Third Movement:
It was the summer of 1969, the summer that Buzz Aldrin landed on the moon. By that time the horrors of “reefer madness” I once held had faded. I smoked, on several other occasions since the Pi Alpha Sigma mixer, but had little to show for it. There was a part of me that was starting to believe it was all hype: a desperate attempt by hormone driven youth to achieve hipness: all one royal scam by the hemp, music and Cheetos industry.
I was about to abandon my ventures into the world of weed were it not for my fraternity brother, Raggs. To me Nicky Raggostino was the embodiment of cool; he drove a MGB sports car, had his own apartment, was about to graduate and had a gorgeous girlfriend.
One balmy summer night at the Kappa Phi sorority house in West Hampton Beach, Raggs and I had just come back from a rum run and were sitting parked in his MGB. The top was down. The large expanse of lawn was littered with other randomly parked cars; the static of radio music came from all directions. Raggs offered to share a joint with me. I was close to declining, given my futile experiences since Sebastian’s, but didn’t want him to think I hadn’t been high yet. Thus began the to and fro waltz of the joint.
Raggs, with self-possessed cool, pulled a tape from the glove box; it was Mr. Fantasy, by Traffic. He shot the tape deftly into the player and soon the sounds emerged. I was a little behind the curve musically; I loved the Beatles and the Stones but hadn’t quite made the shift to groups like Cream or Traffic. The tape started with the title song: Mr. Fantasy
Dear Mr. Fantasy play us a tune
Something to make us all happy
“This car is the nuts, Raggs,” I said as he passed me the joint with a look that confirmed that he couldn’t agree more. I took a short little hit and passed it back to Raggs who managed to wrest it from me without opening his eyes.
“Yeah, this is what a car should be,” I thought.The rich smell of glove leather and the 
feel of a walnut steering wheel plunged me into pool of envy. I started playing with one of the toggle switches: up and down, up and down, on and off. Raggs brusquely slapped my hand and passed me the joint. He then closed his eyes and rhythmically nodded his head and softly mumbled the lyrics.
For a first hearing, I thought it was good, but Raggs seemed lost in ecstasy. What was Rags hearing that I wasn’t? Opening his eyes just a crack, Raggs said in a suppressed voice that comes from holding one’s breathe, “Isn’t this far out?” He then exhaled a long trail of white smoke while the joint stayed glued to his thumb and forefinger.
Do anything take us out of this gloom
Sing a song, play guitar
Make it snappy
“Yeah, far out,” I shot back nodding my head in sync with his. I was a fraud; I was nowhere near stoned – a bit lightheaded and a bit tingly perhaps, but not stoned. I tried to grab another hit from the elusive joint, but Raggs’ hand jerked about like the baton of a symphony conductor.
Listen to this! Listen to this! Raggs uttered with urgency as Dave Mason worked over the guitar. With his eyes still closed, head still nodding, Raggs took hold of my left shoulder and moved it in time with the bass line. I just wasn’t getting it; it was as if Raggs was listening to the music without a condom. He pressed the joint to my lips, and I took a big hit.
I closed my eyes and started to drift with the music when a soft hand touched my cheek. I opened my eyes and was greeted by a shock of long blond hair and huge green eyes: It was Venessa Banks. She was considered the campus unattainable; I was speechless; Raggs was ripped. He continued to nod, hand on my shoulder mumbling incomprehensible lyrics.
“So how about you bad boys?” she said in throaty tone. Her hand remained on my cheek, while the other grasped a plastic cup overflowing with rum punch and maraschino cherries. She removed her hand from my cheek and eased away with a slight list in her walk. So, now I was a “bad boy.” I cranked the volume as high as it would go and grabbed for the cashed joint fused between Ragg’s fingers.
