment to process. “So, I joined a cult, had a bad acid trip and got named after it.” She counted her misadventures out on her fingers. “Then I tried to copy Julia Butterfly Hill and live in a redwood. But instead I fell out and broke my leg?”
“In six places,” Starlight confirmed.
“In six places,” Clara echoed, rubbing her leg. That explained the ache. A wave of nausea washed over her. She wasn’t sure if it was due to learning about the details of her cautionary tale of a life, or the overpowering stench of hot rot emanating from the compost room.
“You’re super lucky you didn’t die!” Starlight offered, ever the optimist. “And it wasn’t a total loss. You got some press for the cause.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Clara could see the headlines: Dumb Hippie Falls Out of Tree. Bet that won over a lot of people.
A knock sounded at the door. Starlight exclaimed, “I think your client is here!”
“My client?”
“You know,” Starlight gestured with her hand. “To have you tell their fortune.”
“Um, what?” Clara looked at her blankly.
“This is bad.” Starlight shook her head. “You don’t even remember that you’re a psychic?” Clara continued staring at her, waiting for the punch line to the joke. “Well, I mean you’re not that psychic, anyway,” Starlight continued. “So maybe this won’t be too bad. Why don’t you go put on your turban.” She gestured toward another doorway featuring a hanging beaded curtain. “And I’ll let her in.”
Clara woodenly approached the hanging beads. This all had to be a joke. Maybe though the doorway she’d find Jeanie in a trim and neat pink suit. “I got you good!” she’d exclaim and they’d both double over in laughter.
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