originally published on May 14, 2021 by Alien Buddha Press
Getting down is always easier than getting back up again. Three hundred vertical feet of steep chaparral canyon trail melted into the cliff face by time and tides ebbing and flowing unceasingly against the backdrop of a posh coastal climate. Rope dangled lazily for the last couple dozen feet, secured by a massive boulder waiting for its moment to crash into the stoic beach.
“Wait up Scooby.”
“I’ll wait for you at the rope.”
“What? I can barely hear you?”
“Just keep going.”
He was only 20 yards away, but it was dark. Twisting and turning of cliff walls and the growing thunder of ocean waves proved barriers, fragmenting and drowning Scobby’s voice. Within a quick minute Mountain Bob caught up, and they climbed down the rope to the carnival waiting below.
Bob plopped his bare feet onto the cool evening sand. It settled silently between his toes. He looked up the shore a ways and did a double take.
“I’m already high, but I know I’m not hallucinating.”
The thought quickly faded as he took in the scene. Naked faeries frolicked about twirling lollipop hula hoops. Dayglow spun through the air here and there like tiny whirlpools of magic. Fireballs — suspended pendulously by gleaming chrome chainlinks — twirled around the bare torso of a gorgeous man in goat legs.
Drums beat a galloping, adventurous hum. Creatures danced erotically around an inferno spitting flames fifteen feet high.
“This is incredible Scoob.”
“I told you so.”
“Hey, let’s smoke another joint now that we’re down that hill.”
“Yeah here, spark it up.”
“Mountain Bob!” Someone jumped onto his back and wrapped themselves around him like a reverse bear hug. Bob swiveled around catching a glimpse of the shaggy-haired gnome.
“Skye! I haven’t seen you in years, how are you man?”
“Chillin brother. Staying high. Got back from Humboldt about a week ago. Pretty much here to pack up and head back. Stop by the circle to say some goodbyes, you know.”
“You’re moving up there then?
“Hell yeah, it’s the spot.”
“Nice. I’ll have to come hangout sometime.”
“For sure.”
“Oh, Skye this is Scoob.”
“Good to meet you brother.”
“You to fam.”
They hugged each other warmly.
“Hey you guys want some blow?”
“Skye my friend, you’re always there when a mountain man needs you.”
The three of them piled into Skye’s tent. The tappity-tap razor hitting dirty glass gave Bob jubilant goosebumps down his arms (which were exhausted from carrying firewood down the cliff). Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…
He could already taste the chemical drips sliding their salty way down the back of his tattered throat, from his sinuses all the down and back out into his bloodstream: the expressway to pineal sublimity.
A couple lines, a few bumps of Molly, three bowls, and about forty-five minutes later they emerged from the tent like a squad of Nietchean Supermen on an astral quest for spectral glory. Half naked, painted with neon streaks and splatter, eyes glittering like opalescent fire.
“My skin speaks to me.”
“What does it say?”
“That it needs to dance!”
Boom-raka-taka-taka-boom-taka-boom-taka
Boom-raka-taka-taka-boom-taka-boom-taka
“A full, pregnant moon crests the cliffedge,
showering the gathering luminaries with crumbling
particles of brilliant lunar light.
Aaaaaaoooooooooooooo…
Circling dancers worship at the feet of raging fire as it casts their
undulating shadows onto the cracked rock wall,
a mesozoic puppet theater built on the
backs of dying giants.”
“You’re high as fuck Mountain Bob.”
“And always climbing higher family!”
Bob’s mostly toothless, gak-stained grin was infectious. Indeed, it was a rare moment when he didn’t have a smile on his face. Even more uncommon, the occasion when someone else didn’t beam with joy in response.
“Shit!”
Both Bob and Scooby spun around.
“Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit.”
The frantic shitter whipped around in a frenzied rush.
“Bob put out your arm quick!”
“What for?”
“Just put out your arm quick!”
So he did. Bob reached out his arm, and his life was never the same.
Pat’s vial of koolaid sprung a leak. He wiped a big wet glob of it onto Mountain Bob’s phosphorescent arm. At least ten hits soaked into his silvery skin like rain being absorbed through slivers of crackling dry dirt. Scooby jumped in and knocked Pat out of the way.
“What the fuck did you that for Pat?”
“I had it get it off my hand!”
“By wiping it on someone else? He’s gonna trip fucking balls man. He didn’t ask for that!”
“Nah, he’ll be alright. He’s off on an adventure now. Like Frodo or some shit, ha ha ha.”
Bob finally spoke up.
“It’s cool man. But if it’s so funny why didn’t you wipe it on your own arm, asshole?”
“Sorry Bob. I just freaked out and reacted. Just relax bro. It’s clean liquid sunshine shit, you’ll have a blast. Strap in, prepare for takeoff! Woooooooooooo… ”
Pat held his arms straight out to the sides as he ran around, tilting his torso back and forth, making airplane noises with mouth. He made three passes before landing smoothly.
“Besides, it’s not like a grip of it didn’t seep into my hand before I wiped it on you. We’re on this ride together. Nothing we can do now”
He was right..
“Here Scoob, there’s some left if you want.”
“No. Someone’s gotta babysit you two idiots all night.”
And he did.
Bob returned to the fire… to the dance.
Boom-raka-taka-taka-boom-taka-boom-taka
“vein juice roaring — adrenaline racing”
Boom-raka-taka-taka-boom-taka-boom-taka
“brain ablaze — neurons tracing”
Boom-raka-taka-taka-boom-taka-boom-taka
“Spirit soaring — heaven facing”
Boom-raka-taka-taka-boom-raka-taka-taka…
Boom-raka-taka-taka-boom-raka-taka-taka…
It was a life-changing night. Mountain Bob survived. He didn’t turn into god or anything, at least not permanently. But he also didn’t turn into a vegetable or jump off the cliff thinking he could fly like you hear about in urban legends. Not all stories have tragic endings. Still, it’s true — like that trail carved into the cliff — getting down is always easier than getting back up again.
