MESCALITO by Wayne Patrick

PART ONE

The rotary dial phone next to my bed, three inches from my ear, rang,
and rang multiple times before registering in my brain. My REM state was
being rudely challenged. It woke me out of a dream that I could have held
on to longer, probably having something to do with sex since I awoke with a
stiffy. Eight in the morning on Saturday. What the fuck? I had a major
hangover from the night before, drinking watered-down 3.2 percent
alcoholic content beer across the state line in Kansas. Missouri had archaic
drinking laws excluding my legal imbibing until I was twenty-one.

In my home state of Kansas, you could drink beer if you were eighteen
since, for chrissakes, you could be drafted and sent to Nam to die at that age.
I don’t care what anyone says about lightweight watered-down three percent
beer. You still get a buzz, you just have to go to the men’s room more often.

My head felt like it had been the bulls-eye for a ten-pound

sledgehammer. The infantry, clad in dirty socks, had slogged thru my mouth
on their way to the war. My tongue felt tiny little snug-fitting sweaters on
each of my teeth.

I fumbled for the receiver and managed to pick it up.

“Bud, what’re you doin’ tonight?” my friend Don asked, on the other end
of the static-spitting line.

“You askin’ me to think that far ahead? I can’t think past my next crap,”
I managed to slur despite the resistance of my brain and vocal chords to
coordinate.

“I scored some mescaline. Let‘s drop some tonight.”

“What the fuck is mescaline?” I inquired. “Sounds like a gasoline

additive.”

“It’s like acid, man, only organic. No chemicals. From the peyote cactus,
like in the Carlos Casteneda books.”
 I'd read the book about the Indian shaman, Don Juan, and how he
occasionally ingested the peyote cactus for a religious commune with God
and “Mescalito”, a spiritual teacher not of this earth. I wasn’t sure I wanted
to meet this “Mescalito” guy, earth or no earth, but as always, I was game
for any new alternative lifestyle adventure.

Hallucinogens I had never done; pot smoking, yes, in my apartment, but I

wasn’t too sure if I wanted to try this natural, organically-fueled
enlightenment vehicle, especially if I had to pick cactus needles out of my
mouth. The thought of tweezers and mercurochrome passed my mind. I
already had a bad enough taste in my mouth but, being the good sport
that I was, told Don to show up later with the natural but illegal goods.

“I’ll be over at your place at around six,” he said, and hung up the phone.

Living at home on the farm near our small Kansas hometown, Don
needed to get out often. There was nothing to do there except watch freight
trains and dreams pass by.

The natives there were restless snoops. They constantly craved fresh
meat for the grist mill. Don and I would be next on the grist list if the
county attorney had anything to say about it. He was always looking for
someone to nail--with anything. Any chance Don had to get out of Dodge
and out from under his parent’s and the county attorney’s scrutinizing eye
was welcomed.

I rolled out of my bed, an old mattress on the floor, lit a Marlboro and
crawled into the kitchen on all fours knocking over a pile of empty Coke
cans. I didn’t need sugar; I needed some instant coffee for a jump start.

Need caffeine was the predominant thought going thru my alcohol-addled

gray matter.

Waiting for the water to boil seemed to take forever. Not seriously
considering it but, being in a hurry, the thought crossed my mind that if I
had had a rig, I might have forgone the brewing, cooked the crystals in a
spoon and just shot it up. I could see the headline:

“MAN OVERDOSES ON FOLGER’S CRYSTALS”

 Needing to fill the void in my stomach, I opened the refrigerator door and
found a bottle of catsup, a jar of peanut butter, a half-box of Velveeta cheese
and an open jar of grape jelly. The jelly had a two-inch layer of mold
growing in it. I decided it wasn't a total loss. If I ever caught the clap, I'd
have a steady supply of penicillin. I decided it was too early to eat.

Having gotten my cup of instant java, I shuffled into the bathroom for a
quick shower. There was no hot water, thanks to the asshole neighbors who
had already sucked the tank dry. I took a cold bracing shower, which was
probably the best thing for me as I still had a half-erection. I always said, a
half-erection is better than no erection at all, but in this case I had things to
do this Saturday, so alleviating this condition would have to wait.