Fourth Movement:
There are some sections of Queens, New York that are architecturally devoid of distinction. Joe Beech lived in one of these. More precisely, it is where his grandmother, Nana, lived; Beech lived in the basement with a huge Great Dane named, Sneak. Beech and I went to high school together; he played soccer when I played football and our lockers were nearly adjacent. I felt sorry for Beech; he was a mediocre player with few social graces and covered in acne. His sister, Janice, however, was a year older and very charming.
I ran into her at a place called The Gold Coast during the fall of my Junior year in college. We talked for several hours: mostly about her concern for Beech, which is what she called him along with everyone else. He dropped out of college during midterms of his freshman year. He believed every institution was a bourgeois trap, and so, moved in rent-free with Nana.
What seemed to concern her most, however, was his drug use. He avoided the hard stuff, but if he wasn’t stoned on weed, he was more than likely tripping on acid. I confessed to her that I had the opposite problem: that I tried desperately to get buzzed but wasn’t very successful. Then Janice came up with a proposal; I go to visit Beech and report back to her regarding his condition, and, she assured me, I wouldn’t walk out of his basement straight.
The intense heat rose up from the concrete in pulsating waves. Nana’s house was a link in a chain of indistinguishable brick row houses in Jamaica Queens. Beech said to look for the house with the storm door wide open. That’s all I needed.
As I walked up the crumbling, concrete steps, I noticed the main door leading to a small foyer was also open. The foyer to the house was cozy: detailed in dark walnut with a number of brass hooks; a worn yellow rubber raincoat hung is solitude. As I took my first step into the living room, the acrid smell of Lysol and cigarette smoke drifted past me to freedom out the open doors. A TV hummed in the background.
“Helloooo” I said in a false pitch.
“Come in, Come in! I won’t bite,” replied a voice
I never met Nana. I expected her to be obese and disheveled, but she was actually thin and neatly clothed, however, it was the unhealthy thin that comes from a strong penchant for Virginia Slims and Michelob. She wore a clean, but faded blue Yankee’s sweatshirt that hung on her like old curtains: only the letters “ANKE” were still visible.
Nana was poking her forefinger into flowerpots that lined the widow sill over the sink. The plants all looked desiccated. A half finished cigarette nestled between the middle and fore finger of her non-poking hand. Satisfied the plants were fine, she unconsciously wiped the potting soil from her hand onto a pair of perfectly pressed white polyester slacks.
“Hello Mrs. Beech” I said.
“I’m not a Beech, God no! A bitch at times, but not a Beech. Now Joey, he is a son of a Beech, but I’m a Davis. Got that pretty boy?” The forefinger of her cigarette hand pointed directly at my head.
The words “I’m sorry,” sprang from my lips.
She burst into a raspy laugh punctuated by a staccato of coughs.
“That gets ‘em every time,” she took the first hit of her cigarette. “The name is Lucy, Lucy Davis. You call me Nana like Joey.”
“Yes, Nana,” I stated warily.
“Why do you want to see Joey?” Before I could blurt out an answer, she continued.”
“You’re not one of his druggy friends are you?” She took a second drag of her cigarette, and tossed it into the sink.
“No, no,” I protested. “I’m clean as a whistle. I just haven’t seen him in a while, and I promised Janice . . .” Before I could finish, she held her flowerpot poking hand up like a traffic cop: her fingers still dusted with potting soil. I stopped in mid-sentence. Just the sound of the word Janice put her at ease.
“He’s down in basement,” she mumbled as she placed a new cigarette between her lips.
Her extended boney finger pointed the way.
`As I headed down the narrow basement stairs, I heard Nana’s muffled voice, “Tell him his lunch has been sitting up here for an hour.”
The basement was primitive: the water pipes ran linear courses along the partially finished ceiling from which occasional tongues of pink fiberglass insulation hung. Miles Davis’ album, Kind of Blue, was playing, but was hardly audible because of noise emitted by a washer and dryer. The sound coming from a make-shift shower stall added to the cacophony.
