Story of my Drugs on Brain
by Brad Rampton
Disclaimer: The following narrative is a work of fiction, while some of the characters and locations are based on fact, none of the events or activities described below are factual. Depictions of drug use follow, do not continue if offended.
The acid had gone down earlier in the afternoon thanks to a lucky score in metropolis. There was nothing better than the simplicity of a Brisbane afternoon in 1993. Take a walk in the sun through the suburb to a mate’s place, bang in a few early afternoon cones, get on the train into the city and have a few cool beers to wash the day down with.
Then, of course, there was the acid.
Back in those days, it seemed like acid was flooding the streets like smack in Sydney. In Metropolis, on a good afternoon, you could get a trip quicker than a beer. If you were a regular at the pub back then, you’d know what I mean.
Still, I’d blasted a hole through my skull by eagerly eating a trip in the pub. I was happily walking back into the Valley. I always had the sanctuary of the practice room. To really put the way I felt about the room is to imagine a place where walls can be smashed down at will. Plus there’s 24/7 access. Combine this with pubs in close proximity and you’ve got one hell of a recipe for a fucking nightmare.
Such is the effect of acid that the drug makes brisbane look beautiful. Everything looks plastic and pulsating. It appears and feels like you’re being trapped in an episode of miami vice. The cops cruise by, you walk past an afternoon strip show and fire engines blare. A purple sunset bleeds into the sky like a hemorrage.
Everything should have a disco soundtrack.
After a bit of a bug out along the way, I got into the practice room and shut the door behind me. I was beginning to realise how fucked I was. I knew I needed to get some alcohol to calm my nerves, but first I needed a cone. And that was always going to be a tough call. I was out of pot.
I ended up grabbing the band bong and scraping out as much tar as possible. It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it. The tar was an ugly smoke at the best of times, but right then it was all that was around. I had an idea Natalie might drop around with some bud, but i didn’t want to wait until late in the evening. Nope, I had to get really wasted as soon as possible.
I tried to work out why for a second as I heated up the wet tar ball with a lighter. It was all about just having to go that bit further, I figured. And besides, it felt good to get really blasted.
After a few minutes of drying I was ready to smoke.
I packed the cone and turned out the lights in the practice room. I got several big tokes out of the tar and lay on my back on the floor.
Small bursts of blue light raced above my head in the darkness, signifying holes and missing panels in the ceiling. The view had a real ‘alien trilogy’ feel to it. Or it was maybe like looking out from your space capsule at deep space. When the stars above me began to move around, I decided that I’d better level out. Natalie was coming over for a smoke. Or so she said.
Now, I was too pissweak to really do anything about it, but I liked Natalie. She had a lot of zest and spirit. She could be funny, insightful and out-spoken. And as someone who tried to be all of those three things, I had to admire her.
I got my head together somewhat by turning on the light and walking around the rooms trying to be busy. I went over to where I crashed a lot.
Should I remove the dead rat under my mattress?
Nat wasn’t going to find the rat, but I knew she’d like the walls I’d put holes in. Or is that the holes I left walls around? For some bizarre reason these thoughts forced me to lash out at the wall with my boots a few times. I stood back and inspected the fresh damage. I was proud of the new holes. good acid.
Knock, knock… it was Nat. in she came. like she owned the place. I always liked that about Nat. She gave the vibe that said ‘the party is here’. At that stage of my life, that meant something.
I explained my totally fucked state and she pointed out that I was flushed and sweating. I went and looked in the band’s gob-stained mirror.
She was right. I had a head like a watermelon. Or maybe a giant tomato. There was no fucking way anyone would deal with me in public. Maybe I’d talk her into getting the wine.
Nat and I made small-talk about our journalism course at QUT. It was a very dogmatic environment and we were both out of control. We were like round pegs in square holes amongst many of our fellow scholars. Some were nice, but confused, others I could tolerate, and then there were others I avoided.
We had students who would be driven 110% and would let everyone know about it with a boast in an attempt at superiority. The rats were crawling over themselves to get somewhere and be someone. The bitchiness hit its peak when getting a job became a priority. Nat and I were too laid- back for that. We thought we knew enough about life to know that sucking a corporate dick isn’t worth it. We sucked bongs instead.
So we talked about nothing in particular. It was reassuring. There was a good vibe going down. Maybe nat liked me. I began to feel good.
And then there was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’ I asked.
‘Let me in’
‘Who are you?’
‘Look mate, I know this is a brothel so let me in.’
I looked through the eyehole in the door and saw some guy standing outside. He didn’t look like a cop. More like a drunk with a wage packet to burn.
‘There isn’t a brothel here,’ I yelled in frustration.
My night with Nat was taking a bizarre turn.
I wanted her attention. maybe I had a chance. But I didn’t want this. I looked at the guy through the eyehole again and let him swell and receed for a few seconds. Like I said, good acid.
‘There is a brothel here! I built it a few years ago. You’ve got five rooms and a small bathroom. I built it! Mate! let me in.’
‘This is a band practice room,’ I blurted in self-defence with an false air that was supposed to see him off. Like fuck.
‘Piss off. I heard a woman’s voice in there. let me in.’
The guy outside banged on the door again. I began to get the idea that he might just break in and fuck the ho. He was hitting the door hard and I was in no condition to do anything about a horny old drunk looking for a screw. Fuck, what a spin out.
Natalie and I just looked at each other. What do you do?
What does any insane fucker on acid do in this situation?
It was up to me to take action before looking like a dickhead in front of Nat. I retreated to the practice room where I decided to turn the amps on and build up a huge sea of feedback. Nat followed me and stood in the room while I made an awful racket.
I was beyond caring about making it sound good. I just wanted the fucker to leave and go find a cunt to fuck.
The noise made by the screaming speakers was horrendous and I’m sure Natalie suddenly worked out she was stuck in with a guy on too much acid, standing around on a Friday night in a room that stank of smoke, beer, sweat and puke. The floor was covered with old pizza boxes, crusts, wine bottles and cigarrette stubs. Barbed wire covered the ceiling and the walls were decorated with pictures of girls with their tits out. She stared at the tit posters with the look on her face that said ‘is any of this actually happening to me?’ After about 15 minutes, we checked to see if the guy had left. He had.
I was proud of myself for having enough brains left to get rid of him with noise. Natalie seemed spun out by the whole experience. We had cones and she politely left without saying too much more.
I was disappointed and decide to work away my grief by running around the room naked until I decided to kip on the floor amongst the rest of the shit. Eventually the door opened at 6am and I ended up having to explain myself to some guy that I barely knew who I was and what I was doing. It must’ve been a sight. I was naked and wrapped in an old semen-stained sleeping bag. I explained my position by saying ‘I’m sooo fucked on this acid!’
It made sense at the time.