Drying myself, I felt almost awake now but I was still dealing with a
pounding headache that would put the anvil chorus to shame. Fuck me,
man, for being such an idiot. I reached into the medicine cabinet, grabbed
the Bayer bottle and shook three aspirin into my palm, swallowed them dry
and chased them with a glass of water. I gave the little sweaters on my teeth
the brush off with some Colgate and threw on a plain white T-shirt and a
pair of Levis.

No classes today. After checking my pockets for any incriminating

contraband, I hopped in my 1950 Chevy I'd nicknamed "The Booge" for
unknown reasons. I assumed it had probably been christened that during a
recent drunken conversation with some fellow students about the bourgeois
locals. It was time to hit Denny’s for some hotcakes.

Denny’s was relatively clean and had affordable food. I could get three
pancakes, bacon, eggs and coffee for three bucks plus tip, so I ended up
there frequently to fill the void in my stomach the Velveeta could not.

A tall, slightly overweight middle-aged waitress with a steaming pot of

Farmer's Brothers coffee in one hand and a menu in the other, came over as I
sat down, poured a fresh cup of coffee and handed me the menu.

Her slightly askew nametag read “Crystal.” She had a huge teased
beehive hairdo that must have taken two cans of hairspray a day to maintain.
I was wondering if she had ever found any spiders living in it.
 With her pencil at the ready, smacking on a wad of gum and with a face
totally void of any emotion she asked,

“So, what’ll it be, sugar?”

“I’ll have a short stack, bacon crispy and two eggs over medium."

“Outta pancakes, honey,” she stated flatly.

“This is Denny’s,” I said. “How can you be out of pancakes?”

“Delivery truck broke down on the way in this morning.”

“Well, how about a waffle, then?” I inquired.

“Outta waffles. They’re made with the same batter as the pancakes and
the truck--”

“Yeah, I know, broke down on the way in this morning,” I said, finishing
her statement. “Well, I’ll just have wheat toast instea..".

“Outta wheat."

“Well, let’s try a different angle, ok? What type of toast do you have?” I
said, hoping for more information than she was revealing.

Looking over her shoulder, she hollered into the kitchen,

“Hey, Max, what kinda bread we got for toast?”

“No bread," the cook yelled back. "Delivery truck broke down on the
way in this morning."

“Sorry, sugar, but…“

“Yeah, I know all about the truck,” I said again, completing her
sentence.

“How about biscuits?” I ventured.

 “No biscuits," she said, showing no emotion. "We got some powdered
Dolly Madison donuts."

“Well,” I said evenly, “can you dust the powdered sugar off the donuts,
put them in a blender, add some milk and an egg and put that on the grill?
I’m sure that would have some resemblance to pancakes.”

“Blender’s broke,” she shot back with some sarcasm, “and we don’t like
smartasses around here. Eat what we got or beat it, buster!"

Deciding that I was getting nowhere with this line of questioning and,
ignoring her insult, since my stomach was growling, I ordered just bacon
and eggs.

The order came very shortly thereafter. She practically threw the plate
down. It rattled as it skidded past my mouth, thru the silverware and to the
salt and pepper shakers at my side, knocking both over, and taking out a
container of sugar packets.

“You must be on the Denny’s bowling team,” I said. “ Looks like you got
a strike here.”

She frowned and turned away to wait on the next unsuspecting sucker
that was going to order pancakes.

The eggs were runny and the bacon was limp, but I did not want to deal
with Miss Crystal Smartmouth-Beehive anymore. I ate as fast as I could and
left a bright, shiny penny for a tip. (What most people don’t know, is that if
you don’t leave a tip, the waitress will think maybe you forgot. If you leave
a penny on the table, well, that pretty much says it all.)

After this gastronomical orgasm, I hopped in the Booge and cruised out
to the local mall's record store. I'd heard that Santana’s new album,
“Abraxas” was out and I wanted to be one of the first to get it, as both Don
and I were big Santana fans. Santana and a mind-altering cactus sounded
like a good combination.

I sauntered into the record store and walked up to the Clearasil clad clerk.

“Where’s the new Santana album?” I asked

 “Sorry, won’t be in for another hour or so. I guess the delivery truck
broke down."

“Does that truck also deliver to Denny’s?”

“Dunno,” the clerk mumbled. “But, it should be here soon.”

“Thanks,” I said, and walked over to the shoe store to check out some
new boots.