Sneak wiggled up to me and nudged me in the crotch with his huge snout. I met Sneak as a puppy; he was huge now, and every time I patted his head, he lifted his snout higher up my crotch lifting me to my toes. I looked around the basement; it wasn’t a bad set up actually. From our high school days, Beech was always preoccupied with order: properly rolled socks and ironed training shorts.
The basement was divided in two by a three foot high wall of plastic milk cartons stacked two high. The top row of yellow cartons contained record albums, the green cartons of the bottom row, books. One half of the basement was devoted to utility: washer, dryer, furnace, shower stall, a hand made wooden bench press that held a metal bar loaded to the hilt with cheap weights and an upright exercise bike from the fifties: a puff of yellowed stuffing protruded from its black vinyl seat.
The private side of the cellar was spartan; a twin size bed frame topped with what seemed a rather thin mattress. A neatly spread olive green sleeping bag with a red plaid flannel lining completed the ensemble. There was a faded orange Lazy Boy recliner and what served as a catch all coffee table made from a large rectangular sheet of plate glass placed on four cinder blocks. A large commode huddled in the corner.
The walls were concrete blocks painted white and adorned by a two aluminum ladders hung horizontally and an upscale racing bike. The jewel of this otherwise sterile environment was a new, top of the line, KLH stereo system. As I approached one of the speakers, the velvety notes of Miles’ trumpet flowed over me like honey.
The noise from the shower stopped. Sneak bounded over to where the rust stained shower curtain hung. Beech stepped out of the fiberglass stall, grabbed a fresh bath towel and started feverishly rubbing his head. He wore only a pair of blue flip-flops. Sneak planted his snout into Beeches’ wet parts and lifted him as well.
“I was surprised to get your call,” Beech mumbled from beneath the towel. I had seen Beech naked numerous times during sport showers, but this was uncomfortable. I noticed he was in decent shape; his thick thighs together with his long slender calves reminded me of a frog.
“Just happened to be thinking about ya and thought I’d stop over.”
Sneak continued to nuzzle his crotch.
“You’re full of shit,” he said peaking at me out from under the towel. I noticed his acne was pretty much gone; he sported a goatee that was braided and at least six inches long.
“Okay, ya caught me, Man. I promised Janice I would check in on you.”
Beech stopped rubbing his head for a moment and then continued.
“Annnnd,” I added slowly, “she said you could get me buzzed.”
Beech dropped the towel to his side, pushed Sneak away from his crotch with one sweep of the hand, and faced me directly.
“You? You haven’t been stoned yet?” came out as both a question and a rebuke.”
“No.” I tried to sound unapologetic. “And would you put the towel around you? I’m tired of looking at your dick.”
Beech grinned, wrapped the towel around his narrow waist, walked to the dryer, interrupted the cycle, and fished out a fresh pair of sweat socks. He headed back for the bed laughing quietly the whole time.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You! That’s what’s so funny.
He sat on the edge of the bed and began to put on his socks.“Nothing like putting on socks right out of the dryer.”
His body still dripped from his shower; his long reddish-brown hair was wildly amassed around his head. The remnants of the acne on his back resembled ancient red craters.
I was becoming more agitated.
“And, how am I funny?
Beech put on his second sock, looked admirably at the shear whiteness of his two feet and then turned to me.
“Well, aren’t you supposed to be Mister Hip?” Always on the edge of what is cool.” Beech chuckled. “Now you come to Uncle Joey. Man, isn’t life one long chain of ironies.’ Sneak was back nudging Beach’s crotch through the bath towel.
“Okay, fine, whatever. Are you going to get me stoned or not? Please answer yes or no.”
Beech stiffened a bit and rotated his torso toward the Lazy Boy where I was sitting. He took in a deep breath; his face was unreadable. It was as if he was computing all the pro’s and con’s that come with getting me stoned. He exhaled slowly and, as he did, a broad smile glided across his face.
“Brother, there is nothing that would give me more pleasure than to pop your psychic cherry.”
