A Painter Painting a Picture

Hitchhiking was the only way to travel between Boston and Montreal in the early 1970s. It was free. Hippies traveled the roads. 400 miles and most of the trip on scenic highway on the East Coast. I-89 slanted across New Hampshire and Vermont to Lake Champlain then north into Quebec.

One trip in August of 1971 a longhair driving a van said that he needed money for gas. I gave him $5. He took me from Lebanon to St. Albans. Jethro Tull on the 8-track When I got out of the car, the longhair handed me a pill. A horse choker an inch long.

"LSD." The hippie flashed a peace sign. His iris wavered in size. "Very strong. Take it with friends and don't look in a mirror."

"I know better than that." A mistake no one wanted to repeat on a trip. I had once stared at my shimmering reflection for hours. Orange Sunshine. My eyes were a black pool. A stare into eternity.

"Thanks for the gas."

A gallon was 35 cents. $5 was good for a week's driving. I flashed him the peace sign and stood on the interstate's shoulder. One ride to the border. Canadian immigration asked for a driver's license. The official saluted my entrance into his country.

Two hours later I was drinking beer with my New Zealand friends at Winston Churchill. My Irish friends were playing a gig off St. Catherine. Several French girls came home to Benny's apartment on Barat Street. I showed everyone the LSD pill.

The night was velvet with darkness. Pink Floyd was on the Denon turntable. A bootleg release of MEDDLE. I divided the powdered pill into section. 1/3 for the four girls. /3 for my three friends. 1/3 for me.

One hour.

Nothing.

Jefferson Airplane AFTER BATHING AT BAXTERS.

The first flash of light warbled from the corner of our eyes. The girls danced with POO NEIL. My friends held the album cover in their hands. We chanted, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

The LP art shrank into the subuniverse of time and space.

We were wandering in a microcosmic dream.

Each layer funnier than the last.

Dawn was on the St. Lawrence. Stars melted into the sky. We chanted, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...." one last time and returned home for sleep. I slept with a girl named Cheree. Flesh soft as still air. Eyes dilated to coal pits. She spoke French, no English, but chanted with an Irish accent, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...." until the words were a mutter and her skin turned to feathers.

It took me a long time to come down.

Cheree was my parachute.

A soft landing.

No crash.

"A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

I'm glad that my mind remembered Cheree's name.