After wasting about an hour trying on boots that I had no intention of

buying, much to the chagrin of the clerk with an Al Bundy attitude, I headed
back to the record store and found that Santana had finally arrived. I
plunked down my four bucks and walked out of the mall, slid into the front
seat of the Chevy, pushed the starter button, threw it into first and headed for
home.

I decided to head to the city park instead to see what was happening and
to see if I could continue making a nuisance of myself with the picnickers. I
thought I might meet some other freaks and maybe even some hot chicks
that would want to get to know me.

The band shell at the top of the hill was the local youth gathering hot
spot. As I cruised up the gently winding tree-lined street to the top of the
hill, I was getting my hopes up that maybe the Stones would make a
surprise free concert appearance.

I noticed along the way a lot of middle-aged and older people with white
blouses and shirts and black skirts and pants walking up the hill along the
side of the road. All were carrying black books under their arms. I wasn’t
sure what to make of this. I assumed they were probably an offbeat religious
sect, chromatically challenged, or maybe the attendees of the Northwest
Missouri Elk’s Club convention. They were all carrying either Bibles, color
swatch binders or club bylaw notebooks.

The shimmering heat mirage on the black asphalt parking lot was an
indication of the warmth of the September sun; a perfect day to be outside in
nature. The lot was full of Pontiac and Ford station wagons, most in various
states of disrepair and sporting out-of-state plates. A large yellow school
bus had “Rev. ‘Big’ John Walker Ministries” stenciled in black on the sides.
Below that it said, “Tulsa, Oklahoma.” If that bus had been filled with black
and white-clad revelers all the way from Tulsa, their asses were probably
still numb.

As I surveyed the crowd, none of these penguin people were sitting

down, a clear indication of the effects of a three hundred mile school bus
road trip at a top speed of about fifty miles an hour.

The natural lay of the land just below the lot dropped off to form a
perfect low setting grass-covered knoll that evened out at the foot of the
stage with ancient oak and maple trees flanking either side.

What was happening on stage was a far cry from the Stones. Over the
loudspeakers I heard a booming baritone voice shouting,

“The end is truly near! Repent now or the Lord Almighty will strike you
down where you stand! You will be left here on earth for the final
tribulation! Do you know what you are doing to your soul? You’re
polluting it everyday by watching television, cursing, masturbating,
drinking beer, gambling, lusting for sex, and not attending church every
Sunday!”

I guessed then that I was probably polluting my soul big time and had
probably been doing so for years.

I listened awhile to Reverend “Big” John Walker and watched the

congregation in their black and white finery shout a lot of “Hallelujah!"s and
“Amen!”s. Big John was on a roll and everyone was up and running.

Big John was a very tall, portly man, with a shock of red wavy hair
combed straight back with enough pomade to supply the Broadway cast of
"Grease" for a couple of matinees. He was wearing a lime-green double knit
leisure suit with a white belt and white patent leather shoes. The requisite
diamond pinkie ring on his left hand completed his sartorial splendor. As he
waved his hand in the air, the diamond sparkled in the bright September
sunlight. It had enough flash to blind a bat.

With a flushed face and a sweating brow, looking heavenward and

clasping his hands in front of him, Big John boomed into the mic,
 “There’s a woman out there in the audience in a wheelchair! She hasn’t
walked for years! The name that is coming to me is uh, Martha, Marge, uh,
Maria, or maybe Mary! Are you out there, dear?”

From the back of the audience I heard a scream of,

“Yes, I’m here! I’m here!"

“Would someone please help this woman up here?” Big John boomed.

The musician at the Hammond organ pushed the volume pedal to the
floor as the notes swelled in intensity.

I could see two men in suits that must have been part of Big John’s
entourage, each grab an armrest of her wheelchair. She started moving thru
the sea of black and white toward the stage.

“Come on down sister! Your healing is at hand!”

Arriving at the stage, she was rolled up on a ramp conveniently located at

the base.

Big John was smiling and so was Martha, Marge, Maria or maybe Mary.
She was middle-aged and overweight with a heaving bosom and was
wearing a blue pillbox hat with a black veil, a string of pearls, a dark blue
flower print dress and a pair of harlequin sequined sunglasses. Looking like
a refugee from a Jackie Kennedy luncheon, she was ready for the healing as
she shouted,

“Big John, I’m here for ya! I’m here for ya!”