His direct stare into my eyes plus the Cheshire cat grin was more than I could take. “So how do we start?” I said impatiently. He grinned at me another few seconds and then rose quickly with the index finger of his right hand pressed gently upon his lips signaling me to be patient.
Beech shuffled toward the old commode at the corner of the room. The towel hung loosely around his hips. Sneak’s nose started attacking Beech’s towel from the rear. The commode had no doors; instead, a blanket size piece of Indian fabric decorated with an intricate series of orange and green geometric patterns hid its contents. He pushed back the curtain with a gentle reverence and stared at the contents as if checking for some anomaly.
The interior of the commode seemed like most others: a horizontal pole supported neatly arranged shirts and pants, on the bottom were shoes: mostly sneakers. Satisfied with the order of things, Beech separated the section where the shirts ended and the pants began. He stretched his arm upward toward an invisible shelf where he groped for a moment.
His towel was unraveling quickly; Sneak lumbered over to me with a tooth worn tennis ball and dropped it in my lap. Beech was half way in the commode when I heard his muffled voice: “Got it!”
He carefully backed out of the commode holding what seemed to be an old cardboard cigar box.
“This use to be my crayon box all through grade school. Remember this buddy?” he said holding it just beneath my nose.
“How could I forget?” I answered “Would you fix your damn towel?”
“Throw it!” he commanded suddenly.
“Throw what?” I responded.
“The ball . . . Sneak likes to chase the ball.
I reluctantly picked up the saliva ridden tennis ball by the thumb and forefinger of my right hand and awkwardly tossed it to the far end of the of the cellar. Fortunately, it rolled under the heating oil tank. That should keep him occupied..
Beech placed the cigar box on the glass coffee table and started to comb his wet hair back with his fingers. He had a small turf of black hair on his sternum and his skin was as white as chalk.
“Getting stoned requires not only good weed, but the right ambiance,” he stated almost randomly. He walked over to a rheostat he had installed and dimmed the lights significantly. He then went about and lit strategically placed candles. They were all of a different scent that reminded me of the cosmetics section at Woolworths.
“What’s with the smells?” I asked. “Trying to keep Nana in the dark?”
“Quite the opposite,” he said smiling, “It’s a signal for her to stay upstairs.”
He now sat on the bed opposite the coffee table and slowly turned the cigar box around so that the opening faced him. Again, he looked at me with that goofy grin.
“Are you going to open that fucking box, or what? And don’t even try putting your finger to your lips.” I said in an edgy tone.
He looked at the box and smiled. “You must learn that all good things have their own timetable . . . “
“Got it Ram Dass,” I said. “Now would you pretty please roll a joint or stuff a pipe.”
Beech’s face suddenly lost its energy. It was as if he were tossed back into the high school locker room where he was the target of much razzing. I felt a wave of shame sweep over me. Beech seemed to be coming into his own: hip in his own peculiar way. I came over here to use him: to grab a buzz, and he was pleased to accommodate me.
I looked him in the eyes: “I’m sorry Beech. I’m being an asshole.” Beech just stared with that unreadable visage. “I guess I feel bad that I haven’t been able to get buzzed.” And, I added, “I think I’m a little bit nervous about how I would handle it if I did.”
He just looked at me. There was a moment of silence. Fortunately, Sneak was able to retrieve the ball and dropped it onto on my lap.
“He digs you, Man!” The energy swept back into his face.
This time, I managed a good grip on the ball and hurled it at the far basement wall. The ball careened off every wall and object in sight: Sneak was paralyzed; his head turned in jerky motions as if following a fly. And then, as if by providence, the ball ended its odyssey by slowly rolling to a stop directly under Sneak’s jowls.
Beech grinned. “That’s a good omen, Man, let’s get started.”
I moved over next to him to get a better view of what was about to happen. Beech stared at the cigar box and then turned his head searching the room as if something was missing.
