LSD Innocence Part 2

Bruce Munson was going to handle our trip. Bruce was an icon in the freak community at Tufts. Whether he was the first person on campus to trip on LSD (as was claimed) or not, he certainly was a driving force in making the activity safe for others taking psychedelics. He had established a relationship with the University, and whenever someone was in trouble taking drugs, Bruce had a network of experienced drug takers who intervened to help those freaking out to find a safe landing. Bruce was training to be a Unitarian minister, which meant that he was completely open and supportive of all drug use (that’s what Unitarian means, right?), and that he had a servant’s heart. There were people out there, especially as the use of psychedelics grew, who wanted no more than to freak you out when you were tripping. You knew that Bruce and his people wanted the opposite. Doing a trip with Bruce Munson was guaranteed to be a Ted’s Most Excellent Adventure experience.
We were moving through the Delt house again, bouncing down the stairs towards the front door. Gail had suggested that we wait out front for Bruce. Good idea, for the Delts who were still awake weren’t bidding us a fond farewell.
We stood under the lamp post out front, watching sparks shooting out of the light. Experiencing the quiet in a way you only experienced on psychedelics – a solitary quiet, where brain noise was silenced, and all you could sense was stillness. It was the beginning of what would become, for many of us, a zen sense of God. Not personal, but there nevertheless. There was order in the quiet and a sense that everything did make sense. I guess the drug impacted your hearing, because there was a lot of listening in the quiet. But if you were having a hard time, and were a little freaked out, the quiet and solitude were terrifying, because being alone was a reminder that at death you would be entirely alone, and that could happen at any moment. And then you were out of control. Bob was starting to get into that pattern of thinking, so I was really happy when, after 5 minutes in the quiet, Bruce roared up in his 1952 Ford pick-up truck.
Gail had done a great thing – she had given Bruce some ponchos and coats for us to wear. We were all one step from anorexia, so how high the clothes rose above your stomach or wrist was the only determination about how the clothes fit, but as cold as we were, anything was great. Bob, Dan and I got in the back of the truck; Sandy rode shotgun. Bruce took off into parts unknown, and we hunkered down in the back, hoping not to be thrust out onto the pavement.
None of us ever had a trip master after that night and, looking back, the entire experience of wanting someone to show us the rope appears almost childish. What you really needed to know we learned as the night went on. In the back of Bruce’s truck, the three of us laughed together at the absurdity of our situation, getting uncontrollable and leaving ourselves and coming together as one unit. I always felt most vulnerable on a good trip when those I was with split apart. I never liked getting separated from those I had got off with, and a couple hours in, I would be really upset if I lost either Dan, Bob or Sandy.
Bruce stopped in some square, told us to get out, gave us money and steered us towards a run down theater that had a midnight showing of “Yellow Submarine.”
“I’ll be here when it’s over,” Bruce shouted as he hauled off. This job of his wasn’t all that difficult: put them in the truck; freeze their arses off; drop them in the middle of nowhere to see a cartoon movie; smoke some dope with Carol Rounds; come back and take them home.
I didn’t see God that night, but I did get into Pepper Land and the great superiority of love when facing awful people (strange, British sounding, cartoon creatures, actually). I swam in the images in the theater, and it was hard to follow the movie’s very simple plot because of the distraction of the colors exploding from the screen. The four of us clung together throughout. We were very close anyway, and this clinging was a reflection of the remarkable ability LSD sometimes had to create a tremendous bond between people. We were intertwined as we left the show – singing “All together now” as the Beatles requested. In front of the theater, a hundred students who looked just like us were milling in the street. They had long hair, decorated jeans, emerging facial hair (men), boots, ponchos, weird hats, color everywhere – too much fucking paisley. There was a great spirit in the crowd, a familiarity as you stood and walked by each other, smiling, laughing. These were our brothers and sisters. These people were getting hassled by their parents like I was; they were worrying about Vietnam and getting caught holding drugs. They were enjoying a new freedom sexually, and they all were starting to sense that we were part of some huge deal, and not only because we stood outside the movie loving each other, in the all encompassing love LSD usually brought you to. Dope was part of it too. Everyone was smoking weed in the square; joints were rolling through the crowds, starting at various points. It was a loaves and fishes moment – everyone got stoned.