Walking over to her and getting down on his knee next to her to capture
every word in the microphone, he quietly and soothingly intoned,

“Mary, I want to...”

“It’s Martha, Big John,” she loudly whispered.

“Err, Martha. How long have you been in that wheelchair?”

 “About twenty years,” she replied, as she pulled out a white lace-trimmed
handkerchief and started to dab tears from her eyes.

“How did you come to be bound to this chair?” Big John asked, in a
quivering, empathetic, and almost weeping voice.

“I was rear ended by the Boston Bomber.”

“Oh, my! Goodness gracious!” Big John exclaimed. “Did you hear that
everyone? She was hit by a train!”

“No, no,” Martha intoned. “The Boston Bomber was the biggest
Amazon on the Roller Derby circuit. She hit me from behind, threw me off
balance and my roller skates carried me over the edge of the rink. I landed
face down on the announcer’s table. The accident caused a fracture of my
spine. The announcer didn’t end up real well either. The doctors all said I
would never walk again Big John, but I want to prove them wrong.”

“And we shall sister, we shall. Let me give you a sip of Miracle Water
from the Holy Land.”

Looking away from her and out into the crowd he shouted,

“This Miracle Water from the Holy Land is available in the one ounce
bottle for $10.95, or the economy size of six ounces for a low $16.95!
Folks, if you have multiple ailments, I would suggest the economy size. I
personally drew this water from a spigot behind the 7-11 near the Wailing
Wall in Jerusalem. Supply is limited! It will be available here after the
service, or send cash or money order to my office address listed on the back
of the pamphlet you were handed! No personal checks, please!“

Big John handed her a small vial of clear liquid. With wildly shaking
hands, she put the vial to her lips and swallowed.

“Gentlemen, help her out of her chair. Martha, stand up and walk!”

Two of his suited assistants got on each side of her and gently lifted her
up out of her chair.
 Big John stepped a few feet away from her and gravely intoned,

“Now, Martha, walk over to me. You can do it, you can do it!”

“I don’t think I can, reverend!”

“Give her another shot of the water,” he instructed one of his assistants.

Having had a few more sips of the water, she shouted,

“I feel it now! I feel it now!”

Big John boomed,

“Now walk to me, sister! Walk to me!”

The assistants let go of her arms. She stood shaking a bit and then took a
hesitant shuffling step forward, then another and another. She made it to Big
John's arms who was standing about six steps away, lunged for him and
grabbed him around the neck. Her considerable weight pulled both she and
Big John down into a heap on the concrete stage. His mic flew out of his
hand landing on the display table of the Miracle Holy Land Water, wiping
out half the supply. The now wet mic caused a short circuit in the P.A.
system which emitted a loud crackling buzz. Martha had landed hard on
him and he was trapped on his back under her weight. The crowd gasped as
everyone
heard him yell at his assistants,

“Goddamn it, you stupid fuckers! I told you assholes to stay at her
sides! You're both fired!”

Regaining his composure, Big John pulled himself up out from under her,
smoothed his heavy pomade-hair back with his hand and dusted himself off.
A few black and white-clad volunteers from the congregation came up and
helped lift Martha up and set her gently back down into her wheelchair.

Grabbing a fresh microphone, out of breath, he continued,

“She walked! Did you all see her walk? A miracle has occurred. A real
miracle! Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!”
 The congregation all shouted a loud and affirmative “Amen! Hallelujah!”

“Don’t forget to get some Holy Land water now! It is in...uh...now, very,
very limited supply!”

After witnessing this miracle-charged spectacle, I wasn’t moved to

purchase any Holy Land water, but apparently the crowd was as they surged
forward waving ten and twenty dollar bills in the air. This water was, after
all, in very, very limited supply.

I had had enough of Big John’s miracle working and since it was late
afternoon, decided to drive back home and wait for Don who would be
arriving soon.

Arriving back at my apartment, I fixed another cup of instant coffee,

turned on my black and white TV set, sat back in the torn vinyl rocker and
tuned in “The Brady Bunch". I was enthralled with Marsha. Her chest
seemed to have grown over the summer.

My second story windows looked out onto the apartment parking lot
below and I could see Don parking his VW microbus. He got out, and with a
big smile, looked up and waved at me. I yelled down to him,

“Come on up!”