“The music is off: Miles is definitely post-high.” He got up, his towel now tenuously gripping his hips and moved to the stereo. He was in shadow; his hands sorted through his records like a deck of cards. He stopped suddenly and nodded his head. Beech carefully pulled the record from its jacket and gently placed it on the turntable. After a second or two of scratching a familiar tune bellowed from the speakers:
Step right this way . . . Roll up That’s an invitation Roll up To make a reservation The Magical Mystery Tour Is waiting to take you away Waiting to take you away
“Great call, Beech; I love this album.”
Beech headed back to his seat; his countenance reflecting both a self-satisfied smirk and a flush of gratitude.
He sat again before the crayon scarred cigar box and turned to me. “Are we ready to fly partner?”
“Yes, Master, I am soooo ready.” I stated with controlled calm.
He opened the cigar box as if it contained an ancient relic. The box was crammed with small film canisters each one with a different colored dot on the top. There were several choices of rolling paper, a milky colored onyx pipe, a physician’s hemostat, and some pipe cleaners.
Beech faced me. “On a scale of one to five, five being the most potent and one the mildest, which weed would you like?”
“A twelve,” I shot back.
He sighed, “If only that were possible. I take your answer to be a five.” He selected the canister with the red dot on it.
“Good choice my friend; best to go for the high octane.”
“And now another question: paper or pipe?”
I felt myself getting edgy again, “Which is the quickest to produce?”
“Well, the pipe of course.” Beech said matter of factly, “But as this is a sacred experience, I have learned a form of origami that produces not only calm, but a joint that . . .”
“The pipe, Jackson or I’ll have to apologize to you again.”
“Not my choice,” he said in a patronizing tone, “The reason you’re having difficulty getting buzzed is you’re too tight.”
“Pleeeeze, I beg you Beech, get a pipe going.”
He looked at me with disappointment, but the goofy grin came back.
“Forgive me brother; it’s your baptism, so you pick the water. The pipe it is.”
Despite his proclivity to move at the speed of mud, Beech’s fingers moved like that of a concert pianist.
“Voila”, Beach exclaimed holding the packed pipe at arm’s length.
“Bless you Beech” I said in a relieved tone, “Now let’s hit it.”
“Not just yet,” he replied drawing the pipe close to his chest.
“You’re killing me,” I groaned, “What is it now? Lighter or matches?”
“Excellent question, but I only have matches,” he said thoughtfully, “No, it is do you want to take the first hit.”
“You’re the host, Man; you do the honors.”
Beech handed me the matches and placed the tip of the pipe gently to his lips. I nervously took the pack, ripped out a match and struck it. I let it burn for a while and placed it directly over the pipe.
He took short measured tokes; the weed in the pipe glowed like the coals in a furnace. He stopped, held the pipe off to one side and looked toward the ceiling with his eyes closed. He took two or three sharp inhales through his nostrils and slowly let the smoke flow from his mouth in a sort of sigh. The smell was invitingly sweet and managed to subdue the panoply of smells from the candles. Beech opened his eyes, and smiled; his eyes glistened with moisture.
“Now you”, his said, his one hand passing the pipe and the other taking the matches.
* * *
I’m really not sure how it all went down after that. I had a number of tokes and reclined back onto the plush recesses of the Lazy Boy. I do remember focusing intently on the music, noticing aspects of the songs that totally escaped me before. Fool on the Hill was playing for the second time when I finally sat upright on the recliner. On my lap, there was a note written on the back of a dry cleaners bill:
Went for a run with Sneak. Left half a tuna sandwich for you upstairs. Please, turn of the stereo before you leave. You did good, brother! B
Something did happen that day in Beech’s cellar. I now believed I was one of the initiated and no longer a fraud. Yet something wasn’t right; it just wasn’t as big a deal as I had hoped. I talked it up big when I was in certain circles, but it wasn’t really honest; it was ego jive.