When you were on the other side of peaking on acid, coming down was a generous time, when relief, insight and thanksgiving created the most forgiving, gracious and optimistic heart. Having not loved much before that night, I realized that I had the potential to love. I did love Bob, Dan and Sandy. As universal as I was feeling, I guess I knew I loved Dan and Sandy more than Bob. That was the true part of coming down people wished wasn’t true. Coming down meant memories of extraordinary things, but also an inkling that it wasn’t all true, that some of it was a drug.
People wanted the euphoria and universal love to be true. People tripped again.
Bruce knew we were in the “oh” zone when he arrived ten minutes after we left the theatre. We didn’t even talk to him, all four of us got into the back of the truck, and he frisked us back to Tufts. We were past peak, but we were really tripping. We were oohing and aahing at the street lights and stars. We went by a lake that reflected the moon into our faces and we are orgasmic about it. The four of us were standing, holding on for dear life to the roof, sides and each other. We sang most of the way back, loud and badly, and not caring. Beatles songs mostly.
We were within view of the campus when there was the wail of sirens behind us and Bruce slowed down and pulled over. It was the Medford Police. We were all standing as he walked to the driver’s window. The Medford police wore baby blue coats in 1969, and they looked like the Blue Meanies from Yellow Submarine. Bruce got out of his truck, opened his wallet, which had a fake police badge strapped to the inside flap. Although we perceived that doom was at the door, we couldn’t get over the color of the jacket, and someone said, under their breath but distinctly audible to all of us, “it’s the Blue Meanies.” Then another said it, then Sandy, then me, and then the laughing started, with full out “it’s the Blue Meanies” actuating more giggling and body bending frivolity.
The policeman took a hard, judgmental look at us but did nothing. He didn’t search Bruce, the truck or us. He must have thought that we were Tufts’ problem: let the school sort this out. The campus cops have time to deal with this nonsense, I don’t. Gotta go to Nick’s Pizza to get my bribe money from the local Mafia. We roared off, and five minutes later we got out of the truck, told Bruce how groovy and far out he was, and stumbled up the stairs to Dan’s room, collapsing onto the mattresses that covered his floor, and commenced to smoke a humongous quantity of Mexican field marijuana. It took a humongous amount to get you high.
That would be a good trip, but as we rallied with the introduction of another drug, we got motivated to connect with other people in this LSD colored universe. We all listened to WBCN, Boston’s underground rock station, and we called them to talk with their graveyard DJ, who was very hip and accessible. We got a dialog going, and he played a couple songs “for his friends at Tufts.” It was getting close to dawn, and I asked him if he would play 2001: The Space Odyssey’s opening tune (it’s some famous classical number), but he replied that he had a mix going which built up to “Good Morning, Good Morning,” a worthy Beatles’ song from Sgt. Pepper. We couldn’t see that song greeting the new day the morning after we had taken LSD for the first time. We played on our desperate need for fulfillment during the waning moments of our trip, and he told us that he would play the song if we could get him the exact time of sunrise that morning. There was no Google then, and it took a long time to find the right time, and we got it to the radio jock with about 10 minutes to spare.
“I’m not sure I can get it on guys, but I’ll try.”
We waited quietly by the radio, watching the time and listening for the song.
At dawn, he put it on, 2001: The Space Odyssey. And he told every freak listening in ever dorm and apartment in Boston.
“This is for my friends Nick, Bob, Dan and Sandy, who are tripping over at Tufts.”

There was nothing left to do but smoke some more dope and fall asleep. We had been on a great adventure and all of WBCN’s 6 am, Saturday morning listeners knew it. That was great joy as we dozed off.
I realized that for the first time in my life, I was living in the moment, whatever that means.